Brand was good at what he did. He had been born into the service of House Scarabus and had excelled in their service. He was the personal vassal of the youngest lady of the house, and prided himself on aiding her in every endeavor.
However, her ladyship had a flaw, at least in the minds of her siblings and most of her race as a whole. For them to survive, they needed to feed. You do not feel empathy for the source of food. You do not try to do more than ensure your food source survives the winter, is cultivated for consumption, and is readily accessible. You can be passionate about food, but loving food is foolish.
Especially when your food is love itself.
Brand wandered the meeting hall, with a smile on his face and a cheery tone to greet those he passed. He had assumed the form of a violet pegasus stallion who had been “acquired” some time ago. He had been known to travel into town on occasion, and was a renown flirt. As such he sipped lightly on the mediocre affections of the mares in town who had a thing for the playcolt, refreshing himself after a long flight to the community. Their eyes always made him feel uncomfortable. Too many emotions on display, and that was merely by physical means.
The whole hall had an atmosphere of desire, whether it be for items or profit. Occasionally he would sense the odd bit of amorous desire for himself, or rather, his pegasus form, from mares he passed and even the occasional stallion. He was not picky where the love flowed from. He had learned how some “high society” ponies frowned upon same-sex interest, but of all the races, his knew best that source does not matter. Love is love.
He never did understand why ponies were so open with their emotions. It leaves them vulnerable, easy to manipulate. Then again, very few races could taste emotion like his. Speaking of flavor, a particularly enticing spice was emanating from a stallion he had talked to outside. He had made his way inside and now stood next to Brand as he perused a carpenter’s wares.
“It’s amazing what can be done with a good piece of wood,” the stallion, an earth pony with viridian coat proposed. Wow. Subtle. Brand smiled knowingly at him before replying.
“True, but it takes a skilled hoof that can really work the grain. Not to mention a good tool to work with.” He fanned the flicker of desire into proper flames with his tone and stance. “Interested in grabbing some lunch? I’ve only had a few snacks today.”
He left the bathroom of a local restaurant, pleased after finishing his meal. The fruit salad had been good too.
He made his way through town, towards his designated rendezvous point, and resumed his habit of observing the ponies around him. He fell into a practiced state of detachment and he greeted the ponies in the obnoxiously upbeat manner of his current form, while his conscious mind processed the subtler details. The way they looked at him. The glances at physical features or the response to his voice, or even the smell of the soap he had used to solidify his cover. So shallow, so ignorant. Ponies rarely took long enough to see beyond the obvious, instead relying on obvious cues.
Meanwhile, he could not turn it off. He always saw the truth, what some pony really felt about him. Sometimes it was pleasant, or tasty. But just as often it was bitter jealousy, or anger, or disdain. Ponies seemed so secure in the belief that they could hide their contempt for each other. They put on a smile and wore a mask of friendship like their ruler, or rather now, rulers. Underneath were selfish creatures who shunned those who did not fit into their own personal harmony.
Changelings had no choice. Emotion cannot be hidden from them. It was why most changelings chose to bury their personal feelings deep and focus on the good of the swarm. Brand had dedicated himself to feeding his broodmates and ensuring the safety and success of his lady. Their race could not sustain itself, so they sought others, regardless of outward appearance. In return, the changelings had to change their appearance, adapt to suit the desires of their nourishers. What creature would love the hole-ridden, fanged shapeshifters as they were?
He arrived at a cafe and sat himself at one of the outdoor tables, setting down his saddlebags to his left and placing a carved flower her had purchased from the carpenter next to his lemonade. His signal to her ladyship, a mahogany lily.
A grey unicorn swiftly made her way through the evening street traffic to the table and sat across from him. She radiated anticipation, nervousness, and… The flavor was not particularly familiar, but it was one ponies often felt that changelings did not. Guilt?
“Evening, milady. I bring your sisters’ greetings,” he stated formally, his earlier cheery tone and disposition shed like a well-worn cloak. It was almost eerie in the upbeat stallion’s voice. The mare frowned slightly at this, but her emotions had smoothed over. “I was instructed to say you should update your chess board. The pawns are moving forward, and black queen has white king in check. She trusts her bishop will screen the white knights.” She nodded simply as a waiter brought her a glass of water, which she quickly downed.
“Something troubles you, milday. Complications with your mission?” he inquired. She shook her head.
“No, I’m right where I’m supposed to be. They two we were told about… Alate was right about them being special.” Her word choice was interesting, given the cocktail of emotions she was trying, but failing, to hide. “You can send word back that the unicorn’s abilities far exceed our predictions, and the pegasus is as skilled as reported. But they’ve been blocked from joining the wardens,” she finished as she pushed a scroll across the table to him. Strange. The ponies never seemed to understand the logical use of their assets. He stowed the scroll amongst his belongings.
“Milady… I know that you have always, forgive me, struggled with detachment. But these are our adversaries. They would starve our brothers and sisters should we not deceive them.” He placed a reassuring hoof on hers. “It is necessity. It is for survival. Remember that, and the burden will not be so great.” She nodded uncertainly to his reassurances. He stood to leave. “If… Once the queen has secured her prize, and we have sufficient thralls from which to feed, you can return to our lands and be free of these two-faced ponies. I wish you well, milady, but I must take my leave and deliver my report.”
With that, he dropped the bits for their drinks on the table and stepped out into the street. Taking wing, he flew for a time towards central Equestria before banking away and flying down into the valleys where he would not be seen.
Green fire flashed around him and soft violet gave way to glossy black, whispering feathers to buzzing gossamer. His curved horn once again presented itself on his head, and fangs curved down from his dark muzzle. He looked down into a nearby pool of water, to ensure his armor was still there after dispelling his transformation.
He stared at his reflection for some time, noting all of his features and all that made him what he was. He was loyal, to the swarm and to his lady. He was, by the standards of his race, empathetic and kind. He was not some simple, cruel manipulator, and rather an agent for the good of his people.
But with looks like his, what creature in its right mind could love the true him?
His journey back to the badlands was uneventful. He flew over the black iron gates into the Scarabus estate, levitating the scroll he had received in Edgewood out of his saddlebags and leaving the bags with the servant clades, who made themselves scarce. He proceeded to the audience chamber and knelt before the female occupying one of a trio of high-back, wooden chairs. Not thrones; that would challenge the preeminence of her majesty, Queen Chrysalis, and put the house at risk of judgement by the temperamental monarch. Just regal chairs fit for nobility.
She was taller than her underlings, but not so tall as the queen. She was, for a changeling, elegant and shapely, and her long, smooth horn ended in a sharp, curved tip and had aggressive, twisting ridges, much like a drill. Each female of the noble caste had a distinct horn, and it was believed to be associated with their psyche on a fundamental level, a manifestation through the physical and magical of their true nature. Her eyes we similar to the queen, but were an icy turquoise, cool and calculating.
“Milady Ambrosia, I bring my report from your sister.” He moved the scroll up to her and unrolled it for her without rising. He waited, feeling the almost imperceptible ripples in her emotions. She hid hers better than any Brand had encountered in his life. It was unnerving to most. It simply irritated him.
“And what did my dear little sister have to say?” her voice hummed out to him, wings sussurating behind her as she slowly shifted in her seat, hole-ridden forelegs crossing and uncrossing.
“The same as was in her report, milady. She is still in place and carrying out her mission,” he replied truthfully. He knew, however, he was omitting word choice for a reason. If he uttered her sister’s words aloud, Ambrosia would sense his concern for her sister’s state of mind. Not because he believed she was right or wrong, but because the elder sisters would be most harsh with disabusing any such notions. He knew her eyes would be scrutinizing him in a way no feeble pony, zebra, or griffon could.
“I have my doubts about some of that, but no matter. The queen will be enacting her plan soon and we’ll be in place to benefit, one way or another. Join your broodmates working along the border near the farm town. We enact stage two now.”
“As you wish.” He turned and made his way out of the the audience chamber, but before the doors closed, he could hear her reflecting in a soothing, humming voice, and a glance behind revealed her standing over her chessboard, a bishop within her telekinetic grasp.
“Ponies are such simple creatures, ever so easy to manipulate as we please. One day, little sister, you will learn.
“Some food is simply made to be played with.”
