The Toymaker and his Assistants

Chapters

Prologue
One; Madame Mackenzie
Two; The Artist and The Unsure

Prologue

No place was a good place for a donkey, Earnest had always said. No place at all. Tolerance was practiced, yet there was always that insecurity, that uneasy lingering feeling that had plagued the pony race.

“But what difference is there? Aside from the cutie marks and colorful coats there ain’t nothing else.” He would always mutter to himself upon blasting through their rickety cabin door, his beaten hooves slapping against the polished finish of the wood grain with a satisfying ‘click’. It was a ritual that seemed to have been practiced over and over, though Dorian had never fully grasped the concept of his father’s rants.

While the small colt would toddle about the floor and tinker with the makeshift playthings he had made, dear Millie would simply shake her head in exasperated disgust. There had always been a rift between the two burros, and even young Dorian was able to sense the tension that would inevitably sprout from the stressed cracks.

Thus the arguing would begin with his father, coated in soot and ash from head to hoof from the long hours of mining and excavating. As far as Dorian could recall, there was a distinct smell that wafted from the donkey’s sweat-laden fur. It was musky, near putrid, and enough to make the child gag with fright and flee to his mother’s side.

Oh and dear Millie, her scent was more akin to the warm sensation of hazelnuts and milk. He could recall pressing the wide nostrils of his velvety snout into the backs of her knees, drinking in the smell as much as he could before he’d be inevitably pushed away.

“What did they say to you this time, dear?” she would mutter to him, reciting the line as if from a repeating record. She would be humming over dinner, greedily eying the pots of mash and the freshly cooked bread in the oven. Dorian would look up at them both with fearful eyes, especially noting the inevitable scowl on his bitter father’s face.

“Nothing! Nothing at all!” he would cry, his rasping tone rising to a loud growl. “Dear Celestia, Millie, every day they act as if I don’t exist!”

Such a conversation would often steer towards false sentiments and tired reassurances that ‘everything would turn for the better’ and that ‘the job market should improve with Hearth’s Warming Eve coming up’. However, no such words of comfort could ever please Earnest, and the stubborn beast would soon be pounding up the unstable staircase with a mantra of curses spewing from his muzzle.

Dorian had, for the longest of times, never understood the animosity that his father seemed to cater for the ponies. At such a young age, he had always assumed that the entire equine race was a series of cookie-cutter shapes that seemed to blend with one another. He could remember the first time that he had asked his mother about the curious affair of cutie marks.

It had been a relatively uneventful day of romping about in his parent’s neatly trimmed lawn. Of course, living in the outer sections of Canterlot pretty much guaranteed that there wasn’t much of a lawn to begin with. The suburbs were filled with primarily ponies with a few dashes of fellow donkeys here and there. Houses were squished mercilessly together, their sides snugly fitting side by side like a tight fitting glove. His house was a boringly painted white piece, its shutters an ivory yellow.

He remembered playing with an empty toilet paper tube, his little hooves fishing though one of the openings only to pop out from the other side. It had always been an amusing game for him.

It was then that he noticed two little fillies down the trodden earthy road. Their coats were a matching pastel blue, their manes a mixture of various hues that seemed to meld about together. Dorian had paused in his play to stare up at them, his long ears pricking forward as to catch their far-off words.

“Can you believe that Motor Mouth finally got his cutie mark?”

“I know! Who would have thought that he’d be so good at learning languages?”

The two fillies themselves were dainty little creatures, their own respective marks seeming to shine. Though Dorian could not make out what the little objects plastered to their flanks were, his own self seemed to well up in envy. In a small impulse, he looked down at his own shabby brown hide. There was nothing, not even the slightest hint of a colorful mark upon his flesh.

Troubled, the young foal had abandoned his empty toilet paper roll to totter back up to his shanty little house. He was barely six months, a toddler by any burro’s standards, and even he was wise enough to assume that his dear mother knew the cause for such an absence. His father would have been out mining in the overlaying mountains outside of Canterlot.

He nosed open the door slowly, careful so as to not let its squeaky creak resound across the musty halls. Millie had never done a particularly good job with housewife duties, and that included raising her son. Of course she meant well, though her manners of upbringing would most certainly have been deemed questionable by our own standards.

“Mother?” Dorian murmured, his ears pricking at the sounds of clanking pots and kettles from the kitchen down the hall. The foal’s tiny voice was drowned in its cacophony upon being uttered, for he had always been a fairly quiet child. Sighing, he stumbled through the doorway and tumbled to the snug little kitchen, his thick hooves slapping hard against the ground.

He peeped his head through the open arch-way, though his mother had heard his arrival long before. She stood in front of the rusted sink with an expectant air, her long tail flicking to the side in greeting. Her coat was of a slightly darker shade than his own, and her muzzle was built in such a way that it looked narrower, more feminine. Her grey mane was parted to the side, unlike her son’s, which hung messily from all sides of his head.

“What is it, Dor?” she asked, with a touch of impatience. Her son’s timid nature had always perplexed her. Such an attitude was unusual for a donkey, though she figured that he would grow out of such childish behavior soon enough.

Upon being called, Dorian flinched back and walked forward, his long ears drooped down to the sides of his head in a solemn manner. “I saw the pretty ponies outside…” he began, earning himself a raised eyebrow from Mille. “They were talking about how some other pony got a… a…” he paused, seeming to forget the term, though his mother had already well enough understood.

“A cutie mark?” Millie cocked her head to the side, only to sigh at her son’s eager nod of the head, his lax ears tumbling to and fro from his lanky shoulders.

“Oh, yes! That was it!” Dorian trotted up to the mare, a wide, curious grin curled up his lips.

For a long, long time his mother simply stared down at him, her frowning expression seeming to deepen as her brow creased with thought. She seemed to be contemplating something, as far as Dorian could guess. Her whip-like tail had begun to swing back and forth like a pendulum, a usual habit of hers when she reflected on questions and gathered the proper words for answers.

After a few agonizingly long seconds, Millie nodded her head towards the door, gesturing her son to follow her. “Let’s go to the living room, and I’ll tell you all about them.” She murmured reluctantly, much to Dorian’s perplexity. What was so wrong with his questions? He had never been so nearly shot down with them before. Sensing his mother’s agitation, the little foal dogged her heels into the tiny room from across the kitchen doorway.

Millie nudged the swinging door with her forehead, offering Dorian a wide berth to squeeze into. The living room was a dismal place, much like the rest of the house. However, such shabbiness was more due to Millie’s shameful neglect. Cobwebs and inch-thick layers of dust ran rampant among the bookshelves and window sills that clogged the small room. A lengthy couch stood in the left corner, wide enough to hold Dorian, his mother and his father all at once if they ever bothered to decide to sit there. For the most part the old thing had simply lain there, unused. The mare walked over to it now and clumsily moved to sit down, her bulky legs curling underneath her form.

“Come sit by me.” She offered, nodding her head towards the open gap between her out-stretched legs and her belly.
Dorian unthinkingly trotted up to leap up onto the gaudily textured upholstery, a wide smile crossing up his lips. How long had it been since his mother had been so close to him? Sighing in bliss, the foal nestled close to her stomach, his nose pressed against her wiry coat to take in her familiar scent.

“Good.” Millie forced a smile and shifted her position a tad to give him some more space. “Now, your father and I have been mulling over how to talk to you about… things. Now, you know you’ll be going to school next month.” She ventured, noting Dorian’s curious expression from her suggestion.

“Are there ponies in school?” he asked, and the smile that had brightened his features was immediately shot down with swift shake of the head.

“No, ponies go to a different school than we do, Dor.” Millie awkwardly murmured. She hadn’t been prepared for such a delicate subject to arise as it had. Still, it was probably high time that she instruct her son on the basics of what life would be like before he was thrust into public education. No doubt if he went in ignorant and naïve he’d be mocked by his classmates. “You see, donkeys like us are… ah… different.” She fumbled, her ears swiveling about in tiny semi-circles.

“Oh, I know they’re different.” Dorian nodded his head in a very ‘matter-of-fact’ manner, quite pleased that there was something that he already knew. “Ponies have pretty colored fur, and we got brown fur. They got little ears, and we got big ears.” He spoke confidently, his chest seeming to swell with pride.

Despite herself, Millie couldn’t help but hazard a chuckle. “Yes, that’s right…” she murmured gently, craning her neck round to view her son eye to eye. “There are different kinds of ponies too… Pegasus ponies… unicorn ponies… and then earth ponies, though they all go under the same name for one reason. They all gain what they call ‘cutie marks’ on their flanks.”
By now Dorian was listening with the utmost of attention. His wide, grey eyes seemed to darken in thought as he absorbed every last tidbit of information that his mother generously threw him.

“We don’t have cutie marks though… what do they do, anyway?” he asked, only to be hushed by a harsh whisper.

“Quiet, Dor. I’m getting to that.” Millie chided, her brow furrowed in annoyance. “I guess we should talk about what they are first…” she mused to herself. “You see, your father and I don’t know as much about them ourselves. We donkeys don’t often go into pony affairs. That’s why you’ll be going to a different, special school.” She frowned at her son’s resulting stressed frown. “Don’t you want to meet others your age?” she asked.

Dorian flinched slightly, and shook his head. “Nuh-uh… not really, anyway.” He murmured. “But what about cutie marks Mother? Tell me!” he lightly head-butted his mother’s side in annoyance, only to earn himself a swift box on his head from a whip of her ear.

Shooting him a quick glare, Millie went on. “As far as I and your father know, cutie marks are a type of symbol that ponies get when they learn what their special talent is. It’s like a tool for them to figure out a career pathway that they want to end up choosing.” She explained slowly, hoping that her son would at least partially understand. “Like, for example, if a filly finds out that she’s good at singing, she might get a mark that looks like a bell or a music note.” She added in after a short pause.

“But why don’t we get them, Mother?” Dorian asked, casting a glance to his mother’s own solidly colored flank. His light grey mane tumbled down over his eyes as he cast a glance, and he shook his head to rid himself of the stray locks, annoyed. “I got a special talent too, right?” he frowned at the thought of not being good at something, anything.

But at his question Millie merely laughed. “Of course you have a special talent, Dor.” She smiled, leaning forward to press the tip of her muzzle to her son’s scalp. “You just won’t get a prize for finding it.” She kissed the top of his head and pulled back to study his perplexed expression.

Dorian seemed to chew on her words for a while, preferring to nestle more closely into his mother’s short fur. The smell of hazelnuts and milk wafted into his nostrils. From his close position he could also smell the cabbage that she cooked and grew 24/7. It was a pleasant smell to him, a scent that reminded him much of his newborn babyhood that was so few months ago.

“I wish I was a pony.” He finally mumbled, his tiny voice muffled underneath his mother’s soft coat. “It seems really hard to just find out and not know…”

Millie simply looked to her son in a pitying fashion. “I know you like tinkering with things, though. Remember yesterday when you made me that paper plane? And with just your hooves nonetheless! I thought only unicorns could do things like that.” She marveled. The mare had often loved watching her son build things out of his toys and paint pictures with his hooves; it had been one of the few joys she had ever legitimately recognized as one of the perks of parenthood.

“Yeah, but that was fun. Finding a job isn’t supposed to be fun…” Dorian muttered bitterly, his little body seemed to tense at the thought of doing something unpleasant for the rest of his days, though his fears were quickly doused by the next few words from his dear mother.

“As much as I know you won’t believe it, I can tell you that your father likes mining. He thinks it’s fun, and he didn’t need some mark on his rump to figure that out.” Millie chuckled. “If you like making things, why not practice at it and get better? That could be your own special talent.”

Dorian thought for a moment. His eyelids had grown heavy with all of the new information that was being stuffed into his head, though his mother’s words had most certainly pacified all of his remaining fears. For a few moments, he was actually proud to be a donkey. They seemed so much more mysterious than ponies now, and he had never even spoken to one of the colored beasts.

With that in mind, he yawned and snuggled closer to his mother, his mane plastering itself against her. His fears of school were, for once, forgotten. There are far greater things to chew on for the time being. There was that pipe cleaner sculpture that needed to be finished, and that stuffed cow that needed to be stitched up.

With thoughts of the short-lived future, he drifted off into the plane between pure sleep and wakefulness, a weary contentment seeming to wash over him before his mother gently nosed him up. Yawning disdainfully, the foal was led into his own little room and lifted into bed.

Unable to find his voice to murmur any parting words to dear Millie, Dorian reached out his hooves for the raggedy stuffed sphere he had made as an experiment in stuffed animal making. It was his own crowning achievement, and his parents had praised him heavily for managing to handle a needle and thread with his bare teeth.

Even after his mother’s explanation, he still thought of his hobby of making things as just that, a hobby. It was nothing more than some childish amusement akin to playing with friends or toys. But Dorian had never played with friends, as there were hardly any donkeys in the area that his parents liked. Unlike ponies, their long-eared cousins tended to stray away from others of their kind. Their behavior sprouted from their tendency to be horrendously stubborn.

Still, Dorian didn’t mind any. His own isolation allowed for him to work and wile away the hours. He may not have had many resources at the time, but he could still produce little things, shabby and makeshift as they were.

His final month before the impending arrival of his school years crept up like a looming shadow, though even now he could tell you that final month of babyhood was one of the more enriching experiences of his young life, for he was encouraged more than ever to do what he loved.

It was only when his years of education rolled around that his peaceful existence had begun to turn awry, as short-lived as they were.

One; Madame Mackenzie

As many individuals well-versed in Equestrian lore know, Canterlot was the main hub of all things related to the pony race. It was here that the all-powerful Princess Celestia resided, and it was here that all pony scholars journeyed to douse themselves in studies of magic and myths. Flocks of the studious equines would find themselves at the city gates nearly every day of the year, flush faced and beaming with the youthful capacity for knowledge.

Not only that, but one would find a great plethora of shopping duplexes and venues littered about the city as well. The looming towers and bulky mansions of the well-off and famous seemed to silently dominate over the tiny businesses, their presence a constant reminder for the endless need of economic flow and stability.

But of course you’d expect such a bustling metropolitan community to have a great many learning facilities, and you’d be right. Education was valued highly in Canterlot, particularly for the prestigious school for gifted unicorns. The various wandering scholars and adults that piled in every day were automatically carted to a meeting spot where they’d pick the college of their choice to try for. However, the little fillies and foals were placed on an even higher pedestal for their own good.

Many young ponies that went to school only needed to fill out their basic three years of education in order to become productive members of society. After their rudimentary courses many of the adolescents would often seek an apprenticeship to further their skills, or they would simply start up their own independent business and hope for the best.

Donkeys, on the other hand, were far more restricted in terms of what their own options were. Due to the measly numbers of the donkey population in Canterlot the required burro-centric education facility that was required had minimal funding. Of course, such a lack of finances was justified due to economic reasons. The job market for donkeys had never completely lifted off the ground, especially in a society that was purely dominated by telekinetic unicorns. There was simply no need for them.

Because of this, there was only one basic public school available for young burros, and that Madame Mackenzie’s Institution for Long-eared Equines. As if the name wasn’t hard enough to swallow, the school itself left much to be desired. The shanty appearance of the run-down building itself seemed to scream of a limited budget. It was a typical one-room schoolhouse, the type of facility you’d most commonly see in a more rural section of Equestria. The cheap white-wash on the sides had started to peel years ago, leaving behind nothing more than a dull brown skeleton of a school in its wake.
It was situated on the outskirts of Canterlot, amidst the more run-down sections of the suburbs. Its odd location was, as the builders put it, for the convenience of the parents considering that nearly the entire donkey population lived in the area. However, many burros merely took the placement as an insult, arguing that its peculiar placement kept their kind ‘out of the way’.

Whatever the real reason, there was still no changing the fact that it was Dorian’s first day of mandatory education. Upon waking up in the morning after being roughly shoved by his mother’s hoof, the young foal sat up to look out of his tiny bedroom window with an increasing sense of dread.

No matter what his parents tried to do to reassure him, Dorian had not wanted to start his schooling. The very idea of sharing a room with members of his own age didn’t excite him; rather it made him queasy to even think of such a scenario. He was perfectly content with shutting himself up in his room to experiment and use the few materials that he had to try and create some new ‘inventions’, as he called them.

Dorian’s ‘inventions’ were really nothing more than a collection of amateurish stuffed animals and wooden sculptures that he had created with a shabby butter knife. His room in of itself was a workshop to him, the carpet coated with both wood shavings and bits of discarded fabric from failed experiments. A pile of various oddities was displayed by the bedroom door, from stuffed shapes to crude portrayals of faceless donkeys and ponies alike.

For a few moments, the foal simply stared out the grime-crusted glass, his ears dangling at the sides of his head. A stray lock of his mane fell on his eyes, and he blew it away with a soft whistle. He had never bothered to have it cut, and Millie had never likewise bothered to get him to cut it. And with a lack of a proper supply of running water, baths were hard to come by on most days. His light grey mane hung in greasy clumps atop his scalp, stringy and unkempt both from his and his mother’s neglect.

His bed was nothing more than a torn mattress strewn on the floor, its corners burst from continuous wear and tear. Earnest’s job as a miner had never particularly paid well, and it showed. It was commonplace for donkeys in Canterlot to make up a lower middle class anyway, though that was more or less due to the abysmal job market.
Dorian struggled to find his footing and stepped down from his bed, his body aching from his peculiar sleeping positions throughout the night. For a few short seconds, he allowed himself to stretch each individual limb, if only to stall for time.

“Dorian!” Earnest barked from the kitchen.

“Coming…” the foal muttered, his ears falling to the sides of his head as he made his way out the door. As he walked, a few flakes of wood shavings caught into the fur on his ankles, clinging like sharp barbs. He hardly noticed it at all, being one who was used to carrying his hooves through a carpet of debris on a near daily basis.

As Dorian pressed open the door with his forehead, the high squeal of an angry tea kettle sliced through his lax ears, causing for them to jump back into their typical erect positions. He winced, his glazed over eyes shutting tightly as he made his way down the hall.

“Took you long enough, Dor.” Millie chided from the counter as her son reluctantly made his entrance. “Your father might be late to work because of you. He wanted to see you off.” She gestured to Earnest with the tip of her muzzle.
From his seat at the table, Earnest glared down at Dorian with a sour expression, his lips knotted into a perpetual frown.

The foal simply stared back up at him in return, unabashed. He had never seen his father wear any sort of smile. Then again, perhaps his contempt-ridden faces were his own ways of expressing happiness. Dorian never knew, nor did he particularly want to find out.

“Be good.” The burro finally growled, scooting his chair back to take his leave. “I’ll be home tonight.” He announced, dropping down on all fours. As he walked out the arch-way kitchen door, he let the bushy end of his tail brush against Dorian’s side. It was a subtle gesture, though the foal could appreciate it well enough. He had always had the feeling that his father had never really been able to effectively express affection to him, just like his mother.

As soon as he heard the click of the front door, Dorian turned to his mother. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked, his nostrils flared as to try and catch any fleeting wafts of air. His mouth watered as he sensed the delectable aroma of bubbling grits.
Millie shook her head and turned towards the dining table, her tail swishing in annoyance. “Well, you woke up late and I can’t have you showing up late to school on your first day.” She reasoned simply, craning her neck down to grab a light blue ribbon in her maw. “Now come here and let me put on your ribbon…”

It had been a sort of time-honored tradition that all young donkey foals have their own special indication of their service as students. It was a badge of sorts that distinguished them from other younger foals and generated a common respectful response from the pony population. It wasn’t anything much, simply a ribbon tied in a neat little bow around the foal’s neck. While their symbolic meaning differed from region to region, Canterlot donkeys had often used a more simplistic approach. Instead of having various colors that identified a young donkey’s socioeconomic class, there were merely two colors to go by. Male foals had light blue ribbons, while the females were given pink.

Dorian had only gotten his own ribbon in the mail a week before. However, while many foals would have been excited for the reminder of up incoming classes, Dorian had merely taken the thread with a sense of naive dread. Staring at the blue ribbon had given him such a feeling of apprehension and sizzling stress that he had immediately discarded the offending item on the dining table.

There were many reasons why exactly the young foal felt such a natural uneasiness towards the prospect of education, the main one being his own selfish desire to have time for himself. He would have been perfectly content to live out the rest of his days in working at his ‘craft’ under the care of his parents. However, he was wise enough to know that such an idealistic view would never fully come to light.

The other reason was that he simply didn’t have the courage to socialize with others of his kind, be they pony or donkey. Oh, he had always yearned to speak with the little fillies that would trot down the other side of his street, and he had always wanted to embrace a closer connection with his parents. Any poor beast would have been terrified to suddenly find themselves in a group full of their fellow peers, especially if they had lived a life of isolation beforehand.

“Hopefully they sent you one long enough…” Millie was muttering to herself, a gleeful smile on her face as he draped the thick ribbon about Dorian’s neck. Of course she would be happy. For the first time in months she would be able to leave the house as much as she pleased. No longer would she have to carry the burden of a small foal. Now the house would be all to herself, at least in the daytime.

“When will I get to leave?” Dorian ventured to ask, lifting his muzzle upwards to expose the underbelly of his throat. He felt his mother gently wind the thread up into a tight knot. It wasn’t enough to choke him, but the sensation was unpleasant all the same.

“Oh… afternoon at some point.” Millie rolled back her shoulders in a careless shrug. “Don’t worry about it though, Dor, you’re gonna have a great time.” She reassured, pulling back to survey her handiwork with a satisfied nod. The bow itself was less than stellar, but it was the best one could do with teeth. After a short pause, she raised an eyebrow. “Dor, come on, raise your ears. You look like you’re going to an execution with that look.” She chided.

Dorian hadn’t even noticed the lax position of his ears, and he quickly pulled them back up. “I’m just nervous.” He admitted sheepishly.

“And speak up, dear. I know your voice is high but you can’t be so quiet.” Millie sighed, shaking her head in exasperation. “I guess it can’t be helped. I’m sure you’re not the only one nervous. It’s a big day for you.” She turned to the clock that was situated above the sink. Its glass surface was cracked in several places, though the sight of it made her start. “We need to go. Here, I got your saddlebags all packed for you.” She turned to lift a set of cream colored bags off the table. With a quick motion, she draped the interlocking straps across Dorian’s back, the two evenly weighted sacks balancing on either side.

“Your lunch and inkwell is in there, your quill and your reader are in the other one.” Millie walked as she talked, urging her son to the front door with a nudge of the head. “Come on, I’ll walk with you today, but you have to get home by yourself.” She pushed open the front door for him, letting it slap down behind them with a sharp crack.

The saddlebags atop Dorian’s back were awkward to bear. His movements were labored as he stepped outside. The suburbs were drenched in early morning fog, so much so that he could only see silhouettes of the houses that lay across the street. The air was crisp, and it was enough to wake him up a bit. He followed his mother close behind, keeping careful watch as to not lose sight of her in the mist.

As far as he could tell, the roads were deserted, though that was probably due to the time. It was early, but they were late. Most of the donkeys were probably gathered about the schoolhouse, awaiting the arrival of the Madame herself. As for the ponies, the majority of them were probably already at their respective jobs. The emptiness of the area was a comforting sight for Dorian. It felt like a huge weight was being lifted from him, if only for a short time.

As they turned the bend on the trodden earth road, it soon became apparent that it had rained the night before. With every step, Dorian could feel his hooves sinking into the wet mud, taking hold like a suction cup. His mother wasn’t faring well either.

As the morning waned, the fog began to clear, and Dorian could soon make out a crowd of equines knotted together some ways down the road. They were donkeys, from the outlines of their ears, and they were all clustered together in front of a lone building. It was only one story tall, and it remained isolated apart from all other places of residence in the suburbs.

They neared closer, and Dorian could see the little foals like himself that were scattered amongst the crowd. They all wore ribbons like himself, some pink and some blue, though they were very few in comparison to the adults. There couldn’t have been more than seven or eight including himself.

Despite being in a crowd, each respective family bore a little distance from one another. Each knot of donkeys occasionally would steal a glance at the other, particularly the foals. As Dorian and Millie neared the vicinity, a procession of heads perked up at their arrival.

As they took their spot, Dorian snuck underneath his mother and eyed the schoolhouse. It looked like a skeleton of a building, its shutters had been ripped away, and the door was held up by no more than one brass hinge. There was a porch, though it looked so unstable that the slightest weight would send it collapsing. There were two windows in the front, though they were boarded up, no doubt because they lacked glass panes. Its wooden sides gave off a rustic mien, though one could argue that they made it look noticeably cheap. Still, it was the best that Canterlot had to offer for their cousins.

Several of the adults were tapping their hooves in impatience, their ears ticking in annoyance. It was clear that the Madame was late. For a short second, Dorian smiled to himself. Perhaps she was sick for the day. Perhaps they could go home soon!
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the foals staring at him. Pressing his ears to the back of his scalp, he shot a returning glance. From the color of the ribbon around the other foal’s neck, he could determine that it was a girl staring at him. Her mane was blonde, a color that clashed with the dull brown of her pelt. Her expression was stoic, but interested all the same. From the short distance that lay between them, Dorian could see a pair of buck teeth poke outwards from her upper lip, exposed for all to see.

“Attention! Could I please have everydonkey’s attention, please?”

A loud, brassy voice sliced through the dull murmur of the crowd, and the burros looked up to find a middle-aged mare standing on the rickety school porch. Her fur was greyed at the tips, a sure sign of old age, and her mane was done up in a neat bun between her erect ears. She wore a heavy pearl necklace, coupled with a set of gaudy earrings that dangled from the tips of her ears. Her hooves were neatly polished, shining against the approaching sunlight as if they had just been coated in a generous layer of glistening oil.

Her tail swished to the side as she watched the crowd die down and turn full attention to the front. Foals were shoved to the center, including Dorian. He walked slowly, his pace forcefully hastened by a quick nudge of his mother’s mud-caked hoof.

“Go on, Dor.” Millie hissed, watching as he took his place near the end of the little group. His small body had broken out in a cold shiver, and he looked at the two youngsters that had taken their stance at his sides. He recognized one of them as the buck-toothed filly. She flashed him a small smile, giggling when she saw him turn away as a result.

The mare at the porch looked down at the small group of foals, casting them a short glance before turning her attention to the crowded adults. “Alright, I understand that many of you are eager to get to your jobs, so I’ll be quick in explaining the regulations and procedures.” She announced.

A collective groan ran through the crowd.

Ignoring the protest, the mare continued. “As some of you already know; I am Madame Mackenzie, caretaker and instructor of this institution, the only one you’ll find in Canterlot!” she boomed proudly. Dorian could almost see the puff of fur on her chest bristling in pride. “And the most prestigious! I can guarantee… I say that I guarantee your foal’s education will be an enriching, memorable, and fantastic experience!”

Members of the crowd started to shuffle about on their hooves, their tails whipping back and forth in impatience. Several young students were looking at one another with exaggerated expressions of boredom and snickering.

“Class will be seven days a week! Three hours a day! I also encourage you all to pick up your foals at closing time! I will not be liable for missing students!” Madame Mackenzie barked over the crowd's dull murmur, the corners of her mouth turning down in a slight frown. “If you have not picked up the supplies from the list I sent you all earlier in the month, then please do so!”

Several parents had begun to leave, offering their children a parting goodbye as they did so. Dorian looked behind him, hoping that his mother would still be there. She wasn’t, and all that was left were the indentations that her hooves had made in the soft mud. He looked at his own dirty legs, surprised to find that even the tips of his mane had been splattered with muck as well.

Madame Mackenzie watched as the crowd dispersed, her left eyebrow twitching in such a way that it unnerved the little knot of foals below her. An awkward silence seemed to fall on the group, broken only by the titter of a nearby bird or the sound of far-off hoof beats.

And then, all at once, Madame Mackenzie changed. While Dorian was unable to comprehend it then, he would later think back to his foalhood teacher as one of the rare beings who could force herself to undergo an emotional metamorphosis. In the span of a few quick seconds, her posture relaxed and her shoulders slumped downwards. Her ears lowered themselves, the bulky earrings clinking gently as they moved. A deep sigh escaped her throat, low and rasping.

Then she smiled. It wasn’t a smile of warmth or hopeful promise. No, the tight curl of the mare’s lips looked noticeably plastic, as if she were putting on a show for her new students. Whatever it was, Dorian didn’t like it at all, and his eyes immediately went to her forehead.

“My! It looks like we’ll be having a rather small class this year…” she mused loudly. The pearls stringed about her neck clacked as she lowered her neck down to eye the little group. “And such hardy students, too! Much stronger than my second and third-years… Well, no sense standing out in the mud, is there? Come on up, children!” Turning about, the Madame walked back to the door. Before entering the school-house she gestured to a ratty welcome mat. “Make sure that you wipe your hooves off. I can’t have you tracking dirt around, can I?” a pseudo chuckle bubbled from her mouth.

The foals looked at each other uneasily, waiting for the first to walk up. Dorian held himself back, preferring to simply watch and wait for what was to come rather than act rashly.

Finally, the buck-toothed filly beside him shrugged and trotted forward. Without any hesitation she clambered on up the steps and wiped her muddy hooves against the bristled rug. With a satisfied smile, she butted open the door and squeezed inside.

The rest of the group was a tad slower in their approach, particularly Dorian, who stayed at the far back of the bleary-eyed procession. Finally, one of the colts tipped his head to the door and walked up. The others fell in behind him, likely from a herd mentality. Besides, what choice did they have?

As Dorian walked through the door, a strong smell of chalk dust and moldy paper rammed into his snout, causing for his nostrils to flare in agitation. Shaking his head, he allowed for himself to survey the tiny room.

It was an old-fashioned set-up, though practical. Several wooden desks were lined in neat little rows, with a wide berth to allow for a small pathway in which Madame Mackenzie would walk. The entire front wall was composed of a chalkboard, bearing the cheery inscription “Welcome new first years!”

A map of Equestria and its surrounding provinces was draped across one of the boarded up windowpanes, its edges yellowed from age. There was a little bookshelf to the left, filled to the gills with all sorts of contemporary literature, most of which was written by ponies.

Situated in front of the wall-high chalkboard was what Dorian assumed to be Madame Mackenzie’s desk. For such an old building, the glossed oak seemed much out of place with the rest of the room. For a short moment, the foal wondered if she had bought the piece with her salary.

Dorian followed the lead of his classmates and placed his saddlebags into one of the cubbies on his right. Noting that several of the students were doing the same, he nosed open the sack to pull out his reader. Handling the musty book in his mouth had always been a bit of a challenge for him, if only because he had a tendency to drool on accident. The spine was already coated in indentations from his teeth and a dark stain from his saliva.

Many of the students had already chosen their desks, mainly in the back of the classroom. Because of the pitifully small number of students, many of the seats were empty, giving the room its own feeling of lonely isolation. Little knots of youngsters formed about the room, as well as a few of the more shy loners. Dorian awkwardly scanned the room a second time, noticing that he was the only one who hadn’t taken a seat. He saw Madame Mackenzie grace him with an expectant smile, and he cringed. Scuffing his hooves against the ground, he trotted over to take the first seat he saw, an empty chair in the back row.

Dorian noticed some of the students were staring at him. A few of the fillies had turned up their snouts in disgust at his disheveled mane, while some of the colts were nudging each other and snickering. An embarrassed flush bled into Dorian’s cheeks, and he slumped down into his chair, hoping to not be seen.

“Right then.” Madame Mackenzie flashed a smile and strolled over to her massive desk, peering over to look at a sheet of paper that laid on the surface. “Let’s start by taking roll, shall we? I’ll need to start memorizing all of your names sooner or later.” A fake, bubbly laugh erupted from her throat. “Now then, just call out ‘here’ when I say your name, okay?” she took a quick glance at the list. “Alright, Cornelius?”

“Here!” a loud baritone rang out from the front row, accompanied by a frantic hoof wave. The colt looked on a bit more of the chunky side, his ribbon taut about the flabby contours of his neck. He was sitting alone, by himself. In the back of his mind; Dorian felt a little sorry for him.

“Good.” The teacher smiled, turning back to her roster. “Eloise?”

“Right here!” a little filly piped up. Dorian could recognize her as the little buck-toothed thing he had seen staring at him earlier. As soon as she spoke; she turned around to look him, offering a little wave of encouragement. Dorian ducked his head down in reply.

Nodding, Madame Mackenzie went on. “Dorian?” she called.

A long, awkward pause settled over the room. Several of the students looked at one another in confusion. Dorian? Who was Dorian? Some of the colts nudged each other and whispered into each other’s ears. Madame Mackenzie scanned the room, her tail flicking in slight annoyance.

Finally, a small murmur echoed across the vicinity.

“Here…”

At that moment every head turned to the elusive Dorian himself, his muzzle staring down at the cracked surface of his desk as strings of his greasy mane hung in front of his eyes. His face was beet red from humiliation for the high tenor of his voice. It was unlike a normal donkey's, loud and brassy with a growl of an undertone to it. No, it rang clear and high.

An awkward silence draped itself over the room, broken only by a faux cough from Madame Mackenzie. "Yes, um... Very good, Dorian, but do try to be a bit more quick in speaking up next time." her smile seemed to falter slightly, though it quickly righted itself as she turned from him. "Alright... Cedric?"

"Here."

Slowly, as more and more names were called, the students turned their heads away from Dorian's slumped form, looking at one another with curious glances. A colt seated besides Eloise chuckled, only for her to give him a sharp glare to make him go silent.

"Alright class! Why don't we start by going over some basics as to why you're here." Madame Mackenzie cantered over to the center of the front, her smile nauseatingly wide as her ears ticked to the sides. "There comes a point in everydonkey's life when he or she needs to consider their future. Now, our pony cousins are more fortunate in that they have their lives paved for them upon obtaining that little mark on their, ahem, rumps."

Several of the students giggled, even Madame Mackenzie herself. Dorian, on the other hand, simply stared, his wide grey eyes soaking up the surroundings. Indeed, he couldn't understand what was so funny. After wallowing in confusion for a few brief seconds, his ears lowered in his own ignorant shame. Perhaps he had made some sort of social blunder that he hadn't caught, or perhaps it was something else entirely.

Even so, the teacher had moved on to other matters. "Now, we donkeys are a special race. We've been graced with an acute sense of hearing, and we have the ability to chose whatever career pathway suits our fancy. However..." she eyed the students with a critical stare. "You'll have to figure out a profession that suits your liking on your own. No hints."

She held onto a dramatic pause for effect, casting her gaze onto the eyes of her students. "If you pick a job that you enjoy, then you'll never have to work a day in your life." she finally declared.

For the first time, as far as Dorian could tell, Madame Mackenzie's smile was not of the same plasticity he had observed before.

"I would like everydonkey to participate in a little event for tomorrow..." she finally proposed. The knots of students looked at each other, their tails from the seats of their chairs wagging in anticipation. "I'd like to know more about each and every one of you, just to try and help you find your special talents in the next three years we'll know each other."

Dorian's lax ears pricked up at the prospect, his eyes widening in attention.

"It's called 'show and tell'. What your homework will be for tonight is to find an object that you particularly cherish, something that you can show the class to tell a little something about yourself and what your interests are." Madame Mackenzie explained, earning herself a quiet murmur of conversations from the students. What would they bring?

The teacher cleared her throat to reel back in her student's attention. "Tomorrow, I'd like each and every one of you to come to the front of the class and present what you've brought as well."

It was here that a hush fell over a room, and a few of the students, including Dorian, starting squirming uneasily in their seats. Just the idea of public speaking was enough to fill some of them with dread.

Dorian himself, who had been having fruitful fantasies of selecting the finest of his wood sculptures or stuffed ponies, couldn't help but lower his gaze back down to the wood grain of his dismal desk. Just the thought of being stared at by strangers, whether his peers or not was intimidating. It wasn't that he was shy, really, it was just that he was constantly under the fear that he would commit some terrible social blunder and ruin his reputation.

Granted, the high tone of his voice had probably already lessened his credibility to begin with.

He snapped back into attention as Madame Mackenzie walked back to her desk to take up a rather musty book. By the lavender color of the binding, Dorian could only assume that it was a copy of the reader that had been in his supplies list from earlier. He looked at his own copy, occasionally blowing away any strands of his mane that got caught over his forehead.

"Now, with that said... How about we begin class with a little reading lesson? Please turn to page fifty-two..." Madame Mackenzie's cheery voice reverted back to its uncomfortably plastic tone as she nosed through the pages of her own reader. The students followed suit, albeit in a much more clumsy fashion. Most of them weren't used to handling books without the assistance of their parents.

As the teacher talked, and as the students listened, Dorian found his own eyelids growing heavy. He wasn't even paying attention to the lesson. For him, the idea of bringing in one of his inventions was more than enough to chew on for the next three hours.

And so the teacher talked and talked, and Dorian's attention grew less and less.

At some point, the brassy voice was tuned out, and the murky shades of the classroom had begun to darken. He felt the fleshy part of his throat gently lay on top of his desk as he fell asleep, oblivious to the going-ons around him.

So he slept.

Dorian didn't know how long he had slept, but it was easy enough to gather that he had dozed off for the rest of the class period as he was sharply poked with the end of a wooden ruler. Blinking groggily, the foal jolted back into an attentive pose, wincing as he saw Madame Mackenzie glaring back down at him.

Not only that, but the other students were already gone.

A cold shiver ran up his spine as his teacher addressed him.

"Well, Dorian, I can see that someone doesn't particularly care about their education..." she began. There was no faux smile now, no forced happiness. If anything, her deadly serious mien was even more unpleasant to look at.

"It's not that!" Dorian rushed to defend himself, his small voice cracking in desperation. He looked about the room in a panic, anywhere except the scowl on his teacher's face. "I... I was up late last night..." he admitted.

"Oh? That wasn't a very wise thing to do..." Madame Mackenzie raised an eyebrow. "And what were you doing, 'last night'?" she asked suspiciously.

Dorian didn't seem to catch her suggestive meaning, his own face flushed from embarrassment. "I... I was making something..." he murmured in reply. His ears pressed against his dandruff-ridden scalp, causing for a few clumps of his mane to fall in front of his eyes. For once, he didn't blow them away.

For a long moment, Madame Mackenzie regarded him with a hard stare, as if contemplating what his fate was to be. "Well, you've gained quite an image from your peers. Perhaps that's punishment enough." the hopeful smile on Dorian's face was short-lived. "However, you need to understand that your education is a top priority. I can't have you missing vital information and getting behind..." she frowned, then shook her head in exasperation.

"I'm sorry..." Dorian bit his lower lip, weighing the words that his teacher had spoken, only to throw them away. To him, building and creating was leagues more important than boring arithmetic and reading books. His view of the world was only natural for a foal of his age.

"Just don't let it happen again." the instructor warned. Her cumbersome pearl necklace clattered as she gestured towards the door. "You can leave now. I have my second and third years coming in soon, and I can't have you loitering in here." she grimaced.

"Okay..." the foal slid out of his seat, his lower back screaming in protest as cramps began to set in. His head was dipped to the ground as he slithered over to the empty cubbies to grab his saddlebags. Clumsily, he placed the two straps over his slender back and moved to take the reader from his desk, all the while being held under the scrutinizing glare of Madame Mackenzie.

"Have a good day, Dorian." she beamed a fake smile as the foal butted open the door. Dorian mumbled a farewell as well, though it was nearly incomprehensible from the shakiness of his tone.

Letting the door gently shut behind him, Dorian looked out to the main courtyard of the school, noting sadly that his mother... or anydonkey for that matter, was no where to be found.

With a heavy sigh, the foal clambered down the porch steps and made his way back home.

As he walked, an idea started to worm its way into his head. Of course it was in regards to his show and tell project, but it was something more as well.

As he rounded the corner of the street to the Canterlot suburbs, a small smile graced the foal's lips.

Oh yes, he would prove to Madame Mackenzie that his craft meant more to him that menial skills and superfluous school-work.

It would take all night, but he would do it.

So, with the childish hope for the next day, Dorian quickened his pace to a fast gallop, his loose saddlebags beating against his thin sides as he ran. For once, he forgot about about the inevitable stares he would receive from pony and donkey alike.

Two; The Artist and The Unsure

It was when he could see the faded silhouette of his house that Dorian had let his clumsy sprint slow to a lagging trot. His sides were slick with sweat, his fur matted from exertion and adrenaline as he jumped onto the uneven porch, the rotting wood creaking underneath his chipped hooves. His long mane plastered itself against his damp pelt, unyielding even as he pressed open the door.

"Dorian? Is that you?" Millie yelled from the kitchen. A plume of smoke was wafting from the open door, its misty tendrils sweeping against the tattered remains of the hallway rug. It was easy enough to tell that she had been cooking for some time now. Despite only having two other mouths to feed apart from her own, the mare had always taken a liking to cooking. Whatever she or her family didn't eat was promptly thrown out, as wasteful as the practice was.

"I'm home." Dorian replied, raising his voice to rough mutter as to be heard over the haphazard jangling and banging of utensils against pots and pans.

"Good day?" Millie yelled over her own ruckus, her tone impatient as if she merely wanted to race through the pleasantries.

"Somewhat..." The foal shrugged, despite having no witness to his actions. "Do you know if we have any paint?" he asked suddenly, walking over to the kitchen door. He stood just outside of the room, wisely. He didn't want to be run into by his mother's frantic traveling to and fro from the counters and back.

"What?" Millie whipped her head around to face her son, her mouth stuffed with an assortment of carrots. Her voice was slightly garbled as she spoke. "You're the only one here that would use it, why ask me?" she cocked her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. "Don't you have homework to do now?" she tapped her hoof.

Dorian shuffled from side to side. "Uh, it is for my homework..." he mumbled. "It's for show and tell tomorrow... Can I put my saddlebags on the table?" he gestured. The straps had begun to chafe through his thin coat, biting down into his tough hide.

"Sure, sure..." Millie turned back to her cooking, waving her tail in dismissal.

Sighing in relief, the colt shook violently from side to side before the sacks toppled to the ground, enabling him to slip his head from underneath.

"What are planning on making?" Millie asked. She was peering over the edge of their massive iron kettle, her nostrils flaring at the strong odor of boiling cabbage.

Dorian leaned his neck down forward to stretch his back, holding his position till he heard a satisfying crack from his aching spine. "Oh... nothing too big." he dismissed. "A wood carving... do we have any sandpaper left?" he suddenly asked.

Millie rolled her eyes in impatience. "If we do, it's either in your toolbox or in the shed." she muttered. To her, there had never been a need for idle chit-chat. Simple conversations were never particularly fruitful, she would often say.

Seeing how the mare no longer wished for company (if she had to be begin with), Dorian slipped away from the arch-way to his room.

Upon opening the door the foal was immediately pacified by the comforting scent of wood shavings and freshly washed fabric. The dim light that bled through his little window offered just the right amount of illumination, and it filled Dorian with such a sense of homeliness that his embarrassing experience at school was quickly forgotten, if only for a moment.

For a long while, Dorian surveyed his tiny kingdom of loose materials and tools with a serene sense of pride. His long ears ticked away in little circles as he gathered his thoughts on what was to be done.

Indeed, for a plan of action of action had formed in the foal's mind on the way home from school. It was a project that would likely consume the majority of the evening, if not the entire night. It was all the same to Dorian. He had already established himself as a bit of a night owl, and it was easy to tell from the saggy bags that formed underneath his eyelids.

An idea occurred to him, and he turned to the messy pile of 'creations' that was lodged next to the door. Perhaps he could find a crude base to manipulate, such a finding would shave off a good portion of his time if he could.

With that in mind, Dorian crept over to the chin-high pile and gently lifted a hoof to dig through it. Stuffed animals and woven blankets were firmly shoved aside, making way for the solid pile of finished and failed wood carvings underneath.

Eventually, Dorian was able to fish out a few of his more early carvings from a few months back. The rest in the pile had already been splattered with paint and subtle details that made them unusable. Still, what he was left to work with could be tampered with well enough, he hoped.

Gingerly, the foal took up the three wooden sculptures in his maw, careful as to not let his saliva stain the jagged finish as he dropped them on his mattress to a get a closer look in the light.

One figure was a half-finished representation of a plain, feature-less donkey. The shape was still rather lumpy and in need of a massive touch-up to make it distinguishable. Another one was nearly finished in the same basic shape, though the end tip of one of the forelegs had broken off due to a slip of the hoof. The last wasn't even a donkey at all, but the bare beginnings of a pony. It's short, stubby ears were already fully formed, its muzzle short and stout to fit a pony's usual facial structure.

Annoyed, Dorian pushed the pony model aside, leaving it for another time. For the creation he was planning, it certainly wouldn't do.

His attention turned back to the two remaining choices, a deep frown settling on his weary face. Both sculptures were either incomplete or flawed in some fashion, so the idea of saving time would have to be scrapped, at least on the massive scale that Dorian was hoping for.

Determined, Dorian looked at the model with the chipped foreleg. It would be a shame to let so many of hours go to waste because of such a simple blemish. However, fixing it would no doubt be a challenge.

The foal walked over to the left side of his mattress where he kept his decently sized toolbox. It was an old, shabby thing, rusted at the edges and nearly fallen apart. Dorian cherished it all the same though, if only because he knew how much trouble his father had gone through to get it for him as a Hearth's Warming Eve present. Over the years it had served as his ever-faithful companion,locking away the essential tools for his 'experiments' from prying eyes.

Plopping down to the ground, Dorian reached out to gently undo the latch in the front, its steel finish lightly crusted with browning rust. Many would have considered the old thing unsightly, but Dorian looked at it more as a piece of art than anything else. The scars and wear and tear gave the case a sense of character, a personality that had established itself over the long years of its existence.

A loud screech sounded as Dorian slowly lifted up the cover, the metal hinges squeaking loudly in protest. He was prepared for the noise though, for his ears had already firmly pressed themselves against his scalp.

Inside the box was nothing more than a small compartment, filled to the gills with a plethora of various tools and oddities. There was no organization in their placement. Indeed, it looked as though the colt had needlessly tossed the objects in a messy pile. It was just how he worked. Whenever dear Millie would try and tell him to pick up his room, he'd do so, but the organization would be short-lived. Dorian simply could not help but operate on disorganization.

There was no hesitation as he reached downwards and plucked a dulled butter knife from the tray, wincing as the taste of cold metal ran over his tongue. With the obstruction of the knife gone, he could see that there was a small leaf of used sandpaper settled in the box's base. Sitting on top of it were a few canisters of paint; Dorian had completely forgotten about them, even if they weren't the colors he necessarily needed.

And so, gathering up all the needed tools upon his withered mattress, Dorian began with his work. A low hum resonated from the well of his throat, offering white noise to block out the exasperated arguing of his parents that had started up some minutes earlier. Their voices were muffled from the obstruction of the closed door, but with the inclusion of the foal's flat tune the offending sounds were nearly obliterated.

He worked diligently, pressing the sharp tip of the knife gently against the jagged edges of the carving. He kept the statue balanced with the tip of his hoof against the bare ground, contorting his neck in such a way that he had to take frequent breaks.

Eventually, the light faded, leaving Dorian with nothing more than a few choice specks of candle light to guide him along his work. The soothing chirping of crickets from outside were welcomed. At least they provided more riveting conversation than the arguing of his distracted parents.

Millie and Earnest's outbursts had long since fazed the foal over the last few months. As a young colt, he had been terrified by the oppressive atmosphere that they both seemed to hold. Both burros would always find a reason to bicker and fight, as much as it had pained Dorian to watch.

Now, however, he had been long since desensitized to it. Their quarrels had become a natural part of his life.

As soon as his plan had been perfected in his head, Dorian slipped into his own little world of productivity. He had always shown efficiency when it came to completing tasks that he set his mind to. To him, it was almost as if the entire world ceased to be, if only for a moment. There was simply nothing else in existence, nothing but him and the curious figure that he molded within his small hooves. The only time that he had ever stopped work was to light his candles once the sun had completely gone down, and even then he moved as if in a trance. His pupils were dilated, every small detail seemed to beg for perfection.

He didn't even notice the rising crest of dawn, the Princess's sun gently lapping downwards over the pale dullness of the suburbs. There was no spot that Celestia left untouched with her grace, and yet even Dorian was completely oblivious to her arrival.

His eyes had become lined with the red of his veins, his skin seeming to sag with exhaustion as he dipped the tip of his paint brush into the small vat of black. He didn't even feel fatigue, at least not yet. He ran purely on adrenaline, his wide, grey eyes unblinking as he made final touches.

With a final dab of black on the mended hoof, it was done. Dorian placed the soiled brush onto a stained rag, his tongue licking his lips in relief as he surveyed his handiwork. It wasn't the best to him, but hadn't he always been his own worst critic?

Fatigue slowly began to creep up the foal's spine as he took a glance out the window. By the position of the sun, it was probably about seven AM or so. A small groan escaped his lips. There would be no sleep tonight, it seemed.

"Dorian! Get up!"

Right on cue, Millie's voice pierced though his quiet atmosphere like an unpleasant siren. Still, he supposed that it couldn't be helped. Judging by the handiwork he had accomplished, it was worth it.

Dorian yawned, the hinges of his jawbone cracking painfully as he shoved the bedroom door open with his drooping head. Finished carving or not, it was going to be a pretty terrible day. So much for keeping his promise that he'd try and get a good night's sleep for Madame Mackenzie. Hopefully his work would be adequate enough to offer a little excuse.

As soon as he entered the hallway, he could smell the wafting aroma of grits, and his mouth watered. Finally he'd have a chance to have some, at least there was something to look forward to today.

"Morning, Dor." Millie chirped as the foal lumbered into the room, though her eyes were kept squarely on the steaming pan laid in front of her. "How'd you sleep?" she asked.

"Okay..." Dorian muttered, suppressing a cynical smile. Surely she knew him better than that.

Earnest was sitting at the table, mulling over a cup of lukewarm coffee and a copy of the Hoofington Post sprawled in front of him. He only briefly glanced up at his son before turning back to his reading, offering a dull grunt of acknowledgment. "Morning Son." he didn't seem fazed by Dorian's ravaged appearance at all. Then again, he had never been that good looking of a burro to begin with. Maybe his son had finally inherited his genes after all.

Rolling back his shoulders, Dorian reared back and placed his front hooves on the base of his chair. He was still small, so pulling himself up had always been a challenge. Eventually, his scrambling efforts were rewarded as his mother placed a heaping plate of snow-white grits on his place mat.

"You alright, Dor? You look pretty terrible." Millie raised an eyebrow at her son, though didn't seem too surprised, or concerned for that matter.

Dorian's head snapped up to her, and he forced a tiny smile. "Oh, I'm okay. I just had to get some stuff done last night for today..." he reassured her in that quiet voice of his. He hunched over his plate of food with an expectant smile on his face, his shoulders bunched up in giddiness.

If his mother hadn't done her part in controlling his portions, Dorian would have very likely turned into a glutton. He adored food, as picky as he was with what he liked and didn't like. Opening his mouth, he slowly began eating at a savoring pace, his snout scrunching up in delight as flecks of mashed corn plastered themselves onto his lips.

His trance was broken as Earnest lifted himself from the table, absentmindedly folding up his newspaper as he did so. "M'workin' late tonight." he announced, swirling himself around to push in his chair. "Iron Hammer wants me to help with widening an opening we found." he elaborated, as if there were nothing special about it.

Millie glanced back at him with a raised eyebrow. "You didn't say anything about that last night..." she ventured.

"Wasn't a need to." Earnest merely replied as he walked out of the kitchen, taking the time to flick the end of his tail against his son as he did so. With that, he was gone.

Dorian didn't go back to his eating until he could hear the click of the front door opening and closing. The warmth of the food was enough to break up his fatigue, though he winced at the thought of likely falling asleep in class again.

His plate clean, the foal hopped down from his chair and crossed over to one of the many wooden cabinets that lay against the walls. Pondering over the numerous doors for a quick second, he reached out to grab the brass knob of one of the lower cabinets. Inside were a few bottles of cleaning fluid along with a roll of paper towels. Grabbing the latter, Dorian hurried off back to his room to check on his newly finished creation.

Leaning his face close to it, he was happy to find that the paint had been quick in drying. That was probably due to the dryness of the wood itself sucking in the paint's moisture. It made for coloring rather easy despite the brittleness of the wood itself. Carefully, the foal packed a modest cushion of paper around the small figure, folding up the corners so that it didn't jostle.

As he finished tucking in the final corner, he heard a knock on the door.

"Dorian!" Millie called. There was a touch of irritation in her voice. "Can you go get that?!" she yelled over the harsh scream of the tea kettle.

Bending down to pick up his packaged statue, Dorian quickly stumbled out of his door and made his way to the kitchen. Fortunately the cacophony of the pots and pans was so loud that his mother remained unaware of him taking a side-trip to deposit the object into a pocket on his saddlebags.

The knocking grew insistent, quickening its pace as Dorian rushed down the hallway. "Coming!" he called. Whoever was at the door was certainly in an impatient mood, which seemed a little suspicious. Not many strangers ever bothered to visit Dorian's family after all, save for the occasional mailmare with a package or three.

An uneasy feeling welled up in foal's belly as he slowly cracked open the front door, only to find two unexpected faces peering back at him. For a short moment, his rattled brain couldn't identify who they were, though it wasn't long before the one with the buck teeth spoke.

"Hi Dorian!" Eloise smiled back at him, her huge front tooth a shining ivory. Next to her stood the ever-chubby Cornelius. Dorian could faintly remember he being the one that Madame Mackenzie had first called roll for. The two foals were carrying their saddlebags across their backs, occasionally fidgeting and adjusting the straps as they stood from their weight.

The filly continued on. "We wanted to stay after class and ask you how you were feelin' since you fell asleep and all. You didn't look so good..." she explained. Cornelius nodded in agreement, his heavy jowls flopping to and fro.

"Yeah!" he piped up. "One of the colts tried to throw a paper ball at you, but you didn't even wake up. I would'a socked him for you..." he huffed, lifting a hoof to scratch it against the ground.

During this entire introduction, Dorian shifted back and forth on his hooves, a touch of confusion settled on his face. Honestly, he didn't really know what to think of his two classmates suddenly showing up at his door. They didn't even know him much at all. "Ah, how do you know where I live?" he asked. He was unable to hide the slight paranoid tone in his voice.

Eloise didn't seem to notice. "Oh, we just asked around on the way home from school." she answered easily. Her eyes darted to and fro across Dorian's slouching form, and her smile faded to a concerned frown. "Hey, are you okay? You look kinda rough..." she murmured.

"Yeah..." Cornelius piped up. "Your eyes are all red." he observed, cocking his head to the side.

Dorian shook his head to rid himself of the fatigue that had crept it's way over him. His face felt numb, tingling from a lack of sleep. "Oh, well... I was just working on something last night." he replied hesitantly. "It's for show and tell."

"Whoa, you made something?" Cornelius gaped, before turning to his own saddlebags with a cocky grin. "My father made me what I'm bringing in." he confided, leaning his muzzle forward as if to tell some great secret.

"Really?" Dorian's curiosity was piqued, and he found himself leaning in forward as well. "What is it?" he asked, tail swishing in eagerness.

"He's not gonna tell you." Eloise sighed, raising an eyebrow as Cornelius stuck his chin up with a satisfied giggle. "He wouldn't show me either, if it makes you feel better." she added, shrugging her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

"Well then, I just won't show mine either." Dorian smiled. What did it matter, anyway? Everything would be revealed when they got to school. Another half hour of anticipation wouldn't kill him.

Cornelius turned around to eye the road and turned back to Dorian with a wide grin. "You wanna walk to school with us?" he offered. "We'll wait for you out here to get your bow on and your bags." he added in, noting the foal's bare neck.

Well, what harm was there in a proposition like that? Dorian didn't really need to mull it over. He immediately nodded and turned tail to scuttle back to the kitchen.

"See? I told you he was nice." he could hear Eloise mumble from behind.

After getting his mother to tie on his pretty blue bow and help with his saddlebags, Dorian headed back to the door, checking once to make sure that his statue was firmly secured in his pocket. "Okay, ready." he closed the door behind him and took a position between the two foals as they collectively made their way down the street.

It was a nice feeling to not walk alone, though Dorian still couldn't understand why he had been singled out from the rest of the group as someone worthy of company. As his house slowly crept out of view, he turned to the two foals. "Why'd you guys want to walk with me?" he managed to ask, though quietly.

Cornelius shrugged. "In case you couldn't already tell, there's a lot of jerks in our class. You and Eloise seemed nice enough, so I figured 'why not?'" he explained easily. The filly on the other side nodded in agreement.

"He's right. We talked a little bit after school, and we were gonna wait for you, but this group of bullies kept us from staying around." she grumbled. "One of them was about to throw a rock at me before somepony made him go away..."

Dorian nearly stopped in his tracks. "A pony helped you? Really?" he was baffled. Ponies usually never really associated themselves with other donkeys. They were just too different from each other.

Eloise hesitated, though was interrupted by Cornelius before she could open her mouth to speak. "It was just a filly, actually, but she looked a little older than us on account of the fact that she had a cutie mark." he grunted in annoyance as one of his hooves became stuck in the dampened mud. The other two foals stopped to wait for him.

"And they listened to her?" Dorian could believe it. Ponies were usually not creatures to mess around with, particularly because they were the ones who had the higher connections. "What was her name?"

"She said her name was... um... 'Twilight Sparkle'." Eloise fumbled, giggling in amusement upon getting the name right.

"Pony names are so weird." Cornelius rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion.

"I think they're interesting." Dorian chimed in, only to earn a weird stare from the other two, but he didn't notice. "Especially the unicorns. Have you guys ever wondered how their magic worked?" he rambled on, stopping only when the two other foals weren't offering any comments.

The little schoolhouse had come into sight. It was already surrounded with little foals waiting for Madame Mackenzie's inevitable arrival. Several heads turned as the three walked near the porch. Some of them pointed their hooves at Dorian and snickered, turning back to their little knots of groups to gossip.

For now, the pony discussion was dropped. Dorian let his head lower, his long strands of hair running over his muzzle to act as a shield. Cornelius and Eloise just shot glares at the other groups.

"Jerks..." Eloise huffed, turning to Dorian with a toothy smile. "Hey Dorian, do you wanna see what I'm bringing to show and tell while we wait for the teacher?" she asked pleasantly.

Dorian looked up at her sheepishly. In truth, he was a little annoyed that she suddenly thought it fit to treat him as if he were younger than her. He could take the insults well enough, after all. Still, he wasn't about to take away the opportunity to have a sneak peek at what she brought. "Sure." he replied, lifting his head up defiantly, as if to show his own courage.

Cornelius seemed taken aback, his ears revolving back to press against his skull. "What? If you're gonna show him yours that easily then why didn't you show me when I asked you?" he grumbled, kicking a hoof against a pebble on the ground.

Eloise merely ignored him as she craned her neck around to her left saddlebag. Her mouth fumbled with the latch for a few seconds before she pulled out, to Dorian's surprise, a snow globe.

She held it by the bottom rim, as to let both Dorian and Cornelius have a clear view of the inner contents. It was a lovely piece, the base of the interior coated with flakes of fake snow. The main centerpiece of it all was a small figure of two lone buildings pressed together in the center, their brown sidings coated in flakes.

There was a plaque pasted against the base engraved with the word, "Manehattan".

"Manehattan?" Dorian questioned. He stared at the globe with transfixed fascination, eyes wide. "Isn't that a city?"

"Yup!" Eloise chirped, turning about to drop her treasure in her saddlebag. "My mother got the snow globe there as a souvenir when she went to visit once." she nodded proudly.

"I guess it's nice..." Cornelius mumbled. "Why'd you decide to take it though? You know what you want to do when you grow up?" he asked.

"Not really." Eloise admitted easily. "I figure I'll figure that out once I get older, you know?"

Dorian was impressed at how accepting the other filly was about her predicament, yet he couldn't help but feel bad for her. He remembered how confused he had been in his babyhood regarding cutie marks and the like. Now that he knew that there was a job pool available for what he enjoyed, he couldn't help but wonder about her.

Cornelius broke his train of thought as he reached into his own bag. "Well, I know what I'm gonna do. Take a gander at this..." he seemed to forget his own need for secrecy a he brought out a single paint brush, an object that was probably the last thing that Dorian would have expected. If anything he had inwardly thought that it would be a cookbook or something related to food on account of the foal's girth.

"You paint? Really?" Eloise seemed impressed, and Cornelius beamed.

"Uh-huh. All sorts of things. It's kinda my hobby... I was gonna ask Madame Mackenzie if I could use it for a job when I graduate." he smiled.

Before he knew it, Dorian had already fished into his own saddle pockets, his mouth gently enveloping the paper covered figure. The two other foals caught on to what he was doing, and watched with blatant interest as he ceremoniously unwrapped the mystery that lay inside on the ground.

Soon, the statue was displayed on its side, for all to see. The three stared at it in reverent silence.

It was a representation of Madame Mackenzie. Dorian had mended the chipped front hoof with some difficulty, but the end result turned out much less clumsily than he had expected it to. The wood was freshly sanded, giving off a clean look that seemed to shine in the growing sunlight. The tips of the hooves and the rims of the long, narrow ears were painted with a black dark as peppercorn. A yellowish cream color had been used to messily dab out a series of circles around the statues neck, simulating the heavy pearl necklace that Madame Mackenzie had worn before.

Cornelius was the first to speak.

"The other kids are gonna think that you're a teacher's pet. You know that, right?" he raised his brow. "Good work though, but your paint job is kinda messy." he critiqued.

"Yeah, did you really do that all in one night?" Eloise marveled, leaning down to take a closer look.

"I just hope that she likes it." Dorian mumbled. He hadn't even thought about the possibility of being mocked for it, but there was no going back now, not after all the work he had put into it.

It would all work out in the end, he had hoped.