Blade

Not counting of course, the turnpike from the highway to Main Street, there were only three exits to Ponyville. One, the train station and the trail past it. Two, the road leading to the Everwhite and Whitewood Bridge, which was condemned from that point upward. And finally, the road to the rock quarry.

The rock quarry wasn’t much of a sight, but nobody would know, seeing that it had been declared a danger zone. The reason was no doubt accredited to the fact that beyond that point was a tribe of Gem Hounds, known by the locals and most other ponies as Diamond Dogs.

At the time, Equestria was at war with their kind, whom had a more than irritating habit of robbing, kidnapping, raping, and killing ponies they happened to ‘find’. Because of the war, mutual bigotry toward the opposing forces was welcomed with open arms. Ponies were often told of the ferocious, savage, ruthless, greedy nightmares that wanted nothing more than their blood spilt, while the Gem Hounds spent more than enough time raving about how the filthy, back-stabbing, stuck up elitist mules were trying to pass laws to make genocide legal. This was however, a mostly cold war. Deadly force was only used when a tribe attacked, which was a choice of their own, as the hounds had no unified government and didn’t conspire as a species. Most tribes saw no reason in attacking pony towns or cities because it wasn’t worth the effort, or they just didn’t care.

The tribe of the rock quarry, who called themselves Diamondites, saw the war as an opportunity to open a black market for the town. The Gem Hounds were nothing close to savage in light of technology. They were the first to discover gun-powder, create bullets, and manufacture firearms. They also had a wide array of resources found useful to ponies. Knowing this, the Diamondites embraced the embargo in between species as an excuse to raise prices of useful means. Though only a handful of Ponyville’s citizens knew of the black market, and even fewer were brave enough to actually buy from it, the tribe retained a very high profit and practically thrived off of it.

The tribe’s leader, Pnova, ran the market. His right hand, Deyclad, handled shipments. And Gonxeqhik (or Gonzy) was Pnova’s childhood friend, now his security department during transactions.

It was cold out, but not snowing. The sky was somewhat blue but flat bland grey clouds filled the sky and made things look and feel like a rainy day. Pnova had setup a transaction with somebody in town. It wasn’t direct of course, he would hire criers to tell ponies in the rougher parts of town about his setup and have them come back up to the quarry disguised as hikers, letting him know if somebody had gotten interested. His favorite crier, a colt by the name of Caramel, had told him of a very serious buyer, one that promised that at least something would be bought on the spot.

Pnova was always excited about sure sales. The weight of the gold pieces the ponies called ‘bits’ in his red vest pocket always felt so gratifying. It wasn’t just the thought of him being richer; it was the primal rush of an accomplishment. He felt like he had done well. It also made him feel smart, him having tricked the customer into buying something that was so meaningless to him and getting profit. And not to mention the gems. Oh, the gems! The time he had to wait for his spies to get back from the national exchange was unbearable. Turning the bits into gems was his favorite part. Amethysts, Rubies, Sapphires, Emeralds, Jasper, Crystal, Morganite, Moonstone, Opal! And Diamonds. Oh joy, how he loved Diamonds. Much like everyone in his tribe. They were named after the things they loved them so much.

Pnova stood in the wind dreaming about those wonderful stones when Deyclad shouted something incoherent. It irritated him that he had been so rudely torn from his fantasy.

“What!? I was thinking very happy thoughts!” He shouted in anger after whirling around.

Deyclad only grunted again, pointing toward the entry trail. Pnova saw a figure approaching. He smiled. It must have been his new customer.

As the figure approached, he urged Gonzy to bring up the inventory. Gonzy reached behind a nearby boulder and drug out a large wooden crate. Hardly any movement from them followed that as they waited for the figure to stop in front of them.

The customer was wearing a black hooded cloak and a scarlet checkered scarf, their face was hidden from the illegal merchants.

Now assuming the buyer was within earshot, Pnova started talking.

“Welcome to the black market, friend. What was this I was told about buying at least something today?” He encouraged.

The figure stopped and dropped the hood of the cloak to reveal messy, untamed, violet hair on the head of a white mare with deep circles under her eyes.

All three of the hounds were bewildered.

“A girl!?” cawed Gonzy dumbly.

Pnova knew how business worked. One stupid slip-up or word out of place and the transaction was kaput. He turned around and yelled.

“Stop talking, fool!”

He whirled back around and was slightly startled by the terror in the mare’s eyes. She looked desperate. Normally, this was good for quick sales, but this was different. This mare was scared, really scared. Without knowing it, he found himself being very careful and delicate with his words.

“Eh…” He stupidly stuttered. “What is it you’ve come to us for, pony?”

Rarity frantically searched the surrounding area with her eyes to make sure nobody was watching or following her. She had been very careful; so very careful. Now that she had made the journey, she was at the climax of her trip, so she knew she would have to be quick before she forgot to be on the alert. She faced the hound.

“H-hello…” She croaked.

Her voice was raspy and tired. She still hadn’t slept.

“How much for a…” She finished by whispering something too quietly followed by a please.

Pnova, confused asked her to clarify.

“What was that?”

“I need you to sell me a…” She whispered again.

“Speak up, please.” Pnova asked, using the premium of his etiquette by asking nicely.

“a GUN!” The violet mare shouted abruptly, eyes now bulging.

All three hounds were so startled by this, that Pnova backed up a few steps and shielded his face involuntarily, while Gonzy jumped a bit and Deyclad fell off the rock he was perched on with a thud and an “oof!”.

She was talking quietly again.

“I need a gun, please. Please.” She asked.

Hearing this, Pnova was dreadfully confused. Ponies never wanted guns. They always bought something stupid like oil or velvet.

“A gun?” He said, dumbstruck. “Why do you want a gun?”

Rarity was impatient. Her eyes were slowly turning into a glare.

“Can I get one or not?”

He hadn’t come prepared. The crate was full of materials and liquids. There were no guns except for the ones on his person.

Then he remembered the weight of the money in his pocket. It swept him away. He smiled slightly just thinking about it. He had to give her something.

Then he remembered the pistol in his side. It was traded to him from the tribe near Sky Mirror Lake. It did him no good anyway; he was a two-handed gun type. He smiled at his customer and reached into his vest, pulling out a long barrel revolver.

Rarity saw the weapon and grabbed it with her magic instantly. It was ripped out of Pnova’s hands so fast, he fell to the ground. She surveyed it carefully, but not too carefully. He didn’t want the killer to catch her off guard in case he had followed her, which she was sure he had.

The revolver was steel, with a silvery-brown finish and a black marble grip. Engraved on the left side of the barrel was a sloppy but legible “Ur”.

Rarity opened the cylinder with her magic and counted the chambers it had. She looked at the hounds cautiously. For all she knew, they worked for the killer. She had to maintain a constant alertness.

She gulped like some do when they’re trying to stop crying. “H-how much do you want for it?”

Pnova picked himself up and brushed the dirt off of his vest. He looked back at the pony, still feeling a hidden disturbance.

“Well…” He guessed, working out a ‘fair’ deal in his head. “Two-“

“Two hundred?” Rarity interrupted.

Pnova waited to be sure she was finished.

“Yes, that’s fair, right-“

“Bullets!!!” she screamed abruptly, forcing the hounds to cover their ears and cringe just slightly.

“What!?”

“Bullets!” She reiterated. “Guns can’t kill without bullets!”

Gonzy and Deyclad exchanged worried looks and turned to Pnova, as if they expected him to understand any more than they did. He simply shot them back a worried look. It’s all he could do. He was the one who should have been worried. He was closest to the strange mare.

Pnova reached into his vest and pulled out a small red box of ammunition for the gun. It was a fairly old gun, he’d been told, and in turn it had very old ammo, which was also rare. He held out his hand quite far from his body for a reason he didn’t understand.

Rarity seized the ammo with her magic as well and marveled at the objects she was grasping. She was safe, no doubt; at least a whole lot more than she was with a shitty baseball bat. A sense of triumph filled her, and she started to giggle. It was relief, of course, but the hounds couldn’t know that. Her laughter got progressively louder and uncontrollable. A moment of victory being well celebrated. Rarity roared with laughter and even started coughing.

The hounds slowly backed away, horrified of the clearly insane mare, cackling as she looked at the very dangerous weapon that they had just made the blatant mistake of giving to her. Pnova was struck by the worst of it. He was unarmed. He saw that in his peripheral vision, Deyclad was grasping his 9mm while Gonzy reached behind the rock the crate of goods shared with his shotgun. He was jealous. They were also further away. Not only was he jealous, but he felt stupid and full of regret. What the fuck had he been thinking when handing her his gun!? The mare violently twitched her head so that she was looking at him now. He let out an uncontrolled shriek.

“I have three hundred!” She said merrily.

She tossed a small pouch at the hounds with a conquering grin.

Pnova fumbled the pouch, but ended up catching it anyway. He saw the mare had a deathly grimace smeared across her face. It was ghastly.

“T-thank…you…” He managed. He mumbled while shifting his eyes about his surroundings, looking for a quick escape to the den. “J-just…” said Pnova, stuttering terribly. “Don’t come back, okay, pony?” It was almost a beg.

The mare wasn’t listening. She was clicking the bullets into their chambers happily.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore, so without any particular direction, he bolted. Deyclad and Gonzy saw him run and they instinctively followed. They didn’t want to be shot.

Rarity hadn’t seen them leave and when she noticed she didn’t care. There was nothing to worry about with a gun. The killer might have a knife, but only unicorns could use guns. He was no match now.

She put the gun in her saddlebag, but didn’t let the magic grip off of it. Then she turned around and made her way down the trail back into town.

The hounds didn’t stop running until they reached the den. They stopped at the entrance and caught their breath. Pnova collapsed onto the ground, panting, and his heart racing like he had been. He had never been afraid of a pony before. It was something about her eyes. They might have been the wrong size, or maybe there was a glint in them that brushed him wrong, but none-the-less, he never wanted to see that pony again.

Pinkamena saw that spring was coming soon, so she decided to get to spring cleaning early. She went into the living room, which she almost never used, ironically. In there, she dusted the floor with a broom she had bought in town square. Then she had cleaned the kitchen, which she also never used, all thanks to her diet consisting of nothing but foodstuffs directly from the stands in the square.

While cleaning the kitchen, a sack of flour dropped from atop the cupboard. When she saw it, she sneered. The voice had hopped into it one time and pretended to be a girl named Madame LeFlour. She kicked the sack into the corner and then threw it into the trash. She still hated the voice.

She moved on to the bedroom up the staircase. While moving a dresser out of the way, she noticed a pull chord that was next to it. Despite that room being the only other one she really spent time in, she hadn’t ever noticed this particular cord before.

Curious, of course, she pulled it, only to be thumped on the head by a trap-door staircase that fell from the roof. She rubbed her noggin and picked herself back up, too intrigued by this new space to mumble an ‘ouch’.

She quizzically looked up into the room the miniature staircase led to and decided it would be stupid not to climb up.

Upon entering the space, she realized it was the attic. It was littered with assorted boxes and junk. But the focal point of the room was easily the brightly decorated book on the end table at the end of the length of the attic. She went up to it and scanned the cover.

Memories it said only.

She opened the cover and looked at the first page. It was covered in pictures, some in black and white, others in poor Technicolor. Pinkamena noticed that in each of the pictures, there was one common factor; a Donkey.

In each picture, he was absolutely covered in gear. Around his neck were several cameras, some small, others complicated and goofy, and one big camera in the center of them. Also on his body were coats and jackets and vests, all with at least twenty pockets, stuffed and overflowing with junk and other non-sense nearly spilling out. He wore a fishing hat, and also a charming smile. One of the pictures was of him and a heavily decorated griffon standing on icy tundra both shaking their limbs, since only the griffon had a hand. Written on the white part under the actual picture on the Polaroid was the sentence; For my favorite traveler and best friend, Cranky. Followed by what Pinkamena guessed was the griffon’s signature.

Another picture was of a place she recognized immediately. It was the basement. It’s red light was glowing in the photo, with the donkey wearing a gas mask and mixing chemicals into a tray. Above him were rows and rows of photos hung by clothes pins on a string that spanned the room.

The basement had been a darkroom. It certainly explained the light bulb and its deep redness. But Pinkamena still had no idea why a knife collection had been in there.

When she flipped to the center of the book, she stopped. She noticed something in one of the photos. The donkey was being handed something. He was looking directly at the lens and leaning toward the object, indicating that the he was posing for the photographer. The picture must have been important to him, she guessed. But the actual photo and how it was taken was irrelevant, because the object being handed to him was Tag.

She grabbed the book and got as close to the page as her vision would allow. She even tried squinting her eyes. She wanted to be sure.

Examining it carefully, she saw that it was indeed Tag. She now knew where the knife had come from. The picture was taken inside of a gothic castle, and the creature handing the knife to the donkey was a legendary alicorn with a four-fingered metal appendage attached to his front hoof by magic.

While a look of success was on the donkey’s face, Pinkamena saw a rather relived look on the alicorn’s face. He was happy to be giving the thing away.

Pinkamena silently wished that she could feel the same.