Masquerade

by SleepIsforTheWeak

Rating: teen
Tags: Romance, Tragedy
Length: 5409

Theres a rebellion, and, a bunch of stuff happens, and everypony dies. But not Pinkie, 'cause, she's perfect.

Uhuh.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-02-05 02:42:18 UTC

Backdrop

The story began, as many others do, with war. War was, after all, a fascinating concept. Or perhaps it was the effects that war had that were so fascinating to behold. Regardless, war was, in the nature of nature, one that serves to put violent, primal urges in all beings, rather unavoidable. It could be viewed as both a good thing and bad, and please let us not forget that good things did come from wars, and that there were reasons that wars were fought.

Wars were times of great motion and improvement. Some of the greatest inventions were founded with war as their backdrop. Some of the greatest novels ever written, were written about wars and their heroes. Kings rose to power through wars, new lands were made through wars. Wars could be good things.

Yet wars were taxing—it was a simple fact, as unavoidable as wars themselves. To have wars, there had to be troops, which were made up of the common folk which were trained in the ways of battle—which, in turn, took funds, often in the form of taxes. And, of course, an army had to be fed and supplied.

And this is where our story is born.

The land of Equestria—ever peaceful and ever sunlit, a happy place above all—was at war and had been for some time. The fact was simple, a part of life. Nations did not get developed; lands did not get established, without war. This fact was born of personalities and opinions—which all intelligent beings were blessed with—and, sadly, oftentimes, caused arguments which in turn caused wars.

But as a general legendary common practice, the pony race was a peaceful one. They did not want to be at war, and this story is not a petty war story of which there are as many as there are stars in the sky. The war is simply a backdrop—the origin of the chain of events that will transpire in this story.

Life, as it is, is made up of interconnected events. Things that seem unrelated sometimes cannot exist without each other. One action sets in motion a chain of reactions; the choices somepony makes determines the path taken, defines what happens next. The possibilities are endless: if I had done that, this wouldn’t have happened; if I had decided on something else, all of this would have ended differently.

But perhaps I am rambling. Actually, I’m quite certain I am rambling, and I must ask your forgiveness if you still read this. I find myself in a contemplative mood, and as such am forced to analyze things down to their core.

You see, if Equestria hadn’t been at war for such an extended amount of time, this story wouldn’t have existed—and so, in the general rules of my chosen writing style, I wanted to paint a clear backdrop for the events of this story.

The war that Equestria found herself in had lasted one less than a quarter of a hundred years; that is to say, twenty-four years. And as such, when a war lasts beyond ten, and even twenty years, it was the talk and anxiety of many.

At the time, Equestria was in an anxious state of uncertainty. In a way, everypony was walking on eggshells around even themselves. There were nobles, who made wars against each other (but that was nothing particular to this time. The nobles were always making wars with each other.) and collected the benefits that their blood gave them. For the nobles, the war was a distant thing. Something that hardly affected them at all, and so was not worth their minutes.

There was the King; nopony particularly cared much for him, and everypony liked to blame him for everything. But that’s neither here nor there. The King was not important, and he was not powerful. After the death of the two great monarchs on the battle field, the power truly fell from the title of King, Queen, Prince, or Princess.

Then, of course, in addition to these concealed or public, open or secret wars, there were robbers and scoundrels and a whole slew of other unseeming professions, who made war upon everypony.

And through it all, stuck between the common scum of the streets, and the high nobles in their high towers in their high city, were the peasants.

And again I say, that is where our story begins.

Perhaps fate has a sense of humor, or perhaps chance does, or perhaps it was neither of them, but regardless, the situation was funny.

During this time, there were many rebellions. This was part of the grand upheaval that came after twenty-four years of war.

Out of all of these rebellions, some of which had interesting names and interesting leaders, none was more interesting or more eye-widening or more legendary than the one that had its base in Ponyville. It was not because of what it accomplished; rebellions historically didn't accomplish much, besides being nuisances that costed their country losses of life when they were inadvertently put down.

No, no, what made this rebellion special and legendary was that it was entangled with one of the greatest love stories of all time, and had memorable, prominent characters as its base.

And perhaps it is cliche to say, but, this is the story of that rebellion.

Act 1 Opening (Curtain Raiser)

Fluttershy hummed a tuneless melody lightly as she stepped over the three rotten, kaput stairs which lead to the front porch of house number 31. Of course, house number 31 was not its actual name; it was simply the thirty-first house out of the hundred and fifty houses she had to visit on the first of every month.

House 31 was just… well, a house — nothing too special about it, nothing too complicated. House 31 was the house owned by First Star and River Pebble, and was a broken down old thing, slumping on its rotting walls, as if the roof was too heavy.

Fluttershy had been to this house a few times — today was her fourth, actually. Four times, for four months.

It had been four months since His Royal Majesty King Radicchio IV issued the royal decree that required a month’s rations to be given from the Royal Military Food Bank to 150 houses in desperate need. Four months, and yet every single first of the month when she went out to deliver the rations, Fluttershy could hardly believe it.

Fluttershy knocked on the thin wooden door — wooden slab of wood, really — and then turned and grabbed the small but heavy crate from her back when she heard movement from inside. She never had to wait long after her initial knock. Somepony was always waiting for her, or, rather, she guessed, for the rations.

Technically, she was supposed to leave the crate in front of the door if it was not answered immediately — she was, after all on a strict schedule — but if she were to do that, the package would be gone seconds after she turned her back. ‘Snatchers’, they were called: nothing but small, quick foals who could snatch the packages from the porches of others and bring them to their own families. Her military honed instincts told her that the snatchers followed her, diving behind trees and into bushes.

Needless to say, Fluttershy made sure to never leave any packages on the porches — even if she had to bang on the door with all her might, standing out in the negative winter weather for twenty minutes, and then literally gallop at speeds she hadn’t had to gallop since her training for the military all those years back, in order to get back on schedule. Her resolve was in kindness and fairness, and it was no small resolve.

The wooden slab of a door was opened and the eldest son of First Star and River Pebble smiled down at Fluttershy.

“Commander,” he greeted, and Fluttershy smiled around the string in her mouth. First Star and River Pebble’s son — she never did know his name — took it from her gently. She blushed brightly and swallowed a squeak when he brushed against her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, but didn’t sound very sorry. She nodded her head — it was more a downward jerk than an actual nod — and quickly turned her back on him, stepping off the porch.

He brushed against her every single time. She really needed to remember to put down the package on the floor before knocking.

Not that there was anything wrong with it! Of course not! H-he was probably a nice stallion, and indeed very handsome.

Just… not for her.

Yes. Not for her at all.

Oh, my.

Fluttershy shook her head to clear it and took a big gulp of frigid air to dissolve her illuminating blush, a shy smile coming to her lips as she hitched herself back to the wagon and started pulling it down the uneven dirt… path — it couldn’t even be called an actual road.

Behind her she heard little shuffling sounds — breaking twigs and the shifting of leaves as the snatchers continued to follow her.

She was a mare of no small patience, but, this was… kind of annoying.

At least it was… distracting. And safer to think about than other distracting things which were… hum, distracting.

No, but seriously, this was just… really[ distracting.

The, the snatcher thing, not the…

She was a soldier, for His Majesty’s sake, she didn’t like being trailed — it made her tense and rigid and ready to face the enemy in direct hoof-to-hoof. Not very comfortable at all, when one’s senses were on high alert expecting to engage an enemy, but never getting to face one.

She couldn’t help it, really. Bad soldier or not, there were just certain things one didn’t get away with not learning from the military. Especially when under the close instructor of the supposed ‘greatest military commander in history’ since one was a small foal.

Fluttershy swallowed thickly, the pain of holding her tears making the action difficult.

That was six months ago. Seven, almost.

Things were… t-they were getting better. It was hard, but for six months Pinkie and her had done nothing but make absolute certain that nothing like… that ever happened again.

Oh, she couldn’t even say it in her mind! And what would she call it, even? ‘That’ was really all she could call it. The conflict itself had earned many-a names in six months — a hundred per month it seemed. Mostly, it was called ‘The Red Day’, or ‘The Clash’. Cheesy, but with just the slightest hint of underlying grief.

And why shouldn’t there be grief? It was, in her opinion, a massacre.

And not even in the ‘one side completely butchered the other’ massacre. There was not a winner — only blood, and death, and more blood, and more death.

Faintly she heard her sobs ring out into the dark morning, and the part of her mind that wasn’t being crippled with intense bereavement wondered how she had any tears left — she’d cried just about every single day in the past six months.

Almost seven.

She’d cried until she couldn’t breathe, until her entire body convulsed and bucked with every sob, until the skin under her eyes and on her cheeks became so irritated and chapped from the constant wiping that it hurt to touch. She cried about that, too.

Pinkie was content to cry with her — she never could talk Fluttershy down. She’d start to try and calm her, but would end up contributing to the river of tears and the melody of sobs within minutes.

After everything that had happened lately, it was almost a surreal experience for her to get up and do the duties her job demanded of her — almost a surreal experience to see her routine return to normal, after everything that had transpired, after everything she had lost. Sometimes she found herself observing herself from afar as she went about her day, as if she was not in her own body. But slowly sounds and colors where coming back to her through the thick, muffling haze of sorrow. It was like little by little, she was starting to wake up. To move on.

But such was life — the sun rose and set against the never changing, ever present backdrop of the sky, Mother Winter set in her first shards of piercing cold like a rebellion to the sun, all but disappearing an hour so after the sun glorified the skyline, like a coward. Summer was ending. Fall was setting in. Nature went on with her duties, and the ponies that had been affected by the recent circumstances rebuilt the city, and mended their hearts.

Life moved on.

The dead would never be forgotten, neither by their families, nor by the republic — countless songs and tales from the mouths of jongleurs were already spreading across the nation, not to mention the solemn address His Majesty gave at his first court, which in itself was a miracle that the peasantry could hardly believe; King Radicchio IV was already three times the King that his father had been before him.

That day the court opened it’s doors to anypony who was affected, and the crowd had spilt out the door, all eager and earning to hear the words of the new ruler of the land, hoping it to sait some of pain which seared on their hearts like an infected fleshwound as the blood of the fallen still stained the places they had taken their last breaths.

The young king’s face had been composed; a mask of tortured restraint with heavy eyes and a grim mouth as he gave his address and promise of brighter days to come.

No, no, nopony would forget. That was what mattered. Maybe, even, in twenty year's time, Pinkie and her would be sitting on the porch of their home, and laughing about the entire thing as they read a novella based on the by-then legendary tale. Maybe, pointing out the dramatization of the entire conflict, as one does, or the romanticized areas, as one does.

Oh, how she desperately wished for those day dreams to come true, for those promised brighter days to arrive already.

She was about half done with her parcel deliveries, now, a small part of her mind mused. Pinkie would be arriving in His Majesty’s court right about now, to vocalize the needs of the peasantry, and generally charm His Majesty into passing her suggested decrees, as she did.

A new chapter was turning. Brighter days would come, through hard work and steady resilience Pinkie and her would lay down the brickwork for the path to those promised brighter days to come.

And all the while, they would never forget where the path originally began.

Act 1, Scene 1

Tired.

Applejack tasted the word, rolled it around in her head a few times, and frowned, shaking her head upon finding it unfitting.

Exhausted.

Yes, that was better. It was all, exhausted. She was exhausted, they were exhausted, but, most importantly, it was exhausted.

The land, was exhausted.

Tears fell freely from her eyes, down her cheeks, dripping from her chin and to the exhausted dirt.

She tried to repress the thoughts about everything else, and instead focus on just the one fact—only keenly observing that the land was exhausted, and nothing more.

Finally, after an unspecified amount of time, she felt the touch of another pony, and heard the voice of another pony.

“Let’s go inside.”

And so, numbly, she did as was suggested, dimly observing that she was following Macintosh. She focused on the back of his head until the two of them made it indoors; thereafter she had other things to focus on, and switched her stare promptly to the wall.

Macintosh sat across from her at the table, and after the final squeak of his chair, there was nothing but silence for a very, very long time. It was a gloomy silence, and a contemplative one.

When they had sat in this way for longer than her sanity could stand, Applejack got up, and, seeing Mac’s questioning gaze, muttered, “I’m going ta meet Pinkie.” Then, in an afterthought, “I’ll be at th’ inn if somethin’ happens.”

The town of Ponyville had but one inn—a crammed and pitiful thing which saw much traffic, for times were hard and alcohol was cheap.

Applejack staggered her way through the vociferous mass to take a seat at a table, watching fair-mindedly as a fight broke out in the far corner—one that was soon put down, and ended her distraction. She thought about getting a drink, but then thought better of it—she had no money, after all.

“Applejack,” a voice and a soft pat on the withers greeted her from her left, and she turned as Pinkie made to take a seat beside her.

In all accounts, Pinkie Pie could not be painted in a clear way. Her family was noble, once upon a time, they say, but in that day and age it took more than mere blood to wear the rank, so the Pies were erased generations ago. Nonetheless, they had respect, and they had land, and that was more than most ponies had.

The Pies were separated from Ponyville, living on the borders and never wandering into town. Pinkie was, consequently, the only connection that the hamlet had with the old family.

Those who met her found her pleasant in manner, if a bit overzealous. Yet all who met her came away with a smile or a chuckle, and not a bad word was spoken about Pinkie when her name was brought up in the talks. She was charismatic in her own way, bearing a strange sense of familiarity with everypony she met, and over time had gained many close friends within the city borders.

Ponies enjoyed and were fond of Pinkie.

The Apples and the Pies were close acquaintances only because of the intimate friendship that binded Pinkie and Applejack; one that neither, reportedly, remembered the start of, yet both knew had lasted for about a lifetime.

“Pinkie,” Applejack greeted back, nodding her head once and then turning away to stare out again, the way she had been before Pinkie came.

They sat in silence after that for a while, but it never became cumbersome, probably because of their understanding of each other.

When Applejack sighed, Pinkie perked up, but timidly so. “Ready to talk?” she asked with a simple patience that said she would have stayed sitting beside Applejack for days in silence if necessary.

But a sigh was good. A sigh opened up things; it was a noise and noises always brought forth a chance of the question why. Why did you sigh? What was that noise for?

But Pinkie was better at reading ponies than that. Or, at the very least, better at reading Applejack than that.

“I’m exhausted, Pinks,” Applejack said in something like admittance, even though she was not particularly hiding the fact.

“Too much work?” asked Pinkie conversationally.

Applejack frowned, sighed again, stared without seeing. “Too much work and nothin’ to show for it. The land’s gone.”

They fell silent once more, and this time the silence carried a different weight, one of unity under misfortune. Pinkie wrapped her foreleg around her friend in a seemingly reflexive movement of comfort and support.

“My farm isn’t doing so well, either,” Pinkie informed, idly. “They want more ore, more rock, but rocks are like, the slowest crops ever.”

“Ain’t the crop’s fault. It’s theirs,” Applejack growled darkly, then. “Nature ain’t gonna speed up for them, an’ they don’ like that.”

Pinkie nodded silently, familiar as she was with Applejack’s outbursts. But the tirade died out right after that statement. It seemed today she simply could not gather the spirits to be bothered about it.

“I’m sorry ‘bout yours,” Applejack sighed after a while, returning Pinkie’s half-hold. “High time to change the subject, what do you say?”

Pinkie nodded, perking up again—but unrestrained this time, free as she was, for now, of her quandary. “Sure,” she agreed. “Have you heard the rumors of the rebellion?”

Applejack tched. “Carrot Top’s starting that stuff again?” she asked, weary. “She’s not careful, she’s gonna end up beheaded.”

“Maybe,” Pinkie said, diplomatically. “But if it’s something she believes in, wouldn’t it be worth it?”

“Not many things are worth dyin’ over,” Applejack grunted, and then squinted her eyes at Pinkie. “What was that tone o’ voice from you?”

Pinkie blinked, the perfect picture of pure perplexed ingenuousness. “What do you mean?”

“With the whole ‘if it’s something she believes in, wouldn’t it be worth it’ thing,”

Pinkie shrugged. “There are things I would die for.”

“Like what?” Applejack challenged.

“Well, my mom and dad and sist—”

“Well, yeah, family’s about the only thing worth dyin’ for,” Applejack snorted. “I mean like, those fools who ‘die for a cause’—like what Carrot Top’s preachin’. That rebellion they had down in Baltimare? There were what, three thousand ‘o them? Wshh.” Applejack made a cutting downward motion with her hoof. “All dead. Slaughtered.”

Pinkie shrugged again. “Guess they were willing to die for a cause they believed in.”

“They were jus’ tryin’ to get their names printed in the paper,” Applejack said resolutely, shaking her head in disgust.

“Or die for a cause they believed in,” Pinkie repeated. “I mean, think about it, AJ. The war’s been going on since before you and I were born. It’s about time somepony stood up and did something about it.”

Applejack narrowed her eyes at the suddenly impassioned Pinkie. “You’re not thinking about—”

“Maybe they just needed a better leader. I mean, rebellions are hard to stage, right?” she asked, as if Applejack would know the answer, then, without waiting for an answer, she continued, growing confident and ardent while her eyes glazed over. Applejack suddenly had the premonition that Pinkie had been thinking over this for a very long time, repressing it all.

“Look, the war is not going to stop—of course it’s not going to stop, the politicians and nobles up in snotty Canterlot are making fortunes off of it. The rich are getting richer, and we’re starving!”

She slammed her hoof on the table, then, and Applejack jumped, wildly looking around and seeing a few of the nearby patrons turn their heads towards them. She shushed Pinkie; put a hoof on her shoulder and guided her back into her seat, for she had started to rise from it in her diatribe.

“Are you insane?” Applejack whispered in furious tones to Pinkie once the ponies that had drawn their gazes towards them went back to their conversations. “Sayin’ stuff like that in a public place? Rebellion is treason, Pinkie. There are eyes and ears everywhere. They’ll burn you on a stake, or hang you, or decapitate you.”

“Your farm, Applejack,” Pinkie hissed back, blue eyes fiery. “My farm. Our families. Think about it; do you really want Apple Bloom to grow up the way we did—having to give almost everything we grew to ‘the war effort’? You really want that kind of life for her?”

“I don’t wanna hear it, Pinkie,” Applejack said, her tone gathering a bit of steel.

“Come with me to Carrot Top’s meeting,” Pinkie insisted softly, her gaze intent and burning into Applejack.

“No,” Applejack said unequivocally. “I’m not going, and you aren’t either.”

Pinkie sneered. “You’re not my mother, Applejack.” She rose from her seating, then, rage in her eyes, and made to leave in an outlandish fit of fury, which was all but a very good act.

Applejack grabbed one of Pinkie’s forelegs in her hoofs, holding it to her breast as if it was a doll. “You can’t,” she cried softly, in a most rare moment of pure fear. “They’ll find out and they’ll kill you!”

Pinkie shook herself free with more strength than her deceiving frame gave her credit for. “Then come with me, and protect me,” she muttered, and in that moment, her voice took on a peculiar change, almost imperceptible unless one was listening for it.

Applejack wasn’t. Her eyes darted here and there wildly. Nevertheless, she bit her lip; eyebrows knotted together, she looked at Pinkie with upset eyes.

She nodded, not trusting her voice to speak, and as soon as she nodded, she felt as though every ear in the room had heard their treasonous conversations, and every eye was following them inconspicuously, ready to turn them in.

Pinkie slid off her stool. “Follow me,” she said, and her voice had changed to a low, cautious murmur the likes of which Applejack had never heard from her before, or thought her capable of.

And in the years to come, many a scholar would ask the question on when it was, exactly, that the fires of rebellion started in Applejack’s heart. Their answers would lead them here, to the only inn in Ponyville.

Act 1, Scene 2

Applejack followed Pinkie through the streets of town, doing her best to keep up with the monstrous pace her friend set without breaking into a full on gallop—after all, that wouldn’t be very inconspicuous at all, and Applejack was trying hard to remain subtle about the fact that she was committing treason.

She flicked her eyes from side to side, seeing ponies casually strolling around in pairs and enjoying the warm fall evening. Her heart jumped, and she bit her lip, but sped up into a brisk canter to catch up with Pinkie.

“I’m havin’ second thoughts about this,” she muttered, eyes and speech and body tense with unease.

Pinkie lightly brushed herself against Applejack, in a comforting manner, and smiled. She didn’t say anything, but it helped all the same. Applejack smiled back, shakily.

They weaved and wavered through the streets of Ponyville, Applejack jumpy and forever on guard, and Pinkie relaxed and indomitable. They made a most queer pare, in the opinion of the passerby, but then again, they always did, and those who were familiar with them did not bat a lash. Thankfully, in Ponyville, all were familiar with them.

Pinkie went along as Pinkie always did; chirping and sometimes hollering greetings to the ponies they passed, every now and then even stopping to chat for short periods of time. Generally, her act was that of no suspicion, all the while Applejack had obvious panic attacks beside her.

Finally, Pinkie drew close to Applejack and breathed, “Relax.”

Applejack panicked all the more, not even trying to relax. This wasn’t the kind of pony she was! Sneakin’ around and committing crimes, and for what? Because Pinkie asked her to? What kind of friend did that? Pinkie had so much as blackmailed Applejack into coming with her.

No, no. Pinkie hadn’t blackmailed her—no, that wasn’t the right word there. Guilt. That’s what she did. She’d guilted Applejack into coming with her, knowing that it would work.

But why had it worked? Applejack had always been immune to petty peer pressure, and yet…

And yet the entire time during their small journey, she stayed beside Pinkie, even when she wanted to simply go home, and asked herself many times mentally why she didn’t.

It was probably because she was curious.

By the by, they ended up at the Carrots’ farm, which was, well, a rather obvious place for them to end up.

The Carrots’ farm was smaller and neater than the Apples’, and during the time that Pinkie and Applejack visited it, not in its prime, for it was a farm, and in that time, all farms were not in their prime.

They strolled up the straight path and to the front door of the house, hearing muffled voices from beyond the door. The curtains were all closed, and even the voices inside were shushed.

“Well this doesn’t look suspicious at all,” Applejack said dryly, eyeing the house with reservation.

The Carrots and the Apples were neighbors in every sense, and had been since the founding of the town, but their relationship had soured a bit during this current generation. For some reason beyond her, Applejack was loathed deeply by Carrot Top. It had been that way for as long as Applejack could remember.

When they were younger, full of the mischief that came with late foalhood, Pinkie used to always tease Applejack that Carrot secretly had a crush on her, and the two of them would sneak into the Carrot property, hiding in those bushes there, and watch Carrot Top work. Pinkie would whisper sweet nothings into Applejack’s ear in a wry tone, pretending to be Carrot Top.

“Look at the way the sun hits her glistening hindquarters, AJ,” Pinkie would always advertise something of the sort, in a dry, deadpan way. Applejack, all the while, would snicker and hold back her laughs, pretending to return the affection, and swoon. It was in this act of trespassing and mockery, that they thought they were trendy.

Days like those were few and far in between, but they were the fondest Applejack had from her foalhood.

Now, she looked around the familiar farm with a sort of pity, seeing it struggle to get by just like hers was. Mentally she brought up the picture of what it used to be, tainted by the joyful and careless sepia tone of foalhood, during which time winter seemingly didn’t exist, and the sun always shined.

The bush that Pinkie and her would always hide in was dying, she noted.

Pinkie knocked on the door, and immediately all conversation from inside stopped. A pony drew back the curtain to gaze at the two of them. By Applejack’s side, Pinkie did some fast and complicated motions with her hoof, and the pony disappeared from the window. A second later there was a click and the door swung open.

“Hey, Pinks, AJ,” Noteworthy greeted, stepping aside with a grin as the two friends ambled in.

On the inside was a large, compact group of all walks and ages of life, the largest division of which, unsurprisingly, modeled the walk and age of Pinkie and Applejack, for Ponyville was primarily a farming town.

Applejack eyed the group askance, while Pinkie pulled her to one side and fit the two of them rather snugly to sit in the masses. Seeing that the two were not threats, the gathered returned to their voluble ways, which, in a short time, became vociferous and passionate.

Applejack heard odds and ends of conversations, most of which involved politics as far as she understood, which was not far.

At her side, Pinkie had no qualms about involving herself in the discussion, and plunged in freely with much vibrancy.

In the midst of these discussions, every now and again, the name of the king was thrown around carelessly and with great antagonism, and this made the exchanges flair in both rage and volume. However, when the name of the General of His Majesty’s Military was spoken, a sort of gag went over the mouths of those within earshot, and they glanced around in alarm, as if doubting the trustworthiness of their company, and the thickness of the walls surrounding them. And that will tell you about the General of His Majesty’s Military, and the fear and reverence she stirred by the mere mention of her name.

The verdict of the room turned to rebellion after a while, and during that time, only the ones who were more inclined in leadership spoke.

Applejack listened with a disinclined curiosity, but a curiosity notwithstanding. The various talks were mere blathers, to her, spoken by those who were not educated but pretended to be nonetheless. Their plans, as it were, spoke of vague ideas and daydreams, not actual legitimate propositions of strategies. Yet the ones neighboring them nodded wisely, the way individuals often do when they want to seem comprehensive of things they were not comprehensive of.

This went on for some time, and as before, the cacophony of the room grew to become a sort of passionate pandemonium, the likes of which grated on Applejack’s nerves and forbearance.

Finally, she stood and slipped away from her place with a careful control, so not to disturb Pinkie, or draw attention to herself.