In the Court of Marmor

Chapters

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Chapter 1

I am a drifting judge, a pondering parable, a loyal leech, a vagrant vagabond, and above all, a perverted pariah; unruly and unguided, but venerable and verbose, somewhere between the cultivated and the brazen, I have never been the one to decide. Despite this, I am still only a mere reflection, an archetype molded by a vapid city and thrown amongst its meandering, glittering rabble.

I am rich, rich enough to never work a day of my life, but poorer than the aristocrat. My treatment had always been conditional, but in recent years it’s been made clear. I know not my origins, my inheritance, only my place, and what an awful place it is.

My name is Shooting Star. I was once intelligent, dutiful, and agreeable. Adulthood brings its slew of problems though. I never had one I could to look up to. My placement prevents me to look down upon others, at least without it looking improper. Few fools have admired me, none have been an underling—admittedly I dream of it though.

I am 24. I carry a very light grey coat, almost white; a blue mane, pale blue eyes. I comb my hair back, which makes it appear slicker and smooth. The end of my tail has multiple spikes of hair jutting out making it impossible to comb, quite an embarrassment. I commonly have an upper wear, usually a silk collar around my neck, and usually green or purple to better accentuate my features, it works quite well. My cutie mark is of the Orion constellation, causing my name to have been mistaken as Orion by a few; it was obtained simply by looking up to the constellation one night.

What to do, a pony, desire greater than the stars, but having no definite dream? What can I possibly do in this high-walled, marbled, royally veiled, decrepit structure, lying deep within the heart of this equine land, yet so divergent from its nature? Staying in its stylized appearance or walking in its shadow can only kill me in time. Truthfully, I stay in gray, walking in the sun when something strikes me, going under its dark shadow when my grandiose dreams are cooled.

Allow me to elaborate on a focal point of my life. Females, mares, are quite abundant in this land, each with their own delicate features, none truly sexually unappealing.

The lower I go, the sweeter are the mares, the filthier are the whores; at the higher class all are practically the same, tramps, but only in a traditional sense, clean, precise, and even kind, but lacking faithfulness when it comes to the premise of status and power. With the lower, as I said, there is innocence, peasants mostly, and the prostitute living off kettles of seed. This had worried me as the two did not appease me. The peasant is lame and simple and the whore is simply insipid. Perhaps I would have found moderation if I move to the big city, but frankly, I wasn’t interested in moderation.

It was sometime in early June. It was quiet, boring. A set of circumstances happened that temporarily broke my tedium. Oh what wonderful, deplorable circumstances.

I had woken up early that morning. Upon realizing the day I quickly cleaned and dressed myself.

I was walking on a lane coming east of Canterlot. My signature collar was green, my mood a kind of drab interest in contingency. I had chosen to reserve myself at home the last week, but upcoming activities proved too tempting against staying inside under the pretense of garnering some wisdom in isolation. I felt a certain kind of buoyancy that made me walk with stride, and a certain confidence that caused me to nearly close my eyelids and jut my snout in the sky like an average silk stocking.

I have but a few acquaintances in Canterlot, or anywhere, so my spirit was lifted greater at the sight of one. A recognizable stallion was standing at the end of the lane, some forty steps away. He nodded his head in acknowledgment of me, carrying a small smirk.

This was Arpeggio, who had decided to ridiculously dress in plaid that day. He was a laid back and musical pony and considerably the oldest one I was acquainted with. He had a simple grey complexion with black hair, yet had rich and vivid purple eyes. His cutie mark was a pair of reversed joined quavers. His occupation was originally a judge for the gifted, but he had settled with a hefty inheritance from his father, who had also passed on the family vineyard to him. I drank his brand of wine often, the ‘common brand’ I called it.

In the group that I am associated with, I have always found him to be the most approachable, yet I had held a hidden animosity for his passive acceptance; he cared little of garnering his influence, and appeared satisfied with his role. It was a well-off role, but a hierarchical negligent one, and his contentedness always eluded me. He went to as many gatherings as he could, not for influence, but for the festivities.

He commonly carried a broken gold watch that was his fathers; he would look at it and pretend to tell the time if someone asked, usually basing it off of the suns position or gut feeling. He once said it was common of his father to check the watch in the fashion and movement he did, his sentimentality saddened me in the slightest. Beyond this, some memento of his old job would be carried too, at that time he never explained why. He claimed he was glad of his retirement from the gifted school, that he never wanted to do it in the first place, glad of his continuous income which allowed him to play music for his self and without the distractions of fame and money, but the things he carried sometimes made me think he felt some kind of fondness for his school job.

Everyone I knew liked him, even me. He was a trusting pony.

“Fair morning,” I commenced to him.

“Indeed, indeed.”

“Were you waiting?”

“No, a happy coincidence.”

He joined my walk. The two of us now went west.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

“I feel quite refreshed this morning actually. And you?”

“Oh fine, Star, just fine.”

Whether out of his speech or his presence, a warming assurance came to me. I welcomed this comfort at first, and was ready to enter the inebriated world of cordial conversation, but I soon felt uneasy about this comfort, and I tried to force myself back to the lively independence I felt before.

“So, do you know what happens today?” he said after a minutes pause.

“I do.”

“Hah! Yes I should think so, the Regalia Ceremony, in three hours is it?”

“Five hours I believe.”

“Five? Goodness, I still can’t remember.”

The walk continued in silence for a few minutes more. We exited the housing area and began into the core of the city, where the morning sunlight beamed from every structure and the culture thick was enough to chew. A clattering and grating was heard in all directions and the ground faintly vibrated.

“An advantage to the early morning,” said Arpeggio, “is the ability to get a cab. I’m heading center now, are you coming too?”

“For what purpose?”

“An early start.”

“Fine, do your business.”

“I’ll meet you at the shop,” he said climbing into a cab.

As quick as I was in company I was alone again, and felt somewhat deflated, but some sense of my individual coolness returned.

I took a few steps south before stopping at a bridge. Thick stone pots stood aside this bridge, I sat on one. I patted a book inside my collar and decided I would sit for a while, watching the crowds of ponies slowly increase and the chatter grow louder. I hadn’t an idea what to do from then so I remained sitting and floating from thought to thought and when I found my mind vacant I began watching each pony pass by. I looked at them from front to back and averted my gaze if they turned to me. I absorbed their colors, made note of what aesthetics I liked. In this part of the city the commoners were scattered with the rich, and beyond this ordinary array of gentlecolts and serfs I saw a few guards and a single griffon. When I became stiff I got up, only to sit down again a minute later—I repeated this every minute which began to draw curious and unwanted eyes. I glared back at a few ponies but remained mostly looking at the ground or to the sky. This process of sitting, staring, and standing seemed to zap me of any fervor I held earlier, and to stave off the growing feeling of dullness I tried reciting lines of verse, sometimes (accidently) out loud. This drew more unwanted attention and soon I became frustrated enough that I stood up with a heavy stomp of the front-hooves, clicking the ground, and ready to get a cab of my own, only to be stopped by the sight of another familiar pony coming my way.

“Star good sir, how you have been?” said a white colt hastily approaching me. I saw this colt was Black Marble, the youngest I knew of my group. His name is the slightest bit deceiving. Nothing on him truly black, his hair may appear so at first, but it is actually a very dark grey. His eyes were the same as mine, a sky blue. His accent always carried some kind of minor twang, somewhere from the north, not too north, a Vanhoover accent let’s call it. He wore a collar as well that day, I was thankful to see it was not the same color as mine.

I was detached from this stallion, and he from me. I knew little of his personal life beyond the fact that he was a banker and that he would disappear sometimes for this business. He loved walking, only on cool days though, and on occasion we would walk together discussing our concerns and sometimes we would even reach mutual ground. Still, I sensed disdain from him at times, I didn’t know why; I had no dislike for him, not any liking either. Most of the time he was the liveliest pony around, now was one of those times.

“Still the same pretentious patrician?” he said, extending a hoof.

“Fine, just fine,” I replied, swiftly avoiding any contact. His loud way of initiating made me scowl in the other direction. I started walking and he followed.

“Any plans?” he said.

“I’ve been waiting and wondering for something to do until… I’m sure you know.”

“Indeed, yes, I saw you fidgeting quite awkwardly at the bridge; you looked like Moon for a second, and yes, I know of the ceremony—don’t believe I’ll go.”

“Fine,” I replied. He waited for me to say something else; I said nothing, and neither did he. We continued walking, I led. Initially I had nowhere to go in mind, so I started walking towards the main palace, the largest stricture around. We went through a narrow passage of soft dirt road, clearly not designated for any kind of carriage, and then found ourselves in a grassy yard, to the left of the palace. An ornate white fountain stood near its center and exotic plants and statues were lined in sublime symmetry across the yard. Marble stopped here and quickly moved his head around as if admiring the palace.

“Are you quite alright?” I said.

“What? Oh yes, some wench behind us. I don’t wish to talk to the mare.”

“Then keep moving.”

“I can’t, there’s something I wanted to do—this fountain,” he said moving towards it. He quickly pulled out a handkerchief from his collar and dabbed it in the fountain water, then put it to his lips and lightly suckled on it. After this he stood staring straight at the palace for a few seconds more.

“Hm, perhaps she doesn’t notice.”

“Marble!” said a mare behind us. Black Marble cleared his throat.

“Royal Ribbon,” he said, “how nice to see you.”

I turned around and saw this mare was of an average frame, a unicorn, and carried a cerise coat with streaks of cobalt and lighter blue hair. Her eyes were grayish indigo, unusually large and had an almost piercing quality to them. What she wore indicated she knew how to emphasize her features very well—a purple ribbon in her mane and a purple and gold saddle on her back. Matching the saddles colors was a shining oval jewel that hung from her neck. She stood stiff and formal and radiated Canterlot’s prominence and entitlement. I felt half my mouth formed a smile and the need to bow to her and all her plushness. Yet I restrained myself, and even seemed successful in numbing myself to her, and bordering my feelings on disdain.

“It is a very… pristine day, isn’t it?” Her voice faltered in the sentence and oddly it looked she was trying to hold back a giggle.

“Don’t worry Ribbon, I know him.”

The mare let out a slight laugh.

“Well thank goodness. I was hesitant about approaching you because of him,” she said nodding to me.

“Don’t worry yourself with him—tell me, how is my breath?”

The two trotted up to one another; Royal Ribbon placed her snout near Marble’s mouth.

“Minty,” she said.

“Just like it’s supposed to.”

“Well then, who is this?” She nodded to me again.

“Shooting Star. He has no occupation. Star, be courteous please.”

“It is nice to meet you.” I said.

She laughed again.

“He’s a little handsome. I think he looks familiar.”

“Yes, he does look common. What do you do today?”

“Just admiring the city. The news sills are just lovely.”

“Indeed, of course. Now Star here, you can see, is not one to talk much. Say something Star, will you?”

“…Well, today I have plans—”

“Certainly a nice young colt. Now come, Marble, don’t we have something to do?”

“Oh I hadn’t forgotten.”

Marble looked sternly at me for a second.

“Marble and I had… plans of our own.” I said.

“Oh they can wait,” said Royal Ribbon, “come, you know it’s important.”

The mare began walking away and, hesitating for a second, Marble followed.

I looked at the fountain, then the palace, then moved on. I concluded the spring from earlier was completely gone and would not come back, and for some reason I felt embittered, not by that, but by the departure of Marble, by the mare.

When I had done a circle around the palace twice, I decided enough time had passed I made my way to the café, a common place of gathering with my group. Along the way, and to my surprise, I came across Marble again. He attempted another loud introduction, I made no response. I was not attuned to the streets now, rather with a vague idea of the future. I was enamored with some hope of success at the ceremony and I made plenty of ideas on how to accomplish this, none I planned on following through with. It was when something was coming up to the side of us that these thoughts broke.

A dark pony, a peculiar trot pattern discernible by its double hind-leg step every eight cycles; this was Dark Moon.

His ocean eyes, well fit tux, groomed shiny black fur, sleek gray hair and noticeable but not overpowering scent of cologne gave him a suave aura—a regular aristocrat for sure. His job was the personal assistant of a demanding prince for four days of the week. His stance and jaunt were composed, critically compulsive at times, but still came across as lively, or in other words, the perfect noble walk.

If there was anything to set him apart, it was his slow neck. He had a tendency to answer you quickly but turn his head in a very slowly, almost grieving manner if you were not directly in front of him for his response. He did this so often I began to wonder if it was a problem. But still, it was nothing to his flicking ear—so paranoid did it look when it twitched, many who had taken long notice of it avoided him. Its twitching was not random though, whenever the number nine or nineteen were brought up, or when the wind blew a wrong direction, did the thing flip in irritancy.

‘My number lies in eight and eleven,’ he would say, ‘ten is sufficient but uncomfortably related to nine.’ I still have not a damn idea what he means.

“Fair morning,” I said.

“Truly,” he responded.

A simple dialogue, all of us were silent the rest of the way. A few hundred feet away was the cafe; we all knew we were going there.

A compatible pony Moon was. Typically, he would not talk unless spoken to, at least not at first. Most of what he said remained interesting and important to the topic at hoof. His servant training had done him well. This is not to say he is walkover. A sense of accomplishment and independence radiated from him more than almost anypony I knew. It was something of a solemn charm, lady’s loved it. One could not help but feel a certain degree of inferiority in his presence; he was the most accomplished pony I personally knew.

“Getting some coffee?” said Moon.

“Of course.”

When I reached our little shop I saw two stallions, one was Arpeggio, leaning backwards in a chair and promptly sitting straight upon seeing us, another to my right. I greeted them with a “fair morning”.

“Indeed again,” replied Arpeggio. “Hmph,” replied the one to the right.

“Are you two heading to the ceremony?” said Marble.

“I am,” said Moon.

“As am I,” said I.

“Splendid, I’m going there myself,” said Arpeggio.

“What is the point of going to the ceremony?” said the stallion to the right of me. We all shot a glance at him.

This was Ponet. He possessed a singular blend of a gold mane and green eyes. He usually walked leisurely but talked powerful. He would typically keep his sentences short and his face as stern as a situation would allow it to be. His job was to deliver letters to and from the most prestigious ponies around Canterlot and occasionally outside. Red veins would sometimes punctuate his harlequin eyes when he became particularly focused on something, his composure stern and his ears pulled back. He could be a brooding one.

When asked why most trusted him with the job of illustrious letter delivery he would claim it was a long story about being bound in blood and dabbling too deep in eccentric fraternities, he’d talk no more of it. He was treated as dirt by many nobles, a fool with a fouls job. He held his contempt inside and would release it on occasion, now was not one of those occasions, merely a bout of petulance.

“Is it not,” I said, “the perfect place to meet with the elite and popular of Canterlot?”

I have tried, sometimes against my own convictions, to elevate myself, nothing ever comes of it. This dialogue of mine only confirmed my true intentions to be of the same nature. A small shame welled inside me, a... disappointment. It left quickly.

“A useless ceremony,” he said. “You can do that anytime at the forum. No royalty is going to appear, no extraordinary event is taking place, no—”

“Ponet, please,” said Moon, “I don’t know what oaf berated you today, but your aggression here will do no good. You won’t be left alone, I don’t believe Marble is going, the two of you can bugger off in the meantime.”

“I suppose it’s time,” I said as I began a slow trot in the same direction as before. Arpeggio and Moon soon followed suit.

It was a temperate day. Our walk felt natural and our steps were in clean rhythm. There was a certain tranquil feeling to walking through Canterlot’s streets. As awful as its inhabitants and culture was, its construction was sublime, from its unique brand of magical architect, to its polished white pavements.

At times, walks could be very stimulating for me, even in the presence of others. Whether it had something to do with the atmosphere or it was simply of my nature, I gained a mass more of insight from these walks than any other activity and typically if I were troubled with something I would venture on one.

I saw a crowd of common pony gathered in the distance. As we neared it was evident it had nothing to do with the ceremony. A scuffle, a street-show, it mattered little. Arpeggio stayed behind and jeered it on, throwing cash over heads. We looked at him strangely but continued on. He caught up shortly later.

We were silent the whole way until we entered the square, the center of Canterlot. The square was half full, a few commoners and nobles scattered about. Arpeggio and I both flipped our watches for the time, 12:47 o’ clock noon it appeared. Our watches were only a minute apart.

“Twelve minutes,” noted Arpeggio.

Time passed with nothing eventful happening. The only one to be talked to was Moon, and soon he left us for the company of some gray stallion. Being alone with Arpeggio, I tried striking up a conversation. First it had something to do with the ceremony; then the later days plan. In the middle of a sentence of mine the magistrate called for the ceremony to begin.

The magistrate always arrived exactly at 12:00, never less and never more. His call started the ceremony; there was no set time to when it ended. Those first to greet him were always of the utmost importance, and of whom he had the highest respect. I attempted making my way into the horde of ponies already gathered round him, my attempt successful only in being flung amid the mass and spit out.

Cursing and straightening my collar, I approached the nearest bench; it happened to be horridly rigid, but walking any further would appear course. I sat down and waited for nothing, after a few minutes I pulled out a notebook and began to analyze what was in front of me. The contents and purpose of this book I shall not discuss, only know that it is important to my job. After a short time, Arpeggio came prancing to my left carrying a short stocking. He claimed he had gotten it off the hoof of a mare in that festering crowd, ‘a lovely young model’ he put it. To the left now approached Moon, radiating with thinly veiled glee.

“Did you?” Asked Arpeggio.

“Fifteenth in line,” he replied.

“Impressive.”

“There is nothing impressive,” I said getting up from the rigid seat, “about touching the hoof of an old, indolent boar.”

“No need for that,” said Moon, “he was a very dapper stallion.”

“A mere glance could not tell you his temperament,” said I.

“What do I care for his temperament?”

“I personally do not care,” interjected Arpeggio, “for shaking the magistrates hoof, for I have personally shaken the hoof of a king before.”

“Yes, we’ve heard about it five-score times this week,” said Moon.

“None the more productive or interesting are your arguments,” said Arpeggio.

“Star,” he said, still in the process of shifting his head back to me, “I mean to stir nothing negative in you; you are a friend and an honored one.”

I snorted and gave no reply. He let rest anything else he was about to say, and I had the feeling I had offended him.

“I have yet to eat, shall we try out their meal?” said Arpeggio.

The three of us walked to the tables specially lined up and filled with the typical, and superbly decorated ceremonial cuisine. I found I had a loss of appetite and apparently so did Moon. We left Arpeggio to his indulgence, and walked away together, uncomfortable and still silent. To divert my attention from the nauseating air between us, I began to take notice of the detail of the streets and buildings. The cracks and roots that once grew on the old marble towers were now gone, the ground itself coated in a new, fresh layer of wax, and the buildings oddly re-placed in perfect symmetry. It seemed strenuous work, even for unicorns. It was barely noticeable, but I had always kept an eye on the surroundings, as I walked through there practically every day. When I thought further, I remembered the city-palace always looked cleaner at intervals of the year, never for the regalia ceremony though.

A lively lieutenant from the guard approached and greeted Moon warmly. The lieutenant invited him to a meal with some other eminent guards, which Moon accepted. Before he buggered off, he turned to me with a sorrowful expression.

“I noticed you looking at the architecture,” he said, “do not think it was changed so well for this ceremony. The summer sun celebration is coming up; I hope you have better plans for then.”

After this, Moon followed suit with the lieutenant and I was left alone. It was a relief until I realized just how embarrassing it appeared to be among a crowd of such social and astute ponies and to be alone, stern and bitter. I decided I was going to go back to the rigid bench to make myself look at work again, only a little ways there a gray pony bumped into me, seeing who it was, I figured it was on purpose.

“Unattended I see, Orion?”

“Jet and… Crust, nice to see you.” I said. “My name is not Orion. Enjoying the day?”

“Yes, and do you know the proper way of addressing a superior and his spouse? You see…”

What followed was typical monotonous oral diarrhea from the face of a prevaricator. If anyone could give me the compulsion crush to ones windpipe with earthen strength, it was the jabbering, anterior orifice Jet Set and his stiff neck, cum slugging (but admittedly cute) wife Upper Crust. The two had made stake with inheritance only, a huge sum; both children of court ministers. I thought little of them. They had taken to singling me out on occasion, at least twice a year, I suppose I should have been honored in a sense.

Frankly, I believed Upper Crust would be scant without her husband; she was too distressed outside her natural environment, never having experienced simple delicacies. I recall her once trying to flirt with me, I believed she was drunk but I played along, her demeanor quickly changed when her husband came back. I didn’t know how to feel about it then, I still don’t.

“I do hope dearly, Star, that you have properly incorporated our customs thus far,” continued Jet. “You’re still young, so please don’t get ahead of your linguistic privileges.”
I straightened my back as I usually do when I feel self-assured and was about to make a snide comment when I was relieved by the sight of Ponet, approaching me hastily. I assume Jet simply left shortly thereafter.

“Well, Ponet, I bid you welcome to the ‘useless ceremony’,” I said.

“Hold it, I am only here to deliver a message,” he said, “my job.”

He levitated the letter to me; it appeared a regular piece of white parchment, not sealed, merely folded thrice. This unorthodox way of sending a letter implied a sense of urgency. I swiped it and opened it, the writing was unfamiliar.

'The Magistrate wishes to see you in the library east of here.'

It was around 1:00, I arrived quickest as I could.

The library was a gigantic ivory and gold tower, dawning oval windows, an outdoor spiral staircase, and its own assortment of vegetation crawling up at the bottom. It somewhat resembled the architecture of Saddle Arabia, though it lacked its spiritual and arid sense, instead fitting right into Canterlot’s beau monde scenery. A white stairway, decorated with flower pots and sheen landings led up to the library doors. It was placed atop a recently refurbished lawn, which had its own ornamental gardens of Persian pink roses and cream daffodils.

I may have marveled at this newfound structure had I not been painfully occupied with what in all hell the magistrate wanted me for. Though I sometimes played the idea, I had never fancied myself ‘esteemed’ enough for someone of his social caliber. I may have felt good about this opportunity had he not been a titan of the law. There were three floors to the tower, only the top two had doors. I entered the second one, which, strangely, was not superfluously decorated.

After entering I looked around the room; everything appeared tall, the bookshelves, the windows, the tables, even the old pony in front of me.

I approached this old pony, as I neared I realized I was at a lower elevation, a gradual incline led me at level with the pony, who I could now see was a bare-dressed stallion. His amber eyes had an unsettling effect to the rest of his azure complexion, they stared acutely at me; I tried to avoid looking into them by diverting my head to the bookshelves, which still appeared tall.

“Nice to see you, Star,” said the magistrate. “Please, make yourself comfortable, it is a public library after all.”

“I have never seen nor heard of it,” I said sitting down across from him, my gaze still avoiding his.

“Oh it’s quite popular with the commoners.”

“I am... no commoner,” I said, now focusing on the table. I feared I was looking dull. I began imagining one of the books were in front of me, maybe then my attention would have looked more wisely set.

“Of course not,” he said, “you have a reputation among them though.”

“Excuse me Dear Magistrate, but… may I ask my business here?”

“Yes, yes, your business,” he said laying a hoof on the table, “and please, call me Night Light.”

It was now I looked into his gaze. I kept my attention there the best I could. His manner was not particularly intimidating or aggressive, but his owlish eyes did enough.

“It is very nice to meet you Night Light.”

His composure stiffened and quickly became formal. His eyes seemed to glow brighter, bigger.

“Now as a Magistrate I am assigned with matters of law, correct?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Now as you may not know, within the city of Canterlot I can exempt certain ponies from certain laws.”

“I did not know that.”

“And I have exempted a certain pony of noble status from certain laws, Dark Moon, a friend of yours, correct?”

“Yes.”

“He has spoken highly of you and your ‘job’. But in honesty, I believe a part of his appraisal of you to me is out of pity, he expects me to give you a cordial position in the Equestrian judiciary.”

I knew little to nothing of law. I did not know what Moon was trying to do.

“But,” he continued, “I know of your limited knowledge of law, the job he has recommended you for, and the task’s I have been considering for you, is of better suiting to your current ‘job’.”

I became stern at this.

“You see, we judiciaries have needs, needs that everypony has. Lately, I and a few other associates in my institution have come to the decision that once a month-”

SMASH!

The sentence was cut by a series of loud bangs that reverberated throughout the room. I and Night Light looked to the right corner where the sound came from. There, a mare I hadn’t noticed before stood startled. I could not discern much, her coat was a pale purple, her hair dark and she appeared of young age. After a second of staring blankly at the pile of fallen books in front of her, she looked to us and nervously grinned.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said, “I–let me pick this up.”

“Actually, Twi, dear, I’d prefer that you leave us for now,” said Night Light.

I saw the mare turn to the stairway. “Again, sorry, really sorry,” she said as she trotted with nimble movements. Her voice was cute. I saw as she walked, on her ample thighs, her cutie mark, something pink resembling a six pointed star. When she was upstairs, I squinted, not to look at anything particular, rather to compress my thoughts into coherency regarding the preceding moment. Oddly, I felt some of these thoughts fall to my throat.

“Please excuse my daughter,” said Night Light, “she usually has a little dragon help her with book placing.”

I brought my attention back to him. “A little dragon?” I said.

“Yes, a baby dragon, one she hatched.”

I briefly put thought into this, having never seen or even heard of a dragon in Canterlot. I was still in the process of clearing my mind of the purple mare. I felt difficulty, strain when I tried to sort my thoughts and attention between the lawpony in front of me and the absent librarian.

“As I was saying,” he went on, “I and a few other associates have decided that once a month we will gather at a pre-determined place, be it a tavern, hotel, or even an alley. There, we shall have a number of properly selected mares, ready and ripe from the streets. You hear me? Ready and ripe from the streets—not the brothel or the cream, the streets. I don’t want trash—just the genuine common mare.”

Oddly, none of this was coming as a surprise to me.

“Dark Moon has told me you are adept and keen at catching tastes. You have a taste for wine don’t you?”

“Yes,” I answered, trying to keep steady despite the jump of context.

“Tell me, where has more of your profit come, your inheritance or your current job?”

I answered I did not know.

“Hmm, what about your banker friend, Black Marble is it? Ask him. Anyways, you understand what I ask of you, do you accept?”

I accepted without hesitation.

“Great, I’ll confirm one more time of your suitability with Dark Moon. That is all Shooting Star. Thank you for your time. My requirements will most likely be sent to you tomorrow evening.”

After this, he got up, then I got up, and we shook hooves over the table. In tradition, the more prestigious pony shook with his hoof above mine. He turned to leave and so did I until a lurching thought came back to me. It was her, she lingered as she was walking away. The fragment that was her did not fleet, it remained. I expelled it. It came back. I turned around again to ask him but hesitated. Seeing him depart from me gave me the realization that the longer I waited the more awkward the question would become. I cleared my throat and leaned forward in preparation.

“Sir Magistrate,” I said, “may I please ask you a question?”

He turned and looked at me with one glowing amber eye. “Yes?” he said.

“What is… the name of your daughter?” The question, as I feared, came out awkward, more so than anything I said in the discourse before.

The magistrate smirked and turned his whole self to me.

“Twilight Sparkle,” he said cleanly before turning his self around again and going towards the stairs. After a step up, he turned to me with one enlarged owl oculus again.

“I should keep a better eye on you.”

To put it simple, the stallion unnerved me.

Chapter 2

The regalia ceremony was nearly cleared out by the time I got back. I would’ve been disappointed, but my thoughts were much more occupied with what had just transpired. I was still unsure of my feelings towards it. It already sounded strenuous, the work I had done before, years with my notebooks, I had done out of my own impulse. The prize had always been for me and a few of my other five acquaintances.

I did not know when Night Light or his associates would meet, I did not know the number of his associates, so I could not gauge how much work I would have to do. I figured that all would be told to me in the ‘requirements’ that were to be sent tomorrow. If I had not conceptualized that they were all of a highly tasteful and picky kind I would have gotten to work right then, picking fair mares at random, maybe even having time to jostle with one of my own.

I thought also of the value of the opportunity, the possible power and prestige that may come with its completion. Of course, this was denying the disgracefulness of the practice, but plenty already knew of it. As I have said before, it was already a source of much shame on me.

After what seemed an hour of these thoughts I found a grey and black stallion, Arpeggio, alone by the coffee shop and with a toothpick on his ear. He sat restful, looking about at Canterlot with his usual unaffectedness, and then perking his ears up and straightening his self upon taking notice of me.

“Quick ceremony,” said I.

“Indeed,” said he. “Where had you gone?”

I told him of Ponet’s letter, the magistrate, the library and the given task. He listened with mild interest and afterwards asked me how much time and effort this was going to put on me. I told him I had yet to know any specifics of the deal, and that a letter would be sent to me sometime tomorrow evening. I asked him of Dark Moon’s or anyone else’s whereabouts, he did not know.

Feeling hungry, I ordered a meal and took a seat across Arpeggio. I looked at him and he looked at me for a short time, as if expecting me to say something. He leaned back into his wooden chair and faced the passing marble streets again while giving a short sigh from his nostrils. I stared at him still, feeling an urge to tell him of some unmarked feeling, a trouble, a desire. It was unfamiliar, sloshing around my heart and pushing for release. Thinking for a few seconds I quickly figured its source. His eyes, neutral as they appeared, gave off knowledge, oldness, they were brazen but temperate, and I felt trust.

My meal arrived a minute later and I attempted my inquiry.

“There was a girl there too,” I said beginning to eat, “a little under my age I believe, a purple mare.”

“Twilight Sparkle?” he said.

“You know of her?”

“I see her every time I visit the library, she lives there.”

“She does?”

“Why, haven’t you ever visited the library?”

“No.”

He snorted. I pressed him for more information regarding the mare.

“Well what do you want to know?”

“Her occupation,” I said, “surely she can’t only work shuffling books.”

“Definitely not, she’s a personal student of Celestia’s. In fact” he said leaning forward, “I was a judge for her initiation into the gifted school.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. She was quite the show too.”

“Do tell.”

“Heh, I’ll never forget it. I and a few other examiners were standing around, all very grim; the students weren't the only ones under pressure. Sometime in the late morning, when tests were almost done, came out a little purple filly, a cute one, yes very cute. A dragon egg was wheeled out and she knew what she had to do. We waited, and waited. We were unimpressed. Finally she was able to pull it off, but it took her quite a while, I personally was going to mark her down. I don’t know what happened next, but a blast, huge, white, purple, it all happened quickly—there were flashes of lighting—next thing I knew I was being lifted into the air—her parents turned into cactus's and a giant dragon appeared. I was dropped a few seconds later. It was a divine spark I tell you, because the sun herself came in shortly thereafter. Ah I’ll never forget it! The examiners and I, it was then we were impressed, in fact I think I could still get in touch with a few—”

“That’s spectacular!” I said. “A stupendous magic user then.”

“Yes, yes, indeed. Coincidentally, I have something of hers with me right now,” he said as he reached into his plaid shirt, “an old picture book.”

“And how do you possess such a thing?” I said, looking at him quizzically.

“You’ve seen me carrying some… odd objects before, right? Maybe a stone, a paper craft, a feather.”

I nodded.

“Well I… keep certain objects from some of the students… to remember them by. Some of them were very nice foals, Twilight was no exception. When she left the school, she left behind this picture book; I remember her telling me it was her favorite book, that her parents read it with her in her earliest thoughts. I’ve been meaning to give it to her or her parents but… I’m not close.”

We sat quiet a few seconds as I pondered on having finally figured out this anomaly of his. Seeing he expected me to continue conversation, I thought of asking him more about it, but I felt it improper, so I shifted the subject.

“So still a personal student of Celestia’s?”

“Yes, yes, always reading, practicing spells for her.”

“Have you talked with her at the library?”

“No, no, she’s far too shy. I’ve talked with her mother before though.”

His tendency to repeat the first word in a sentence was beginning to show.

“Her mother?”

“Yes, yes, a scholar of mathematics, a lovely lady.”

“A not so lovely wife perhaps.”

“Or maybe the magistrate really is an old, indolent boar.”

We continued to sit for a few minutes. Arpeggio began to pick his teeth with the toothpick from his ear. I thought I made a good choice talking to him.

“You seem interested in this mare,” he said abruptly.

"Yes... perhaps that is the right word. Such things though... are unlikely."

“Consider for a moment, Star—I know your personality quite well—that I was once just like you, and have had plenty of the circumstances and feelings you had. I know you're a desperate pony, Star, you have been quite desperate your whole life, and this mare isn't something good for you, certainly not. Here," he said handing me the picture book, "take it; tell her you found it with her name in it. Give it to her at the right time. It may or may not give you a romantic advantage, but it should incite a smile, and I know how great and complete inciting a smile from a longing can be.”

I took the book and shortly after Arpeggio excused himself. I watched him walk back into the white streets and saunter past the nobles and commoners until he was out of sight. I didn't know whether to feel grateful or irritated about him, he had already assumed quite a bit about me and what I might feel. His attempt to get me to feel related in some sense failed, I have never felt kindred to him.

I soon forgot about him and decided to flip through a few pages of the librarians’ old book. It had crudely drawn flowers and stick figures on the inside, everything had a smile, even the sun; clearly a book meant for children. I thought back to the magistrate, then the mare again, then the deal. “It wouldn’t be wise,” I said. Regardless, I levitated the book and placed it inside the back of my collar, intending to use it sometime.

I sat idle in my chair, perhaps intending to wait for the night. Eventually I got up and as I was leaving another familiar figure came to view, a white colt, black hair, jocund walk.

“Star, good sir, how was the ceremony?” said Black Marble.

“Short,” I replied. “I had to go visit the magistrate.”

“The magistrate? I do hope you’re not in trouble.”

“I was not.”

We began walking together.

“Then what in Sun’s name was it?”

“It was about my job.”

“Ah, so you were in trouble.”

“No.”

“Then what about it?”

“He wishes for me to use my skills on him and his associates.”

“The magistrate does?”

“Yes.”

After this short and vague disclosure we walked aimlessly without a word for a good half hour. At one point he took a turn, I intended to leave him then but my body would not let me. He and I remained with an air of detachment, it was clear from appearance we both could do without each other. Yet our walk continued, and upon reaching the economic zone, he burst into talk.

“How is it at times,” he said as we neared his place of work, “you can talk for hours on some trivial nonsense, but when I talk you say next to nothing?”

I was taken back a bit, and after a brief irate exchange he wavered his aggression and switched subjects to the mundane, such as his suit, his foods, his garden, this continued on for minutes. I cut in a when his rambling had a pause and asked him of Dark Moons whereabouts. “Apparently I cannot do this job without his final confirmation,” I told him. Though still distant, I felt reasonable around him again.

“No,” he said, “he was with Ponet the past few hours. He received a letter to deliver; then I went to my bank.”

“Ah the bank! Could you figure some numbers out for me?”

“Well a’course,” he replied.

“I must know if more profit so far has come from my inheritance or my current job. The Magistrate wishes me to know.”

“Fine, an easy process.”

We continued to talk of more casual subjects. Our walks could only ever last a half hour and when he began frequently repeating words twice, not at the beginning like Arpeggio, but anywhere in the sentence in pitiful attempt at some northen upper class accent, I left for home.

It was later that day, around 6:00, that I was able to meet up with Dark Moon, having just then finished his time with the Royal Guards. He seemed just the little bit tipsy, not enough to trick around (the stallion always had the strongest wits). First I apologized for any offense I may have given him earlier, but this seemed to have gotten his suspicion, “You’re an unusual one for apologies” he told me. He asked me if I had been visited by anyone or asked to visit someone. I told him of Night Light, the deal, the library, and the letter I would receive tomorrow, I did not tell him of the mare though, and avoided bringing up his own name. He smirked and accepted the apology and told me he would’ve confirmed me either way. “You’re a good friend,” he said to me, “and still an honored one.”

Most of the next day was spent in anxiousness of my coming letter. What particularly nagged at me was my inability to start working, how time was being wasted. I did little to occupy myself. I made note on my calendar that the summer sun celebration was coming up in two weeks, and I decided to take Moon’s advice and make preparations for this. I was able to contact a well-known writer who I commonly lauded; we agreed to meet at the jade monument on the day of celebration.

It was mid-afternoon and I was stuck doing nothing in the square on the same rigid bench from yesterday. Other than the letter, my thoughts were preoccupied with the librarian. I asked Ponet if he could send a letter to her. “It would not be wise to harass the daughter of the man that is about to employ you,” he said. I told him the letter would be of good nature but he insisted against it. I asked him if he knew of the mare, he said no. I asked him if he knew of the library, he said yes, and that he recalled seeing a dragon wandering around there before.

The claim that she lived in the library and with a baby dragon added an almost charming quirkiness to my image of her, however small and restricted that image was. Had I known whether or not her father lived there as well (which, although strange for a magistrate, was a possibility), I would have resolved to go over there myself, passing time and vying for another circumstance with her.

Boredom was alleviated when I came across Ponet again that mid-afternoon. When I met him, he looked around the square, sniffed the air and pulled out a Buffalo Springs cigar, a notable brand with tobacco supposedly picked straight out of the southern deserts. Its smoke irritated me, but making a complaint was pointless.

“The Summer Sun celebration,” he said, “is a most talked of subject now. Strange considering it used to be only a gathering for peasants.”

“Contrary to belief, the nobles are slow to catch on,” I said.

“I hope you have plans for it.”

“I do,” I said.

“With who?”

“A writer. Golden pen is his name I believe. He published a thesis on the—”

“Yes I know of his thesis, I'd prefer you not expound upon it again.”

The comment from Black Marble limped its way back to me. Marble's placement of it seemed thought out, and certainly stood out from anything else he said.

“Ponet,” I said, “do you believe I become reticent at times?”

“Certainly not, Marble’s an idiot.”

“He’s talked of me before?”

“Of course, the young rat won’t shut up of other ponies, even when he should; it’s why he’s so detested.”

I thought on this, I found I didn’t care.

“But what of me, why I am so detested?

“You’re not a noblepony.”

“No?”

“You lack the assets of a noble and the assets of a common pony, it’s not a matter of material wealth; it’s just you.”

“Well…” I started, but the sentence became lost to me as quickly as it came. I allowed Ponet's comment to settle inside for the time, to bring up in later recollections.

“Do you think,” I said shortly later, “that Dark Moon recommended me out of genuine skill?”

“Mostly.”

“If he had not a shred of pity for me for any reason would I be recommended?”

“No.”

A blunt bastard he could be, but I preferred it.

It was around 7:00 that evening when the sealed letter arrived. I knew what it was right away from its azure envelope and phthalo blue ribbon, undoubtedly representing Night Light’s colors. The paper was folded ternary like the last one. I opened it and recognized the magistrates writing on the silky, smooth parchment, clean perfection.

Shooting Star, I do not write to you in formality as this is certainly not a formal matter. I will be forthright with you; I want you to decide my chattel first.

I request a mare of light body color (red to me is not light), of the age 18-24, hair that is medium-short, a tail that is long and sways rhythmically with her walk. Her cheekbones should be slightly accentuated, no other peculiarities. A normal plot size and preferably not an earth pony. Eye and hair color matter little, but I would prefer something with good pattern. If I were to take away or add one thing from this, and only under the circumstance when all options (and I mean all) in Canterlot and its surrounding areas are exhausted, the mare can have freckles, a possibly insignificant add-on, but one that should no less help in the slightest.

Now, on to the rest of my associates:’

I read the names and preferences of twelve or so more ponies. I could tell they were all stallions, and I could tell a few worked for the court of law. Somewhere down the list, I was surprised when I came across a familiar name.

‘Jet Set - A mare with a light olive coat, deep blue eyes, a grey and indigo streaked mane, cyan eye shadow and of the unicorn race. She should be average in frame, elegant, somewhat haughty, a wonderful sense of fashion, in her early 30’s and a name ringing high class.’

A different kind of writing angle tipped me that this may have been some kind of joke, as the description was exact to Jet Set's wife's. Nevertheless I took it seriously, but resolved to do it last among the list. Nothing else in the letter truly intrigued me other than the occasional bizarre request such as ‘fat, musky,’ or ‘fond of wearing belts.’ They were all very exact and it occurred to me that the magistrate was actually the least demanding of the list.

After the list was another paragraph from the magistrate, concluding the letter.

‘We will arrive at the Sweet Leaf tavern on Maplehoof Street at 8:00 P.M. It’s disguised as Centre Point Hôtel. You have exactly four weeks to complete these requests. I don’t care how you get them there, just find a way. It may seem pressing but if what Dark Moon has said of you is true then you should be well-fit for this job. Know that I do not expect you to succeed, but I expect you will try. If you do meet all the requirements and I and my associates are satisfied, a splendorous reward will be in store.

-Magistrate Night Light'

The paper became unusually warm.

'P.S. I’m sure you’re a very trusting young pony, but to protect me and my colleagues from defamation I have set the letter to dissipate several minutes after its opening. Copy the requirements before it’s gone.'

A green flame was already burning the edges of the parchment. I dropped it and scurried for an ink pen. With my best effort I wrote down all the requests and was able to complete it with an ache of the eyes and hoof. When the paper was almost gone, I was looking at the last few remnants of text. Doing so, it occurred to me that exactly four weeks from now was the exact date of the summer sun celebration, most likely planned then on purpose. This shouldn’t have interfered with my plans with Golden Pen, I thought, as we planned to meet early in the afternoon. But it would surely cancel out any evening celebration plans.

Four weeks did not seem pressing at all to me. I was a natural at picking out females. Had I not been a noblepony I may have turned out a professional prowler.

I took a sigh and adjusted my mentality for the future. It was a mild draft that put me at ease. I walked to my window and looked at the setting sun with its hues of red and orange, reaching across the western sky. The weather was temperate with only the slightest breeze. It was a perfect atmosphere to begin work.

The following week was frantic. I had wasted the first two days of my task trying to find a mare that fulfilled Night Light’s desires. I found light girls with long hair, long hair girls with short tails, young girls with proper complexion but improper physique, one that met all the requirements perfectly but had a laceration to her ear, one that met all the requirments but lacked the sway and rhythm. My confidence and perception waned at being unable to find such a simple request. Eventually, to prevent quitting, and despite instructions, I moved on to the other requests, and was able to fulfill two by the weekend.

Night Light had made it clear that common pony were requested, so I avoided looking anywhere in the upper-class areas. Instead I further familiarized myself with the ragged slums and apartments of the far south and west; I changed my apparel to nothing and frizzled my hair to fit in better whenever I entered these places. I decided to walk the central areas first, which I was already native to, and then move to the lower-class. Canterlot, although distinguishable enough to be regionally divided, is not at all what one would consider big city, and after five days of navigating I could have made an entire map of it down to the crack of the road.

I was solitary again during this period. I rarely talked with my associates and settled with Golden Pen being my only plans on Summer Sun day. To my four acquaintances this was usual, no one else noticed.

My work was straightforward for the most part, my only unusual encounter being Jet Set again, who was, for some reason, taking a walk among the commoners. He greeted me and asked if I’d gotten to his request yet, “No,” was my response. He gave a smirk and wished me luck, “you’ll need it” he added. I ignored him.

By the end of the week, I was able to find the third mare, and relaxed the rest of that Sunday.

I had asked ponies of Night Light's residence, but no one had known, and I was still anxious to go to the library. Even if he did not reside there, there was the fear that his daughter or some assistant, his wife for all I know, telling of a light customer with an Orion cutie mark. Eventually I decided it wouldn’t be best to go until I succeeded in my work for him. As chance would have it though, I did not have to go to the purple librarian; she came to me. Well, not necessarily.

I was standing by the jade monument (which was completely and conveniently shaded by higher towers and the position of the midday sun) thinking of what to converse about with my author here, it was then that the purple filly trotted by not more than ten feet from me. I took a few slow steps forward after she left and was able to catch some scent. A wonderful and savory scent it was, lavender mixed with ink and the recondite redolence that’s peculiar to an individual soul.

I started trailing behind her around forty steps, she seemed oblivious of me. My eyes, keen as a hawk they were, were able to get a clear look of her from there. I examined that she carried a teal and white book holder; it had a gold star with a golden hoofprint symbol below it. Her mane was sapphire blue with rich rose and violet streaks. When she occasionally turned her head I could faintly see her eyes were the color of moderate violet, they were absorbent, sharp, and carried an opulent, pure gaze. Her demeanor was somewhat skittish and meek. When she stopped, when she walked and when she trotted, it all gave the most innocuous air imaginable. She avoided getting close to other ponies and seemed to keep strong focus on whatever thought or task she was occupied with, made evident by her composed expression and mostly forward movement. Despite some awkwardness surrounding her, I could tell she was no fool. She did not pace and stare like an intellectual braggart, but like a feeble bluestocking, and completely charming in her own right.

Physically she was commendable. Her colors all worked perfectly well, they were deep and seemed securing to some wholesome heart. There was but the slightest amount of visible muscle in her legs which showed through her fur with every step, and which I can only imagine was built from constant trotting like this. No abnormalities or lacerations, a clear and shiny coat. Of course, I simply couldn’t give a proper personal description without mentioning a mare’s posterior—hers was but perfect to my personal taste, it was not firm and muscular, and leaned more toward plump and portly, but was in no way fat. I saw it had a marginal jiggle when she trotted.

I can conclude she was a change from the pompous, pearl-plated noblemare and the dull, doltish common filly. It was understandable that after having followed her for half an hour, admiring her features, her presence, her singularity, and recollecting how I may have found a pony deserving of more than my physical offerings, that I could only become more smitten with her, and I could only want to follow her back to her library for greater, possibly closer analysis of her movements, of her grace, her physique. Little did I think of her father as I followed her up those redundant stairs to the elevated entrance of the cylindrical library. I was trailing about thirty steps behind when she entered and closed its front doors. I was trotting up to it, and when I was ten mere steps away from the doors, a little green scaly creature exited from it. My trance faltered, and so did his walk. I continued going up the stairs, deciding I would not speak to him and only expecting a short exchanged glance. Most of his body was a light mulberry, a greyish green being his underbelly.

He had oddly shaped lime colored ears, light green eyes, and dark green spikes sticking out his back. He carried a smile and a stack of five or so books. I was surprised at first, but connected that this was the baby dragon assistant talked of with Arpeggio and Night Light before.

The little dragon stopped at the top of the stairway upon seeing me, his expression of a smile turned to a look of quizzical neutrality. I was close to the door and almost done passing him when he lifted a finger up and spoke to me in an adolescent voice.

“Um, the library’s closed today sir.”

“Is it?” I said turning to him.

“Yeah, i-it’s always closed on Sunday’s, sorry.”

He said this with an air of innocence and inoffensiveness which I found oddly admirable. I thought of the situation then and thought it best to leave. I thanked him for informing me and turned my way back to the stairs.

“Wait! I can put a book on hold for you tomorrow.”

“Oh, there will be no need for that,” I said, “I wasn’t getting any books in the first place.”

After having said this, the stupidity of it hit me.

“Oh, okay, then why where you here? N-not that I’m trying to snoop into your business or anything, just that I might be able to help you and all.”

I thought quickly, I remembered tax day was recent.

“To collect taxes,” I said; another foolish choice of words.

“Hmm,” the dragon muttered, “I thought Twilight’s dad paid those. You could give me the name and place you w—”

“Oh that won’t be necessary, it seems I made a mistake, boy. This is a public library, right?”

“Well, kinda. It’s owned by someone but still open to—”

“Well it has already been paid for, wrong library; I recognize it now, yes! Arabian architecture, redundant stairs. My name’s Coin Constellation, but there’s no need to contact me or my work. A mistake is all it was. Good day!”

“Uh, good day to you too,” I heard him say behind me.

Admittedly, I was sweating by now. As I made my way down the stairs, I thought of Night Light, how jeopardizing this was and could have been. As long as a description wasn’t made of me, I believed I was safe.

I am not a one to be easily intimidated by fellow-species, but when thinking again and again of Night Light, I saw him a little taller, a little darker, his profound orange eyes glowing a little grimmer. And in every instant of my memory of him, his daughter, or the library onwards, the pony’s peculiar words echoed.

“I should keep a better eye on you.”

It was sometime the next night. The air was cool, breezy, and had the faint smell of burning wood. I had spent time that day in the northern area of Canterlot seeking more candidates, now I was somewhere east walking to my home. I typically go through a very short space of slums to get home, and a strong burning smell permeated throughout there. While passing through it that night, I noticed the homeless were gathered in groups of six to eight around burning garbage cans full of trash and wood from deteriorated buildings. I kept my distance from the ragged every night; I felt no need to scoff or any need of communication at all with them, and only a few of them ever cared to take a glance away from their makeshift cookers. I was not worried of walking this place, Royal guards commonly prowled this zone, and during that nights trip I even saw a few apprehend a cooker who became too liberal with his fire.

I was at my house by 11:00. The scent of burning slums was replaced with burning metal as the smithies were hard at work a block away. I found the smell was mundane but welcoming.

Upon entering, I locked the door behind me, threw down some notes, and uncorked a bottle of the common brand—I did not drink it out of sentiment; it was a genuinely good taste.

I wasn’t particularly tired and began musing on what was to be done tomorrow; I was considering a break. Originally this ‘job’ was a mere pastime, something I was paid for on occasion, for the next few weeks it seemed it was going to be persistent on my life though. It was admittedly becoming dull to me. But the ‘splendorous reward’ itself though was enough to keep me going. There were still times in which I feared the entire hobby becoming mute to me out of the slightest waning of interest; that I thought of quitting even at the expense of the magistrates disappointment. I thought his partnership with Dark Moon enough for him not to make some petty throw of law at me for dropping the task.

I brushed a hoof through my mane and finished a glass, trying to shrug off my thoughts. I went to my window and opened it to admire more of the June air. I enjoyed its mild nights, as they reminded me of the mild days of September, when the draft of a walk gave the smell of harvest, plucked flowers and an increasingly faint quarterly pavement lather.

My house was luxurious, with two stories, twenty-rooms, and a perfect view of the south. Yet it was source of some shame and vexation to me to know I was not living in the castles, taking my time to attend courts and meet royalty as most nobles did. But on this particular night the street was calming in its sights, its sounds, and its smells, and made me ready for sleep. Yellow lighted fire lamps lined the cobblestone streets, and the moon provided a faint glow to the shingled rooftops. Far away, the houses stretched out to higher towers, all lined in chaotically perfect symmetry. There seemed not a single movement save the wind tussling a lone tree in the distance; it was like a rich village painting from the days of L'épanouissement des arts.

That is, if a groveling pony did not appear out of the corner of my eye.

I leaned out the window to get a better look at the rummaging figure. Judging from the pony’s frame, it was a mare with a single sheet of crumpled dark fabric covering her. She was in the shadows of a building and about fifty feet to my right; as a result, all I could make out was that her complexion was light. She was digging in some of my trashcans. I figured her a homeless and was about to call her away from my neighborhood (which I was now again ashamed of), but stopped and deciding I could possibly make an amusement out of her.

Hurriedly I paced down my stairs and out into the night. I neared her slowly, she only noticed me until I was some twenty feet away. She jolted her head up, revealing a ruffled mane and deep blue eyes wide with fright. I neared her more to see her reaction, she stayed in place. I stopped and waited again. I gave her a small smile.

I asked her if she had a home; plainly, she answered no. I asked of her name and, tentatively, she told me it was Olive Pearl. The name wrung something in my mind, something hazy, familiar; I stored it away and asked if she would like to come inside, I assured her a bath, meal, and a place to sleep. I could tell she was taken back; she eventually gave me a faint smile.

She followed me inside where she took off her fabric revealing a very light olive coat, mane streaked with pale indigo and grey, and a cutie mark of an olivine pearl necklace. My suspicions were proven correct, I had known this mare. Seeing me in fair light, she seemed to come across the same revelation.

“Star, is… that you?” she said.

I tried to maintain a countenance of neutrality, my only willing movements being the straightening of my shoulders. “Yes, it’s me, Olive,” I replied.

“Oh Star, how long it’s been!”

She played quite the role in my coming of age, and considering her position towards me as youths, I was surprised to see her almost moved to tears and lunging towards me in joy. I avoided her embrace and watched as she nearly tumbled to the ground.

“S-sorry dear, I’m just happy to see a familiar face right now,” she said.

I assured her it was fine and advised her to take the bath before any contact. She complied, but I could see she was rather embarrassed about the situation and understandably so.

Olive Pearl was the fixation of my adolescence. She had come up the daughter of an (as you might guess) olive company executive. It was no small business; it supplied practically all of east Equestria, from the Hayseed Swamps to Manehatten. Her father was a fraud, something everyone knew. He would constantly steal from his fellow nobles and his own company, not a single charge or complaint was ever made. The charismatic fool was long time partners with managers and most of Canterlot, or at least it seemed so. I could only imagine his swindling had caught up with his daughter.

Anyways, as a young colt, the filly was my first passion, before money, before status, my first real ambition. When was it, twelve? Twelve to fifteen? Yes, I believe I was twelve to fifteen that I knew her. Beyond a few caretakers, she was the only other pony frequent in my life. She would purposely come around in skimpy dresses, high-heeled horseshoes, wearing luscious colors, and having the most elegant strut. Teasing was her smooth voice, tender her touch, delicate her features, a dream of every decent baron west of Fillydelphia. The loosely Prance accent she carried only accentuated all this. She was just a year older than me, always flirtatious and sensual, driving me to mania with her light brushing of her sublime body to mine, the occasional bumping of her taut flank to my chest.

As beauteous as she was, her actions killed me. A wretched cunt, never giving more than a tease, throwing any advance to the curve, and then leaving me one day without a single farewell. My sexual tendencies were just being realized and I dare say were almost driven sadistic, sadistic out of desperation, out of hatred.

I didn’t know if she at all aware of the past, or my feelings towards her then, or my feelings towards her now, but while alone, drinking and recollecting of her, my initial surprise turned to resentment. I was still going to amuse myself with this homeless tramp, with even more satisfaction, but in other ways.

While waiting for her, I finished my glass then went to my closet. I picked out a very special black maids outfit from there and laid it on my couch. When her bath was finished, she came down gleaming and smelling of pomegranate. She gave me a smile and thanked me again. She was direct and active, her actions still carrying a flamboyant competence from years ago, but there was also exhaustion and absence in her face and in her voice. I could see her eyes were far away somewhere else, maybe sometime else.

We talked a short while of what had happened to me and what I were up to, then we talked of what had happened to her. Apparently her father became the head of the olive company. He moved somewhere even more luxurious in Neighagra Falls, which is why she left when I was fifteen. One night her father died of alcohol poisoning and (being the idiot he was) had predetermined all assets go to her. To say the least, she lost it.

I comforted her and allowed her the embrace. Her fur was soft and she practically melted into me, yet I felt little warmth come off of her. While doing so, she noticed the outfit over my shoulder. She still stared at it when we broke the hug. Now I grinned at her.

“Do you have any job prospects?” I said.

“No,” she replied solemnly, hanging her head.

“How would you like to be my maid?”

She lighted up, but seemed stumped of response. In a second her grave expression returned. Of all her misfortune, I still saw she had a sense dignity.

“I will provide free housing, food, hygiene, and all other essentials,” I said. “I will pay you minimum for anything you might personally want to get.”

She was silent another few seconds. As I looked her over again, I mused at how similar she was to Jet Set’s request.

“Well... alright,” she replied. “It’s far better than laboring the streets.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “I want you to start tonight.”

“Tonight? B-but Star–”

“My first request is that you call me sir. My second is that you put on this outfit.”

She sighed, hung her head again and groggily plodded to her new dress. I could sense a hint of exaggeration in her manner, probably an attempt to gain pity. She picked up the dress, looked it over, and seemed perplexed. She stuck her hooves in what she thought to be sleeves and spent the next several minutes figuring out the straps and intricacies of the dress. When she was done, I asked her to stay in place for a minute.

It was no normal maids’ suit. There were netted leggings and bows, flower patterns strewn across the top, golden clips fusing the fabric, all put together and tightened around her form. I walked slowly around her, admiring the piece. There was a special accentuation on the plot; it was tightened together by two straps pressing against her cutie mark and it was the only thing fully visible other than her head and neck. I saw her grow uncomfortable at my gaze. I chuckled.

“I understand you may be tired but so am I,” I said, “I want you to make my bed. My room's the first to the right of the second floor hallway.”

She ran up the stairs, seemingly more awake than before. I sat down again and thought of how quickly I just attained a new household occupant. Although I preferred solitude at the start and end of my day, the benefits she would bring as a maid and a toy far outweighed. If it were any other pony than Olive though, I may have felt less inclined.

I soon went to my bedroom and saw she was just finishing. The bed was better than the scrunched mess it was before, but still a sloppy job. Wrinkles and folds popped out here and there, one side of the sheets was unevenly tucked under the mattress. It then occurred to me the lady probably never had experience in cleaning or arranging, instead having maids of her own do the housework. I saw again she was staring at the floor, tired, possibly ashamed.

“No, this will not do,” I said.

“Wha–”

“Fix it again.”

I could see a trace of irritation on her face as she pulled at the sheets and began again. Indeed—I was becoming amused.

After shuffling and tucking the sheets again, she looked at me expectantly. It was better than last time, but still not adequate.

“No, no,” I said, “this still will not do. I’ll give you another chance; if you fail you will receive your first chastening.”

Her expression changed again, now with greater weariness and something close to defeat. She fixed the bed once more, this time adding as much delicacy and attention as she possibly could. When she was finished I saw that it now resembled something of my own skill, sadly, it was still inadequate.

I looked at her, smiled, then shook my head. Something indecipherable grew across her face, perhaps a glint of regret, then loss and fear.

“If you wish to live under these quarters,” I said “I expect only perfection. You are clearly untrained in house grooming, but you will learn.”

She was now glowering at the ground, I watched closely to see a myriad of emotions go among her face. At one point she narrowed her eyes hard in anger, urges, concerns.

She was all to me, just as I was to her so many years ago.

“Now lay your front hooves on the bed.”

She did as she was told; laying the front end of her body on the end of the mattress, her bundled arse accentuating even more as it stuck high from the rest of her body. I walked past and admired her rear again before grabbing a belt atop my drawers and firmly clenching it in my mouth. She took no notice of this, instead keeping her gaze to a bedpost. My teeth still squeezed the leather as I smiled, seeing that despite her toiling as a homeless she seemed to have lost taut on the twofold cheeks. I only but slightly doubted this had anything to do with the straps pushing them together, as the straps clearly sunk a near half inch into her thighs.

With a vigorous, pulsating passion I reared my head sideways and back, then threw it forward and to the side. A loud smack resounded throughout the room followed by a light yelp, then another smack, then another, three, four, six, ten. My body quivered in thrill as her two bunched portions of fat jiggled and vibrated with every forceful strike. Twelve, fifteen, twenty. Soon her yelping died to a short squeak and her bottom was a faint shade of red. I finished at twenty two, so hard was this twenty-second smacking that I nearly writhed to a sprained neck and a jarred head.

“Now,” said I, dropping the belt on the drawers, “try it again.”

Slowly she picked herself off the bed, and slowly did she arrange and neaten the sheets again. Her sadness and fear seemed less than a genuine feeling then. I closely examined the bed when she was done and saw a very obvious error: an entire corner of the bed had yet to be tucked.

“What is this?” I said, motioning to the contorted corner. She said nothing, continuing her fated look.

“Down again.”

Without hesitance she dropped her front end to the bed again. I became quite skeptical of her intention now.

“Is the servant enjoying her treatment?”

Again she did not respond. I clenched the belt off the drawers once more. Addled on how to go about now, I whacked her again, five times; then stopped when a peculiar scent entered my nostrils. I leaned close to her rear and felt a warm musk emanating from her crevice. Soon I saw a thick liquid lightly drip from her twat.

“A good maid shouldn’t enjoy her chastisement,” I said, talking into her crotch, “a slave on the other hoof…”

I gave a quick sniff of her cunt and proceeded to furiously bite into her left cheek. Her soft flesh and miniscule fur squeezed between my clutched teeth and tickled my damp tongue. She screamed in pain followed by a quiet moan. I got up again and started spanking her ass with my bare hooves. My fervor and intensity grew as each hit invoked ripples and waves on her cheeks. The whore was moaning and panting now, pleading for more. I loosed the straps around her flank and watched with glee as I saw that the fatness of her rump was not merely a product of the outfits design, but that her once firm buttocks now almost flopped out of their tight snatches and remained plump enough to cover her own genitals.

With an ambition rock-hard and a dirty grin plastering my face, I jumped up and mounted the mare. I chuckled and bit my lip as I found my cock was having slight trouble locating an orifice between those two protrusions. Her panting suddenly stopped and I felt her muscles tense along her back.

“No,” she said lightly and with an almost raspy undertone.

“Hmm?” I responded. Once I felt the warm, humid muff I’d been looking for, I dug in with no restraint.

It was now she began to struggle, understandably, as it felt she was a virgin, her walls tight as a constrictors grip and her flesh feeling as if were tearing apart.

“Hah! So the little tramp is untouched, is that it?”

She continued flailing and sobbing, my pounding persevering. Her strength was no match for a stallion and she gave out in a minute, resigning to biting the sheets below while tensing herself as hard as possible, unknowingly adding to her stimulating tightness. I held as long as I could, savoring the plunder, but eventually I could hold myself no longer. I came like a fountain, pulling out and jetting my lewd liquid between her olivine and red cheeks. It overflowed, some of it spilling onto her back, and down her taint.

No greater bliss could there be to me than finally cumming on the deplorable deviant of my foalhood, now raped and in a sulking mess. I got off and analyzed the work I had done. Seeing some of the thick cum had sunk into the lovely crevice of her ass, I spread her cheeks apart and watched as some of the liquid clung to both of them, almost forming a covering over her genitals.

She lay silent, I presumed she was sobbing. I left her on the sheets, went downstairs again, took another drink and went to settle the guest bedroom.

Chapter 3

The following week ran smoothly. I didn’t stop once.

It was several days later (a Friday I think) that I decided to take my first break. I had gotten three more mares’, making the total five, which although was a good pace thus far, was not satisfactory to me as it would mean I would have to work non-stop after this rest.

Once more Night Light’s request proved to be far more challenging than I originally thought. Mares that closely matched the description, but not all the requirements, were still constantly being found and abandoned.

The new occupant of mine was kept locked within the house, but given freedom to do as she liked within its perimeters. She seemed sad and solemn and quite sorrowful at her slights; she even went as far to apologize to me, having realized the errors of her youth. I had a brief glint of sympathy until I found that it was merely a play of emotion, something she couldn’t have possibly just now realized, something she must have made up from my words the first night or known all along. But I tell you honestly, I had much fun with her.

I didn’t expect her to leave if she could, not from such comfort. Compared to the streets, the tasks I had for her were simple. She would clean throughout the day; I would indicate the awful job she had done; then crudely commend her body as the only proper thing about her. Whether she enjoyed what followed depended on my experiment. My experiments were wide in scope, sometimes being picked from hard thought, sometimes being acted on immediate urge. A fete of licking, dressing, biting, playing and punching mixed with drinks, toys, taunts, piss and perforations went on for a week. I will not delve into its exact details, but know my wanton desires of her as a youth were fulfilled, and much more. She satisfied me, and it helped me with my work, it really did.

I told no one of her but what I considered my closest and most trusting associate, Arpeggio. He seemed to not want much to do with it. On my day of break, I gave her her first paycheck, fifteen bits.

It was on this Friday that Black Marble finally got back to me on my financial question of where more my income had come from. “Your inheritance,” he said “by a mile.” I asked him what had taken him so long.

“I got caught up in interest of… other business, I apologize.”

I assured him it was fine.

“So has anything of interest happen to you lately?” he asked following this.

“Just a letter requesting my presence in Trottingham, ceremonious affairs.” I lied; the only letter I had received since the magistrates’ was my author confirming our meet. I did intend to go to Trottingham though, eventually, but only for the purpose of a restaurant.

“Ah! I go to Trottingham myself soon. Truthfully I have not a thing to do on my break; perhaps I could go today?”

“A trip together?” I said.

“Yes!”

I was apprehensive of the idea at first, having not intended to make action of my Tottingham plans that day, but neither did he.

He told me his cash deposit lied in a sealed location in Trottingham, and he retrieved his money there once every month. I asked why he did not keep the cash in Canterlot, as it would be far more convenient and he would be able to keep check of his money directly. “I was always highly suspicious of Canterlot’s monetary practices,” he answered. “My experience in the field only confirms my suspicions, even under my own guise pony’s, nobles mostly, try to steal under false pretenses.”

I was reminded of somepony.

“Do you remember the Olive girl’s father, Olivon I believe?”

“Oh of course, the pony swindled my father. A lot was learned from that man.”

After this he asked me of my ceremonious affairs and I decided to give no direct response. “A yearly club,” I said.

“Are you familiar with the Boutique française de la crème?” I then asked.

“Of course!”

“Shall we go there after our affairs are tied up?”

“Certainly!”

After this we continued walking together, falling back to usual awkwardness, with not a clue to where we were going or whether these plans were in seriousness or fantasy. After a while, the two of us continued walking merely for each others company, we were all we knew that day. An occasional comment regarding the surroundings were made; we talked of our Summer Sun plans, I talked of my author, he of his 'artist'. After two hours or so of this we found ourselves on the southern end of Canterlot, near the train station. He stopped and looked in its direction.

“Hm, do you have your billfold?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Then let’s go.”

The ride was short and over in about two hours, little happened. Marble asked of my tasks, I told him they were going fine. I asked him of the ‘other business’, he said it involved the affairs of some Ponyville retailer. We talked of no more.

When we arrived in Trottingham it was a fresh afternoon with a fresh air filling us when we stepped into town. Conveniently Boutique française de la crème was just a block down from the station. The building was mostly a grey and white, with large windows in the front side glaring with yellow lights, an array of foreign words and decorum marking all sides and a high stretching sandy brown rooftop with its own windows, black coated, plated at its bottom.

We cantered quietly up the road, side and side with each other, before stopping in front of the restaurants entrance.

“When are your ceremonious affairs?” he asked.

“At three,” I said.

“Ah, I don’t believe either of us have had breakfast; do you feel up to it now?”

I said sure. We walked in the building, going under gold cursive lettering of the diner’s name, and immediately were greeted by an air familiar to that of the café back at Canterlot.

“How convenient the train should drop us off here,” said Marble, taking his seat. After the waitress took our orders we were, as usual, silent.

The whole experience thus far had been uncomfortable between us, made worse by the constant silence. I began to wonder why he had bothered to ask me along, but then thought it was the both of us who made the implications. We were never much close with one another, and had always been used to discussing a set list of topics, most of which had been worn out. His own irritation was made evident by the painful small talk he attempted to make about the most random subjects, jumping from the treatise of commerce to kayaking the Neighara Falls. “An interesting topic…” he would constantly say when beginning a sentence. Perhaps it was that the two of us only really knew each other from our walks, and those, being as short as they were, revealed little beyond the superficial. It soon it occurred to me this was the longest we had ever been in each others presence, one and one.

The meals served to us were more than adequate and delightfully up to its hype. Adequate conversation also arose from the meals. It was slow to pick up but eventually the two of us were striking notes, a smooth oral volley of conversation one might have with an actual friend. Our topics remained somewhat trivial, but focused more on tastes, experiences, rather than material. I grew the slightest warmer in opinion of the stallion then, with his horrid timbre and all.

The only complaint I would have of the restaurant would be a blinding light through a multicolored glass window in front of me. It was more a fault of our placing though. I thought for a second if the decision was conscious on our part. A brief cogitation gave me the idea that it was done on purpose by Marble, he, in his mild pace in front of me, placed himself facing forward from the window to disadvantage me, or simply in spite, and I carried this weighty thought around for an hour or so before it evaporated in a sweltering torrent of other thoughts.

“Halloa! It’s already three o’ clock,” he said after our meals were long over and our chatting was turning dull again. “Certainly you can’t miss your ceremonial affairs.”

“Truly,” said I, “I should not wish to miss it.”

I gave him thanks for the discussion and he gave me thanks for presenting him the restaurant. I left with a new complimentary handkerchief neatly tucked to the right-hoofed side of my upper garment.

Now came figuring out what to do in this unfamiliar town. What I first thought to be the fashionable district of Trottignham soon turned out to be merely a business zone, although great compared to the rest of the town (which I aimlessly wandered into on a few occasions). The place was something equivalent to what you would see in the outer rim of Canterlot, a middle zone. I hadn't entirely realized it until then, but my neighborhood consisted mostly of northerners, with northern styles and northern celebrations and northern greetings, and as I thought of all the dimly-remembered occupants of my street while looking around the town, I felt that nothing was too uncommon at all to me; a brief flash of home even came to me when smithies resounded in the distant environs.

The city hall was made solid, reinforced and dug deeply in the ground. When I looked, I saw that most all structures here were built this way, as if fierce storms were commonplace. It was while I was examining this that an exceptional gust blew to my right and delicate thunder squirmed into my ears. So normal was the day, only a few white clouds scattering the sky, that I believed it to be an audio illusion at first, until I turned my head to the east and saw a cluster of vaporous dark gloom no less than ten miles away.

I became agitated at the unexpected sight and began looking for cover. I quickly ran for indoor shelter but found the doors had been locked and shut by bolting townsponies in anticipation of the storm. It was now that I noticed another architectural oddity of this town, there were no awnings built for the stone structures, not a single one above a door or below a roof.

I felt at a loss. What was I to do now, crawl into a ditch or under a bridge? There were none. I thought of running back to the restaurant, but I had been trotting for hours and the path was long forgotten. The best I could do was getting behind the west side of a building to block the east winds and possibly avoiding getting struck by lightning from standing in the open. I had no doubt my lavish garment and new handkerchief would become wet regardless. Shameful and accursed I thought of my circumstances.

Still holding the plan of going behind a building, I stood watching the oncoming squall. As wicked and loathsome the clouds looked, I couldn’t help but be captivated with its fast paced promenading along the troposphere’s floor. I felt it was reaching for me, the only pony in the open, outside, unmoving. The mass neared to just a mile overhead when a few flying dots animated from its haze. I remained steadfast in front of the storm just a while longer to observe these dots. They became bigger, gained color, and came into familiar form. They were blue, black, white, turquoise, yellow; it was quite obvious what they were now.

The black weather pony swooped past the ground and met up with the turquoise pony (who I now saw was actually a grayish blue). The two of them began trying to push the storm back but only slowed down a fraction of the clouds. Another three joined but the act was proving useless. A new batch of flyers came out of the clouds and began flying in a very distinct formation. The arrow of suited Pegasus’ went back and forth—to and fro—around and through in an attempt to stop the misty murk. The whole mass seemed to slow, but did not halt. A dashing cyan Pegasus flew at a cloud with extreme velocity and gave the hardest smash I’d ever seen. The advancing storm stopped and was bounced back ever so slightly. Around twenty flyers began circling it—another twenty were pushing and smashing. After a few minutes of the racing display the clouds were immobilized and were tied together with some kind of magenta string. I knew of the Pegasus’s powers over the weather, but having never seen a weather team in action before, I hadn’t expected this, and stood with my mouth agape, mesmerized even after it was over.

A few townsponies ponies came out of their homes again, and much of the liveliness from earlier returned. The weather ponies were chattering about now; some lay on the ground panting, others were laughing, and a few were leaving, but they had all congratulated each other. The one closest to me was around thirty steps away in an open, grassy area. She was light grey, and with a very vibrant colored mane, lean and young. She was talking to another black Pegasus. I approached her to get a better look, she seemed to have heard me as she quickly turned her head my way then back to the black colt.

“K, see ya, Thunder!”

The black colt flew away and the mare turned to me again. Yes, she was certainly young, very young, possibly in her late teens. She had emphasized cheek structure, a very cute, oddly alluring muzzle, and an orderly arrayed pair of freckles on each side of her face. Cornflower eyes that matched with a cerise and emerald mane pattern, no deformities or defects, perfectly fit and curved in the right places, all seemed to be in check. Her smile was inviting and a playful air was given off. I couldn’t help but take a second look at her mane, it was of peculiar style.

“And you,” she said with a frisky, almost ditzy voice, “you’d been watching us the whole time. Most ponies prefer watching from their windows though.”

“I was stuck,” I said.

“No cover?”

“There were no awnings.”

“Oh right, it’s Trottingham.”

“Is there a reason the edifices here are built so ridiculously rigid?” I said.

She giggled at something.

“Well storms have been a problem in Trottingham; I don’t know why—something about being in the open mid-west.”

“Aren’t we north?”

“North mid-west,” she corrected.

I stiffened my back and enrobed a smile, patting my handkerchief in preparation.

“That was an impressive display,” I said, “I believe your weather team saved me.”

“Only the best is Cloudsdale—well, almost the best.”

“Your performance in particular, I found very gratifying.”

“Thank you! I–”

“In fact I would say yours was the best.”

“The best?”

“The absolute.”

The filly was taken back a moment, an expression unsure and a focus on the ground. Her bright eyes re-connected with mine and her neutral lips curled into a thrilled smile.

“In fact,” I said, “you were so great that I would like to select you as a candidate.”

“W-wait, what did you find so great?”

“Well… your movements, your graceful but rugged movements—your dancing to the monsoons restraint. How graceful and rugged they are, how evoking and robust. Why, I’d say you were far greater than the whole team.”

“Even the captain?”

“The captain?”

“The blue pony with—”

“Oh yes, a mountain to a mound higher.”

She giggled and I smiled. I moved in closer.

“Okay, okay,” she said, “a candidate for what?”

“You see, I was standing in the open for a reason, I knew of Cloudsdale’s coming, I am a scouter. I pick only the best from each weather team’s city, and the best are made candidates for the Canterlot weather team.”

“Canterlot has a weather team?”

“Of course, the elite in weather control, on par with the Wonderbolts.”

“The Wonderbolts?!”

“Of course, yes. Tell me; are you familiar with Canterlot’s layout?”

“I’ve been there a few times.”

“Are you familiar with the Centre Point Hôtel?”

I think; the green and gold building between the shops?”

“Yes, I can send you exact directions if you’d like.”

“No, I got it.”

“Meet us in the lobby 3:00 P. M., the day of the Summer Sun celebration.”

“You got it!” she said, throwing her arms up in the air and lifting herself off the ground.

“May I have your mailing address just in case?” I asked.

She gave me it.

“Wonderful. And what is your name?”

“Blossomforth,” she replied.

“Thank you Blossomforth. And before we depart, may I ask just how you became so skilled in the art of weather control?”

“Oh, well, I dunno, I do some gymnastics, I can get pretty flexible.”

Interesting, I thought. After bidding her farewell I looked at her for one last thing. Her walk had a sway to it. The magistrate would be very pleased with her.

After this I made my best attempt to retrace my steps from the restaurant. There is a certain degree of hopelessness that has to set in before I ask for help, but I did, and a few queer, tawny locals told me the directions back to the crème shop. Within an hour I made it.

Black Marble was within the same window-side seats we were in before, his head bent down and sipping on some steaming fluid in a white cup. He heard my approach and quickly lifted his head up, his vacant face lighted up. I asked him why he was still here, he informed me that his business was already taken care of and he had simply been waiting for me the last hour. After this, we both left and made our way up the street and to the train station. Wanting to avoid the same awkward cantering, he attempted again at decent conversation. First he asked me what had taken so long.

“Well the ceremonial affairs of course,” I said.

Secondly he talked of Trottingham, how he seemed to enjoy its elementary air and especially the restaurant.

“A charming town this Trottingham is,” he said.

“It’s… tolerable,” said I.

He continued on to subjects regarding his financial deposit and plans for a visit to Vanhoover, all the while I said nothing. I recollected on Blossomforth and for some odd reason could not get out of my mind, of all things, her mane. Something about it picked at me. I recreated it, I began changing its colors in my head, its bearer, its location. When I hit a particular combination it hit me that Twilight, the librarian, had the same style and the same mane pattern, having not the same colors or body to accommodate it though, and certainly not he same soul. I then thought that Twilight must have the same mane style as her mother, Night Light’s wife, and therefore the Night Light may like Blossomfort even more, or maybe less. Perhaps it would make up for the freckles.

When we arrived back in our marble capital, it was early evening, 6:00 o’ clock. A content air, something of widespread mutuality resonated within me and throughout the streets. I was satisfied; I had found the most important guest. Even if I missed two or three, I had little doubt the splendorous reward would be lost.

When I reached my house, the blue sky was again shifting to dusk. The clanking of smithies and the smell of burning trash bins greeted me once more. How could it be, I thought, with such grotesque surroundings, that such a refined house with such a refined resident and his refined whore could be living in the midst of this? Thinking of my other resident, many new ideas came to me, of the fun I would have tonight. I went inside, went up my staircase, to my bedroom and called her name. When she did not come I called again, this time menacingly, then again, pleadingly. When she still did not come, I searched for her low and high throughout the house. When I discovered the maids outfit on my reading room floor and a busted open safe of bits, I realized she had escaped.

I wasn’t particularly worried. I went about my business as usual the next day, albeit feeling a bit disappointed—I did not feel like reverting to slum prostitutes for pleasure again. I continued looking for candidates until sometime around five; I decided to take a break by the old café. It was there that I again saw Ponet approach me while levitating a letter, sealed in a black and grey ribbon with a crescent decoration.

“A letter,” he said, “you can probably guess from whom.”

I opened it, saw its familiar textual style, and read the following:

Dear Star,

News of damaging nature regarding you has reached law. I know of its details from Arpeggio. I had gotten to the Magistrate in time to prevent your detention. He now fully expects fulfillment of your task, in turn you will receive not only a splendorous reward but a pardon as well.

~Dark Moon

I looked up at Ponet who stood stern, but seeing my continuous stare at him soon became concerned.

“Do you know the contents of this letter?” I asked him.

“I do not.”

“Truly?”

“I never lie.”

“Do you know where I could find Dark Moon?” I asked.

“He had given me the letter while I was at the upper plaza.”

I thanked him and made my way there. I did not expect to find anyone, yet when I arrived I saw both Dark Moon and Arpeggio sitting directly on the center bench of the northern plaza. I trotted to them and they bided me welcome. I walked straight to Dark Moon with the intent of asking him of his contact with the magistrate.

“So your little harem plan didn’t work?” said Arpeggio, his legs crossed and a smirk on his face.

“It did not,” I said, “I hadn’t expected the wench to leave, let alone report me.”

After this, I again turned my attention to Moon and asked him of the magistrate and the severity of my infraction. He told me the magistrate did not mind what I did, but felt a compulsive obligation to hold it over me, or as he claimed the magistrate himself put it ‘to better motivate me’. If I failed my duties, I would be charged with ‘rape’, ‘torture’ and ‘kidnapping’, never mind that the cunt willingly came into my house and willingly did (most of) my requests. A brief flame of anxiety came upon me but was quickly put out by a hearty laugh. With their eyes still open and upon me, we all laughed at such an embarrassing and uncommon infraction on my part.

“A surreptitious one eh?”

Afterwards we talked and loped about the streets like any other day. Yet the two of them kept a certain distance from me, and always would from then on. As much they already knew of my practice, they were the least depraved I knew and were not ready to hear of any ‘enslavement’ of another pony from my hoof.

The rest of the day was spent in a semi-stupor once my awful anxiety returned. The burden on me felt greater, the failure meant ruin in every way but death. Life imprisonment and permanently tarnished reputation could lie ahead in the path of failure. For once I thought of my associates and how their reputations may be ruined in collateral with my failure, I began to think of them as good associates for the first time, very fine, young stallions, ones that helped me since the ascent of my young adulthood, the only ones I could ever hope to have.

After that day, I did not take a single break for the month, and was determined to match the requirements of all. I searched meticulously for every curve, color, strut and detail that was requested. I was quite successful up until the final two mares. It had taken me three days to find a mare with ‘a buxom bottom and a bald head’, and by then I only had a day left before the ceremony. How awful, how stressful! I would think. How was I to find ‘a flower mare with three-color hair and a pouting lip’? On top of all this I still could not find Jet Set’s—my escaped mare. I could only hope Night Light would be merciful of a few missing pony’s.

I was drudging and sulking through the streets one evening with such thoughts when the shade of a tall structure covered me; I looked up and saw I had unknowingly wandered to the front of library.

The librarian.

Despite having only known of her, never having even met her, she seemed the greatest comfort then, even more so than my associates. That purple star, Twilight, always conscious, sparkling somewhere in this pulsating animation of mine, and touching the few tender cords of my obdurate heart. I felt her presence in the ornate library like the shining sun in a vale of lilies.

Blessed with the perfect timing and placement, I was able to see her exiting the tower. Her steps were light and she carried a strapped bag, unlike the book holder I saw her wear before. When she reached the bottom of the steps, I straightened my hair, patted my restaurant handkerchief and approached. I refused to merely follow this time; I began trotting to meet. She did not notice me—or maybe she had—until I was a near five feet away.

Rather blindly, I forced out my first few words to her. “Excuse me miss.” She turned to me; her face pure and without fault. A hint of fear and surprise showed in a twitch of her facial muscles.

“Yes?” she said raucously. I tried to hurriedly arrange my flux of verbal thoughts, after all it was my first, and possibly last impression on the dainty bibliognost.

“Hello, my name… is Shooting Star. May I walk with you for the while?” I spoke in gentle calmness, as to not further frighten the already anxious girl.

“Oh, I-I think I remember seeing you. I’m real sorry but… I’m just about to get groceries a-and…”

“I greatly apologize for asking you at such an inconvenient time.” I spoke now with the best eloquence and rhythm I could. “I only wish to talk with you, nothing serious. Perhaps we could get a coffee sometime later? I know of a wonderful shop.”

“I-I’m sorry, I have to go,” she said, feigning a huge smile and backing away.

“M-miss, I promise you no harm, I'm very sorry if I've unset—"

“R-really sorry,” she said, following it with a nervous laugh. “BYE!”

She turned hard, her hooves grating on the marble pavement and running off north. I watched feeling quite surprised and disappointed.

I began walking in the opposite direction, the events going through again and again. I didn’t believe anything had been wrong in my approach. Did her father tell her to beware of me? I remembered a fragment of a conversation I had with Arpeggio regarding her eccentric behavior; perhaps that had been it. Being kept in an ivory tower under vigorous study could have done no good for her social life. Yes, I thought, that had to be it. When I thought about it, it was quite cute, such a fitting characteristic for such a feeble, delicate filly.

But then I thought of the infraction I may have made by talking to the magistrates daughter in light of recent events. Then I thought of when she said she remembered seeing me. Did she mean when I was in the library? It couldn’t possibly be when I followed her, I made sure of it.

Oh if she had only been the daughter of another! I could’ve continued my pursuit of her. I wished no harm, no enslavement, only a talk with her. How pitiful of me.

I continued on in the direction of my house, head hung low, looking at the sun-lit orange pavement.

Chapter 4

The sun did not rise the next morning.

My plans were thrown off, as was everyone else. I kept inside my house and drank in the confusion. There was a slight panic in the streets; some of the homeless had tried to rob and pillage the neighborhood, but the guards quelled them quickly. A rock had been thrown through my front window and I had to put some bedsheets over it, other than this no true trouble befell me.

I thought of everything I worked for and its fate. Did I still have to go to the tavern? Surely the mares would not arrive during such a strange and alarming event. I wondered of its cause and what had become of our sun princess. After finishing a fourth glass of common brand, I wondered if I should bear the streets. As many guards as there were I feared they could not quell everything. What could I do at my dwelling though? For all I knew the world was ending, and there were a few things I’d like to have gotten done before that.

Eventually making the decision to leave, I finished my glass and grabbed a black coat. On my way to the door, I heard a knocking on the other side. I stood still and anxious for a moment before the familiar voice of Ponet spoke through.

“Only me Star,” he said.

I quickly opened the door and invited him in but he declined. A dark blue envelope hovered above him.

“Delivering letters in this mess?” I said.

“What mess? Other than the overdue sun all is fine.”

I stared at him a second before swiping his envelope.

“I have more letters to deliver,” he said, and with this, he closed the door and left.

It was the first letter I received in years with no ribbon. I quickly ripped it open and read its short content.

'Dear Star,
The plans of tonight have been called off due to matters regarding the magistrates’ daughter. Your efforts have been thanked.

~Dark Moon'

The color of Moon did not match with the envelopes, which was the same azure as Night Light. A trivial speculation, but I still focused on it and its possibilities in the minutes after reading the letter.

Eventually I took Ponet’s word and went outside, discarding my black coat. I found the streets truly were calm. There was an occasional guard patrolling about and a pony or carriage holding some supplies.

I thought of my infractions possibly being charged. Surely corruption did not run so deep as to let a pony accused of such heinous acts as I to walk free? Had Night Light found out of my advancements on his daughter, I would surely see no pardon.

Another thought crossed me that Night Light was the most powerful of these associates of his. He had the ability to call off the entire event on the grounds of family issues (but then again, the sun was gone too). I thought of what his familial issues could be; what could have possibly had went wrong with his daughter, my librarian. She was a personal student of Celestia’s I remember being told; maybe her troubles had something to do with her teacher’s unfulfilled role.

All these thoughts caused great turmoil as I walked those cool streets that cool night, and the buzz from my earlier drinking did little to stifle this. On that walk I went pass the train station, the square, the old coffee shop, and the jade monument which shone ever so slightly in the moonlight. All of Canterlot was walked within the matter of hours, or perhaps it was a run. I never tired; it was only morning with a lack of sunlight.

Soon I noticed I was hungry and a few guards had grown suspicious of me. Luckily, I knew of the perfect place to eat and hide. Somewhere in the central-north-east area of Canterlot I knew of a garden. It was quite smaller than the garden that lied in the center of Canterlot, that hosted the annual garden party, but it was a marvelous garden. I noticed as a foal that few ponies went there, and that it was owned by an exotic gardener before she passed on from unresolved foul play. Oh how the nobles hated her, ‘the tulip witch’ they called her, ‘always groveling in the dirt and sneering at our snouts.’

I took to playing in the garden with a few other children, but they moved on and it soon into a wonderful enclave of peace and studying. I did not use this place for reflection of anything truly internal; it was a mere place for subtle calmness when I needed it. While there, I noticed many of the flowers were edible, the daffodils in particular were delicious. Although far from the most uncouth thing I did, it was damning worse than an affair to be caught eating off of rooted vegetation in Canterlot—then again, it’s how I met Arpeggio. The garden was in a superbly high class district, far away from any slums, so it was unlikely many guards would be there.

So in a half-drunk, strangely hyperactive trance of panic and paranoia, I made my way to this garden, looking over my shoulder every two seconds and wincing at the sight or sound of another pony. I retraced every step from long ago, watching as my light shadow glided over the darkened-grey road.

When I reached the garden, I noticed it had only moderately changed. Some flowers on the south end now wilted, but the daffodils on the north looked fresh as ever. I picked a few roses next to me and enjoyed their sweet, pleasant taste. After just a few bites I felt myself paralyzed by a cool wind. I inhaled, it entered me—the dampness, the flowers, the fires, June, but something else too, something too familiar.

As much as the sight of the old garden, its crickets chirping and its colors still vibrant in the lingering night soothed me, something unnatural, a figure, perturbed me. In the center of this garden, sitting on a withered stray log was a familiar olivine face, with its familiar deep blue eyes and familiar grey and indigo mane.

Olive Pearl sat luminescent, ogling my garden, completely unaware of the wretched and familiar foe creeping towards her with the vilest of grins.

I was twelve, ten, eight, five feet from her; she still hadn’t notice me. I picked up my breathing to something barely audible, this caught her attention. It took a few seconds for her to recognize me, when she did, she winced back. I lunged towards her and put a hoof across her mouth. She wasn’t panicking, but I saw dismay and bitterness in her eyes.

“Oh dear, dear,” I said growling. “Oh my dearest Olive.”

I began grabbing her face, rubbing my hooves across her rough fur, I felt elation for the first time in three weeks; I had reclaimed her. Her eyes were calm in minutes; she seemed to have skewed to defeat. Not a punch, kick, or even a single muscle movement. Tears started to develop in her blue effulgent eyes. Unpredictably, she hugged me a moment later. She started crying and in a minute her crying turned into an odd whispering rhythm. She brought her muzzle up to my ear and muttered something disjointed.

“I remember s-seeing you… here,” she said, “years ago…”

She said this in her tense Prance accent. I couldn’t help but grin wider. She wanted me back.

“Come,” I said.

She did, without a word.

The sun did rise the next morning.

Odd was that I was getting used to the dark, and quite a bit of fun was being had in it. I found that my little wench had regretted leaving, that in bearing the streets once more, she found she’d rather live with me, my requests and practices included. To celebrate this revival of her conscious we played ‘night games’, and rather than her usual sulking silence or clamorous crying, she tried enjoying herself.

When I first saw the sunrise again in its radiating persimmon glory, I walked outside to feel its gentle touch enfold upon my body, shade embellish my fur for the first time since thirty hours ago. I noticed as I was stepping out into the streets, another envelope was on my doorstep. This time black and sealed in grey. Its contents:

The plans are still off.

~Dark Moon

I thought this a relief and certainly more warrant for a celebration, and I knew quite the perfect way to celebrate. The mares I gathered could still be contacted and brought to the tavern, not for the magistrate and his associate’s pleasure, but for me and my associate’s. It wouldn’t have mattered if all the mares came or not, not at that point, I expected about five.

Yet I was still not relieved as to my fate with the law or that of the librarian and I couldn’t help but be burdened with this all day.

I wrote a letter to my other four acquaintances, asking of their presence at the Sweet Leaf tavern on Gallop Street at 8:00 P.M. that night. I then started writing the letters to each of the mares, requesting they come to the Centre Point Hôtel lobby at 7:00 P.M., promising them each whatever dream I filled them with.

After using a fast flame shooting mail system, (only available to me once per year for emergencies, courtesy of Dark Moon) I went out to look for my four acquaintances in helping me grab the mares. I was originally going to ask the help of Arpeggio, who I put the most trust, but hearing once more that he wanted nothing to do with such business; I asked for the help of any of the other three. Ponet was the only one to volunteer.

For the rest of the afternoon we waited. A plan of afterwards disposal was devised. The mares would be slipped special psychotropics (or 'hoofies') throughout the night and would become highly susceptible while losing all memory retention ability, and if that didn't work, a memory wiping spell from Moon or Ponet would suffice. In the morning they would be awake around various areas of Canterlot, what they did afterwards Ponet claimed he would take care of.

After this, The two of us had a few pre-celebratory drinks, which lead to a few pleasant conversations. I had never had much time with Ponet, but I found I felt comfortable in his long-term presence, particularly when compared to Black Marble. We talked of our interests in arts, foods, and filly's; most of our taste’s seemed to be aligned. In one of our conversations the maid of mine came up, I asked him how he knew of it, he claimed Arpeggio told him. I asked him of his thoughts; he said he was quite amused, that he would like to see the thing.

“Ponet,” I said, “know that I have always considered you my most kindred spirit, and know I no longer think Arpeggio my most trusted.”

“But it is me?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’m flattered.”

For the next few hours we fiddled around my house. Ponet paid no mine to my neighborhoods position, claiming he had lived in worse. I tried to entertain him with the maid. Once again I found myself more alike with him as I found he had a particular affinity for spanking and fear-play, he became especially cruel to the maid when he heard of my past with her. As the slightest uncomfortable it may have been, I had never felt closer to the stallion than when we were double ramming the decrepit cunt. Hours passed with our play until the clock chimed 5:30. We, the olive whore included, made our way to the tavern.

The tavern had been closed that day, not to say we couldn’t get in with a special key, which Dark Moon was somehow able to obtain after my letter pleaded to him. It was a two story building, green and gold on the outside, but brown and rustic on the inside. The vestibule was purposely decorated to look as a legitimate hotel, keeping off any law. A spell was set around it also, only affecting mares. I was beginning to see the tavern had a very specific purpose.

When we arrived there was only one mare waiting.

“A bald and fat one?” said Ponet.

“My, of all the mares to expect…”

When the three of us walked into the ‘lobby’ she greeted us warmly and asked when she would receive her hair formula, I told her to have a seat and wait; that we were working in the backroom. The next thirty minutes saw four more mares arrive. We held them for a good half hour, waiting for our three other fellows to arrive, causing a particular mare to become agitated and try to leave. To her discovery, the door was blocked off by a force field, and her magic was disabled. She became quite flustered along with the rest of them. Ponet, with a fluent voice and soothing smile calmed the situation, and quite impressively so. Eventually I saw another two ponies, stallions, come in.

“Sorry, sorry if we’re late,” said Arpeggio, “me and Moon were caught up with a charming filly.” A few paces behind him came the familiar and welcomed face of Blossomforth.

“Heh, sorry about that,” she said, “I guess I didn’t know the directions after all, these two said they were going to the same place.”

“Hm,” I said, then turning to the other two. “Where’s Black Marble?”

“Oh he’s coming, just busy with some... fraud,” said Moon.

“Perhaps we start now?” said Ponet.

“Perhaps so,” said I.

The mares, with the exception of Blossom, were quite suspicious at this point. We assured them of their dreams and they followed, all except for the same slobbering unicorn that made a fuss earlier, she was pushed in.

What was laid out within was similar to a typical bar. It was definitely not high-class, but there was something too enigmatic about it to be poor-colts bar. A long, dark, dented wooden counter was laid out, with cushioned barstools appropriately half its height in front of it. A large assortment of drinks in all wines and liqueurs and beers, in all colors and flavors and brands, were set up on a multitude of wood shelves behind the counter. A somewhat crude painting of Marmor Block, one of the lead designers of the foundation of Canterlot, was hung to the very right of the drink shelves. Yellow tinted windows were put about at random places on the wall, with tables of ornaments and statues and fragrances below them. The primary source of light came from three mildly bright orbs of light on the ceiling, close together and coming from a magical source. Behind the drinking area was a single pole on an elevated stage with a single light shining onto it. There were no toys or instruments here, what was done had to be done with your own body.

I could not compare the whimsical vibe I got from bar with none other than that of a far-east shop. I thought to myself ‘who would visit such a place?’ A fanciful building in the middle of an upper-class street, so crudely decorated on the inside, without name and I never having seen it once before today.

“What would you drink?” said Arpeggio.

“I don’t drink.”

“Anything’s fine.”

“Your common brand,” I said.

“You flatter me,” said Arpeggio, he then began shuffling around the drinks.

“Hah! It’s all alphabetical.”

“Uhm, my contract?” asked a mare behind us.

Just then the door busted open and in came Black Marble looking high and proud, a line of six or so filly’s following, all dressed in rich lingerie.

“Late, but I’ve brought company,” he said.

“Good,” I said, “we were a bit low.”

The mares who came earlier all sat in a row on a wooden bench to the far right of the room. All were growing distressed, all except for Blossom.

“I need no drink for what I do.” said Ponet walking near the bench. “You there, the pinkish grey.”

“Me?” said Blossom.

“Hm, why are you here?”

“Well I was told I was going to be given a chance on the Canterlot weather tea—”

“Weather? Weather—yes—let me tell you a story of weather. When I were a young colt, fifteen, I was tasked with delivering a very special letter to a Saddle Arabian civil officer. While there, I became quite taken with its culture and decided to stay a little while; Equestria didn’t need me too much. While in Jerhoofsalem, I would stand atop a bronze structure, some hotel, and watch a young filly across from me on an equally high building. She would practice ballet every day, her father would mentor her.

Now this filly was simply astounding, with her tight pink suite, laced and leathered across, meant to perfectly cover her lean, lithe body form. Her arched back and perked flank seemed to inflame something unique in me. I can say that from the little I seen of her, she was the craze and a complex of an unexplored territory of fantasy.”

From what I had heard thus far, I was only growing more kindred with the letter colt.

“Now, one of her ballet practices was balancing a single hoof on a block at the edge of the rooftop. She became sterner, stiffer with each practice of it. She had a peculiar way of leaning forward while she was doing it, mostly on purpose, her father warned her not to do this. ‘Stand straight’ he said, ‘disciplining oneself is to stand straight—not push forward—but to achieve perfection in correct form.’ You see, every day she would lean further, not more than a centimeter. ‘You continue to push for nothing and you will die for nothing,’ he said. ‘I do not push for nothing,’ said the filly, ‘I wish to discipline myself in my strength and constitution.’ ‘You must perfect your straight stance first,’ said the father. ‘I have already perfected it,’ she responded.

It was my last day there and I was watching her the last time, she was leaning greatly forward. I had decided while watching her that I was going to confront this filly before I left. I would finally meet her and ask of her name, so perhaps I could return to her one day. But just as I made this decision I saw the filly struggle with her forehooves waving in the air, she took a small, involuntary jump from the block and fell from the building. Her last sight as she screamed was me; I saw her shocked eyes meet my shocked face. Soon I heard a loud splatting, I saw her limbs contort and her skull burst and her brains scatter across the ground.

What does this all mean? It means a mare is unreliable on her own. If disobedient, she will surely fall to her death.”

“But… what does this have to do with the weather?” asked Blossom.

“Twas a gust of wind that knocked her off!” he said with gusto. “Anyways, to be a Canterlot weather flyer, you must first learn discipline and obedience to superiors, for your own safety. Now, I will be your coach, your superior. You see I'm not a Pegasus, but neither was the filly's father a ballet dancer. Now your acrobatic moves are key, therefore I'd like to see you dance."

“Dance?”

“Yes, cloud chasing is more than a job, it is an art, learn to do it delicately. Now dance—that pole right there.”

“Yes, show us those gymnastics you talked of,” I said.

She looked around uneasily before Ponet pushed her to the stage. Once there she stood still again. Ponet clapped his hooves.

Perhaps feeling she had no choice, she started a dance. Her movements were simple at first, a small wiggle of the body, sway of the hips. Oddly, the lighting in the room became noticeably dim and the light above the pole noticeably brighter. A gentle tune came from somewhere in the darkness. Her delightful, smooth coat shone in the light like the glint of a hoisted sword, in great contrast to the shady aperture that had befallen the rest of the bar. Her youthful movements, her sway, they were all natural. Her tone, her definition, acquired and molded perfectly to her body. Her dance loosened from its original stiffness near a minute in, her eyes dilated and her mouth slightly dropped. An aroma similar to that of ambrosia filled the air.

The bar certainly had an interesting effect.

The dance had barely gone beyond a few simple motions, and I was already erect and sweating. I looked behind me; even the other mares were becoming entranced.

Her movements picked up, her face became stern again, but something different and alluring lurched beneath it. She crossed a leg, then another one, then her hind-legs. Her eyes closed while the rhythm picked up. Every movement, from a turn of her neck to a shake of her hips became eloquent. She turned around and like an exotic professional she shook her haunches to the left and right, lowered and raised her front and end body, moving her tail side to side ever so slower than the rest of her. A flick of liquid came from between her legs and landed in a glass in front of me. Eagerly, I drank it.

She turned around again, flicking her familiar hair in what seemed to be slowed down motion. Her eyes were now glowing in their natural blue, intoxicated with some ethereal air. She brought a hoof up to her mouth while still dancing; she took a lick with her crimson tongue and brushed her hoof down her chest.

I suppose now is when her gymnastics came into play. She leaned backwards, arching her stomach and touched the floor in an astonishing display of flexibility. Her gleaming cunt, with a small bead of cum dripping down, was in full display of everyone. She took her show a step further, laying on her upper chest and neck, then flexing backwards once more to where her hind-legs touched the sides of her head and her tail dropped over her face. She grabbed the folds of her vulva and pulled them apart, making her red pussy gape.

Her flexing continued, much to the awe of the crowd. I had never seen a more captivating performance of sensual movement, or a more alluring, dripping wet sex. I was biting my lip as her rear once again sashayed in my direction. I could see her every bits, from her winking, red cunt to her puckered plothole placed between her two firm cheeks. The potent scent of her lust stirred amongst the ambrosia, bringing me to an erratic action.

I got up from my chair and walked somewhat groggily to the pole. She didn’t stop her dance. Feeling some unforeseen force push me on, I grabbed the filly by the shoulders and mounted her. She gasped but did not stop moving, she started gyrating against my hips. The soundtrack stopped, the lights that had been focused on the stage disappeared and yellow-radiance came back to the rest of the bar.

A pulsating, wet heat covered my shaft as I dug into the mare; her screams of lust decreased and went more to those of pain in each passing second. I looked to my right to see all my associates and a few of the mares masturbating to the sight, all having an illuminating feature to their eyes. In a few quick and heavy thrusts, I pulled out and ejaculated my warm fluid into the crevice of her ass. By this point, the effect on everyone from earlier had worn off. I looked down at the whimpering Pegasus; her mane had been stained slightly. The position I was in made me uncomfortable, not because of the others watching, most of whom had gotten to their own work, but because of crying filly’s body now felt cold and rough. There was something oddly… uneven to her body now. I jumped off from the stage and went back to my table.

My maid joined me, she sat five feet away and somewhat across from me and hung her head in a manner reminiscent of the night I met her. There was something soothing to her presence, the uneasiness from earlier wore off, just a little. She had done great service lately; I considered the idea of rewarding her with bits again.

“Do you drink?” I asked.

“I… used to drink cherry,” she said.

“Sir, a cherry will you?” I yelled to Arpeggio, still playing bartender.

The sluts and mares had gotten their fill of degradation; a few more were sent up to the stage to liven the mood, to achieve an imitation of Blossom’s dance, it effects worked on all but me. Oddly, I felt absolutely spent. For the rest of the night I drank away, taking seventeen shots of the common brand. My maid had left by the tenth shot, having been asked to dance. My thoughts became muddled from the alcohol; while my maid obediently flaunted her bubbled bottom on the stage I oddly began to analyze cock size. I was average it appeared, something around fourteen inches, the same went for the others except Ponet, who was seventeen I believe. Moon hid his under a table and shuffled nervously all night, and come to think of it, he was the only one who hadn’t indulged, instead he stared at the painting of Marmor Block while tapping one hoof on the other, slowly turning his head in his usual fashion and ending up looking quite ghoulish.

The bar, having a life of its own, started to circle me, the dim yellow changed to a multitude of colors that flew from one area to the other, leaving trails in my eyes. Music had faded only to an echo.

“I have to leave,” said Dark Moon, sometime on my twelfth glass, “business purposes.” He quickly got up and shot to the door. I was in such a drunken stupor that this hadn’t concerned me. What had concerned me was who walked in shortly after. I could discern a grey stallion that was walking towards me looked familiar; it wasn’t until he spoke that realized who it was.

“Star, you went through with it?”

I looked into his aquatically blue eyes.

“Jet Set?”

“I don’t believe we gave you access here,” he said.

“Well Jet, I’m afraid this isn’t my complete work.”

“Of course it isn’t,” he said, then snorting in his pompously insufferable way. “We’ve been keeping an eye on you; I and the magistrate were impressed for the most part.”

“Watching me?”

“Yes, watching you analyze and convince. You’re quite good at ‘pimping’, too bad those skills can’t be applied to noble life.”

He circled my table.

“You see, the clients were made up, there was only me and Night Light. We set twelve mares around the city, paid them to wander and wait for you to find them, we watched you, and saw that you found seven.”

“The seven who didn’t come tonight?”

“Yes, that’s how I know of your trespassing here, from the letters you sent. I suppose it’s true skill to find five precise mares who weren’t placed. Well, almost five, the sulking Pegasus over there, who I assume was supposed to be the magistrate’s, has freckles.”

“Well I looked every—”

“Did you bother looking in the library?”

“Uhm—”

“There’s one to the east. His wife was there, she matched the description precisely.”

He stopped walking.

“I see you found my request, which should have been the hardest one,” he said, looking to my maid who was rubbing herself off on the floor in her own atmospherically induced mania. “I’ve also seen you’ve grown quite possessive of her.”

“Do you wish me to return h—”

“I don’t care, that’s not up to me. That was the only test was of my making, the only unknowing one of the placements. Your charges of rape and enslavement may still be up for decision. Personally, I think you have done a job far from perfect, but clearly you have some kind of affinity for this. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait,” I said, “what was the purpose of this? What were these tracking test’s for?”

“I suppose you’ll never know,” he said, “you failed after all.”

With that he left, and I was left more deflated than before. Glass after glass, my binge continued. At some point one of Marbles sluts had begun to suck me; I hadn’t noticed it until I looked down at having dropped and shattered my seventeenth glass. She was a face I had seen a month ago, it was Royal Ribbon. Her indigo eyes now shimmered with coquetry.

“Your name?” I said.

She stopped and placed her front hooves over my lap. She smiled.

“You know my name.”

“Your business?”

She laughed. “To pleasure you of course.”

“Pleasure me? If you wish to pleasure me, turn around.”

Happily she did so, presenting her rear to me. She backed up and gave a little shake of it on my chest. I placed my hooves on her flank and pushed her off. Still, I kept my hooves in place and spread her cheeks to get a better view of her. It certainly looked rewarding, but even in my drunken trance I could see a fault.

“You’re not wet,” I said, “or winking.”

“What? Of course I am.”

“You take me a fool for my drunkenness?”

“But I’m turned on, really!”

“Then perhaps there is something wrong with it, I suppose I’ll have to use your other hole.”

I saw her genitals amusingly contract. “W-well i-if that’s your kink and all—”

“My kink,” I said, “is an attendant who shuts up.”

I sat her down atop my cock and watched as her little pucker gradually dilated. She offered little resistance but her muscles were still tight. She grimaced uncomfortably as I continued to push inside her backdoor, the constricting, warm tightness melting away that weariness I suffered from before. I could tell it was her first anal, I didn't care; I was doing it all dry. An old fervor sparked in my lower regions and I started drastically quickening the pace, much to her dismay.

But to my own dismay I could not focus, things such as the rising sickness in my stomach and the howling of Black Marble in his now greatly emphasized northern accent pulled me away from my task.

“I found a’little interesting, child a’ thieves he is.”

Eventually I felt completely lost.

“You e’re heard a prince who cheats? O’er vale north to th’ crystals.”

“Stop pointing that at me you drunk fuckwit.”

I grunted in discomfort and wiped the growing sweat from my head with my handkerchief. Feeling hotter, I discarded the suit I was wearing and threw it across the floor.

“Star, Star, your jacket!”

“I know!” I yelled. I looked at the cerise mare below me. I felt even more sickened, out of touch. Soon I felt I couldn't take it, and quickly dismounted her and got up. She gave a sigh and fell forward as I paced to the door.

“You too?” said Ponet.

“Feeling ill, Orion?” said who I thought was Jet Set.

“Sorry” I said. I pulled open the creaking, wooden door and walked into the vestibule. From there I opened another door and departed from the masked, eccentric bar and stumbled into the cool, malefic night.

It was quiet, calm. The stone pavements felt cold. The night was clear, every star lucid and adorning to the bright, barren moon. In my befuddlement, I thought this night eternal just as I thought the last. I thought that moon unmoving and of those stars that glimmered across the expansive eternity. I thought myself nothing but a drifting recluse, bound to walk a cold plane on an empty night under a sky full of celestial objects bound to the same fate. I thought it hauntingly beautiful to walk the eons on this desolate road, no thought or goal, but free from the chains of matter and sensibility. And I felt it wonderful that I should detach myself enough to believe so.

Two ponies, one white and one blue, walked past in the distance, their figures appeared shadows in the midnight hue until they were lightened by walking under a golden streetlamp, only to disappear together again into the shrouded dark. A wagon carriage far off stopped and let out an old and withered Pegasus, the carriage sped off and its shadow flickered on the ground as it rapidly passed the hanging lights. A group of ponies, all colors, dressed identically in a striped patterned wear walked by to the right of me. I entered a street lined with yellow lamps on both sides. Flowers, serene and lovely, reminding me of some faint mental fragment passed me. The streets were dark again; I stepped on something, a bug I thought. The world appeared the reflection of a mirror, alive and with its traits but in some other existence.

Something tall, familiar approached me, the monument. It was dark, ominous; the moonlight did little to change this. I leaned the front of myself onto it. I remembered my author was supposed to meet me here the day before. I remembered seeing it made when I was a child, at that time I thought it a comforting addition to the scene. A tall monument it was, jutting from the earth and holding its dominance over at that scene now.

I tried my best to think coherent. The only thing that came clearly to me was Ponet, so I fixated on him. I thought of the similarities of us, what was of him that is or may be of me. He acted so cruelly to my maid because my story was his, my wretched fixation was avenged but not his. There was a problem here, some inherent fault. The story he told, it could not be a lie—a ploy perhaps to startle the mare, but I could see it was told in some degree of truth.

A letter boy, hiking across the earth. Me, roaming these streets again. Maybe we were not that kindred, something was of him that was not of me. He is too much of an enigma; I dared not venture to think of his truth.

I backed up and saw just how tiny the monument appeared to the marble towers surrounding it, how out of place, and I understood just why it was ignored by all but the few. It no longer held its dominance. I touched it again and felt nothing from it. It was harder and colder than the stone ground.

I turned back and continued to stumble my way more through this hazy night. The steps lost their sense after a while, I found myself walking as a ghost, feeling I had no eminence left on this earth. This walking did not cease for what I perceived to be hours, not until I stumbled upon the spindled library again, not until all thoughts, the ghostly form I thought I was, absorbed into one spot of my soul. The balance between the night and day, the freedom from my sun and moon, that figure that lay above the ground absorbing the greatest pursuits of this idle life.

There were those redundant stairs, the trees and plants grown around it—the door—the tall shelves—the giant windows, the stairway upwards again—more books—finally her bedroom. I can say that my ghostly feeling increased, but the world became less reflective. I shuffled around her bed sheets, opened all unlocked drawers, analyzed all pictures, admired her general tidiness. I thought of her noticing my rummaging, so I tried to fix it, but little could be done about it in my drunken state. Perhaps I would’ve wanted her to discover me, perhaps I would want myself ruined and receiving of what I deserved.

I went into a wardrobe and saw a neatly arranged set of ceremonial dresses; they all had a peculiar scent. An idea enrolled in me. I went somewhere further down the hall and found the laundry hamper and dug through it until I found a pinkish-white dress; it had an inner lining that pushed against her mild form nicely. I gave the end of it, where the pony’s plot had been place, a slow lick. It tasted somewhat bitter but something about the act made me harder than anything else did that night. I gave another lick, then a sniff, a very particular scent.

A door opened, a spattering was heard downstairs. I froze and quickly staggered to the bedroom. I locked myself within a wardrobe next to her dresser. I heard hoofsteps, faint voices, then another door opening. I very slightly opened the wardrobe and saw a pony and a dragon step into the bedroom.

“So did you really beat down Celestia’s sister?”

“I would rather say we freed her, Spike.”

I found this intriguing, but I tried to forget it, perhaps believing what I heard an illusion.

“Can’t believe I missed it.”

“I wouldn’t have brought you along anyways, Spike, it was dangerous. Now please, get some rest, we’re moving to Ponyville tomorrow, remember?”

“Right, but why are we back here again?”

“To get a few items I need to bring along. Now goodnight.”

“Alright—alright, goodnight Twi.”

Moving to Ponyville? I thought. I had barely ever heard of the place, I wondered why such a mare would be moving there, I wondered why she would be moving there now. I thought it perhaps had something to do with this ‘Celestia’s sister’ business. My head was wracked with emotions—the sadness—the anger—the audacity of such…

I saw her fall asleep. I straightened my back.

I waited a few minutes; when I heard her breathing turn deep, I crept from the wardrobe, liquid and alcohol blurring my vision, and made my way to the door. I intended to finish the trip there until I turned to look at the purple pony, and saw that the moonlight shone directly on her. I don’t know if it was the dampness in my eyes or the sentimentality of my heart, but something was magnified, gleaming about her. She slept in peace, her visage was serenity. A short smile graced her face; the day must have been wonderful for her. Her hooves cutely hugged a blanket. I walked up to her, admired her, then gradually descended my gaze from her upper body to her slimmed stomach. The bed sheets covered her up to there.

I thought… perhaps I could get away with just a peek.

I pulled up some of the star-patterned sheet from the side of the bed, moving it just past to where the tips of her hind-hooves stuck out. I continued until her hind-legs were fully visible, then with a sigh, I pulled further to the left and up, until her plot just barely stuck out from the blankets. Truly, I thought, this was the only chance I’d ever get.

I lowered myself down for a better look. Her tail was blocking some of my sight, gently I moved it. I saw placid, a smooth, pristine cunt, molded in perfection and jutting only slightly from her sleek purple coat. Trailing up her taint, just a little above it was a creased pucker. Oh shame, I thought, what a shame I could never enjoy the fruits of her body.

I thought… perhaps I could get away with just a touch.

Tentatively, I lifted my hoof and gave an awkward poke of her muff. It was soft. I ran my hoof up to her tailhole and back towards her vulva. Something of an involuntary movement happened, her hoof twitched. It startled me, and I figured then I should have been leaving.

But then I thought... perhaps I could get away with just a taste. Yes.

I slowly moved my head in and gave her cunt just the lightest lap with my tongue; it was dry and tasted only of flesh. I licked her ass, it tasted of nothing peculiar, but I noticed the pressure of my hard erection increase twelve-fold. I gave another lick, a sniff. She gave no movement to any of this, her breathing was still deep.

The thought of penetration quickly entered me. I lifted myself up and gently placed my front-hooves on the bed, careful to put them far apart and to the sides of her body. Biting my tongue, I inched closer to her taintless sex. When I reached it with my tip, I looked up to the mare, she was still sleeping sound. My stomach felt eerie again. I kept my eyes on her face while I pushed in just the slightest. This caused her to groan and move about. I quickly pulled out and hid behind the end of her bed. A few seconds later she calmed down but I had not. I felt nothing but the sickness in the pits of my guts and a cold and hot tingle spread through my back and up to my neck.

I tensed myself and tried to get up. With effort, I was able to leave the room without looking back. I don’t know how long I stumbled through the library, trying to find the stairs, the door, making sure I did not fall on the lack of support. When I did find my way out, it was still night, my sickness had but slightly left. Much of my drunkenness had left me and my sense of touching the ground began to return. I soon found myself in the square and I soon saw again that rigid wooden bench I sat on the day of the regalia ceremony. I lay onto it and quickly descended into sleep.

It was some pony’s tender shaking that awoke me. At first, I thought it strange the sun did not wake me as usual; I found it was behind me. When I opened my eyes to the sight of a dark pony, my memories came back, and I realized I was not on my soft bed settled by my maid, but I was on that awful bench.

“Star, are you awake? Wake up.”

I sat up straight and immediately felt a throbbing headache; I also noticed my upper wear were gone.

"It's 7:00, only a few have seen you."

"Huh?" I said. "Moon? Is that you?" I stopped rubbing my eyes and allowed my vision to adjust. As I had thought, it was Dark Moon.

“Are you alright? They said you left in a hurry.”

“As did you,” I said.

“Come on, get up, we’ll go to the coffee shop, I know great ways of getting rid of a headache such as yours.”

I got up and rubbed my head, I tried recollecting what I could; all that I remembered then was the bar, Jet Set’s conversation with me and Twilight. The last one exercised particular prominence in my mind and within seconds I made connections of all that had happened leading up to my visit to her library.

“She’s leaving!” I said.

“Who?”

“Moon, do you know of the magistrates’ daughter?”

“Possibly.”

“Do you know of my interest?”

“I… may.”

“I… I must leave.”

After that I sprinted down the street as fast as my weary body could take me. I had resolved to confess my feelings to her, it wasn’t a well thought plan, but I dearly needed her to stay.

I tried remembering the specifics of the way there, but I found it practically impossible given my painful inability to think at the time. The further I ran the more I broke down. I could not ignore the headache or the rising feeling in my gut, and I remember collapsing by a corner in front of a couple gasping commoners; after vomiting, I struggled to my hooves again. At some point, presumably after an hour, I did reach the library, just in time to see the purple filly pack up the last of her supplies into a flying carriage.

She was radiant with happiness, straight and perky, her little dragon friend stood close by, marking some list with a quill. Twilight turned to talk to the dragon, he marked something else off the list; the two exchanged a few sentences and laughed. The sight managed to somewhat subdue my headache and clear my thoughts, the latter effect faded as I approached her though. The dragon ran away back into the tower while Twilight checked over the long list.

“Make it quick Spike!” she yelled as he ran away.

She finally took notice of me when I was around ten feet from her. She looked up, her smile fading. This disturbed me, but soon her smile came back and so did my poise. She sat the list down on the carriage and took a small breath.

“Hello miss,” I said.

“H-hi Star!”

“You remember my name?” I said a little stunned.

“Of course, we met a few days ago, right?” Her ear twitched. “I’m… very sorry for running away, I was just… unready.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“My names Twilight Sparkle, and I... really have to leave soon, I'm sorry if we missed a chance of being friends.”

“That’s… fine,” I said. “You weren’t ready.

She sighed and mused aloud about what was taking her dragon so long. There would have been no better time in the future to confess than then, and I tried, I forced my back straight and tried, yet I couldn’t. There was something in her, around her, some ghost, something I long searched for, rather unknowingly. I saw the paths of these two could not be interrupted, not the delicate little mare who freed a suns sister, or her little dragon, hatched by her and bound to live the millennia with assured purpose. No, she was of too much value, too much value to Equestria, too much value to this harrowing earth, and I could only assume too much value to Ponyville.

It was those eyes, those purple, crystalline eyes, so distant, so near, so very, very delicate. Those eyes, her smile, the air. I could never forget in my treacherous and detestable life what a lesson her mere appearance taught me. Oh what a splendid picture she was, a twilight landscape, a heroine in the morning light, clipped onto a dry and cracked wall.

She had nervously begun to look at the ground, I could see it was time for me to leave; she could have nothing to do with me.

“I suppose I only wish you the best of luck,” I said, “in whatever adventures you partake, and may you find much friendship.”

I turned to leave, not even looking at her reaction, when suddenly I remembered the picture book, still in my jacket.

“Oh!” I said. “I have this.”

I handed it to her.

“A friend of mine who used to work with the gifted.”

She looked over it, and, realizing what it was, gasped and faced me. She smiled again, a smile of sincerity.

“Th-thank you sir, thanks, I... really,” she said.

I did a small bow, smiled back and walked away, only turning once from a distance to see the dragon run out from the library carrying some book.

“I got it Twi!”

“Great…”

The voices faded, the two turned into yet another permanent fragment, a moving frame steadfast in rushing waters leading to some slum alley duct. Not to be found and burned by some beggar or morphed by some smith.

After this, it occurred to me not a single thing from last night’s walk was present on my run to the library; it was a short thought that mattered little. Oddly, I thought primarily of Ponyville, what its inhabitants may be, its design, it festivities. I continued a slow drifting motion; my head hung low, aching and drifting in thought for quite a while until Dark Moon found me again.

“Had you gone to the library?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“No good?”

“No, it’s for the best.”

We walked silently for a few minutes before I spoke to him.

“Where had you gone last night?” I asked.

He walked silently for a few seconds more.

“Well… I had gone to the magistrate.”

“Night Light? For what?”

“It was regarding your crimes. He had been on the fence about letting you go after the awry summer sun event. I knew of Jet Set’s harsh reviewing, I knew of his coming, I saw him on the way out. I had to talk to the magistrate, or ‘Night Light’ beforehoof.”

“Well?” I said.

“Well you’re safe. Apparently he’s retiring, his son being promoted to a Royal Captain and his children's success—his familial obligations complete. He seemed quite proud, ‘meritorious service in the lower Canterlot riots’ he said.” Moon smiled briefly.

“Thank you for your concern,” I said.

“You’re welcome.”

Again, we walked silently, I mostly followed him and I assumed he was walking me to the coffee shop. It was a cool morning, calmer than most others.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, “as you know, I had gotten you into it. I didn’t know to what extent they wanted to push this hobby of yours. Their intentions for you changed along the way, you wouldn’t have enjoyed their ‘splendorous reward’, trust me.”

“I do.”

“Please know that I and the other three only ever intend to help you.”

“I do. I assure you I have never had a better group of associates than you and them.”

“Associates? Do you still call us that?”

“You are aren’t you?”

“Star, come now, we are your friends, your only friends, you cannot deny that. It is what I am of you and what I greatly consider you are of me.”

We stopped walking.

“We are not aristocrats; we are merely the rich and lucky who happen live in the marble structures, considerably different from anyone, socially speaking. We are forever apart of some underbelly, and as much as we try we cannot connect to the nervous system. We can only help each other. These sly charlatans are never worth it anyways, not to say you can’t engorge in their fancies. Wealth, power, fame, these are not noble pursuits, but they are necessary, else you be spit out from this despicable charade and left not even with food and water. So I bring myself here, if we must mingle with these dregs, let us do it at the grandest place of all.”

He levitated five tickets out of his shirt pocket. They were golden and easily recognizable.

“An expression of gratitude for all my friends,” he said.

After all this, I didn’t know what to think. But surely I began to tremble and soon I was on the pony in some sweet embrace.

“Oh the fool I am!” I said. “Forgive me Moon, you have done so great for me what I never returned.”

“You gave us all quite the experience last night, your friends loved it.”

I remembered the bar and all its extravagances. I remembered I brought along Ponet and my maid.

“My maid!” I said.

“She’s fine, we walked her home.”

“And the other mares?”

“Taken care of, memory wipe.”

“Oh a suitable few you all are!”

From then onwards I did call them friends.

After a long time of more walking, once more talking of the routine things, I departed from Moon and went aimlessly in another direction. I continued on in search of nothing, for I found what I then needed. Although my body was still weak, my headache then had almost dissipated and I resolved I would walk all day.

As happy as I was, there was still much on my mind. I thought of Olive, I couldn’t let her go, for even though I escaped its consequences this time, I would most likely not the next, had she decided to again tell. I decided I was going to renew my relationship with her the best I could. Perhaps reverse my severe transgressions on her, as impossible as that sounded. Still, maybe she truly liked what it was now.

Everything I had done seemed morbid now; I knew not how to fix all this, there were plenty of ponies who were done wrong by me, wrong I could not reverse or apologize for. This weight measured increasingly against me until I popped back up and entered apathy.

I thought of my ticket to the Grand Galloping Gala, I had only gone once before, the biggest event of all year. Perhaps I would see my librarian again, perhaps I would give her the firmest hoofshake she had ever had, and perhaps I would remain rather refined in her memory.

I passed the jade monument again, shining in its glory and perfection, but still only being noticed by the few. I finally got the idea to see who made the thing. I walked up and looked at its carved signature.

Marmor Block

Hah.

So I trudged on again towards the spires of royalty, alone, somewhere in a court of lies and mammon, on a seamless march to claim something, to fulfill anything on this mighty earth—my heart forever bound to walk among these stone steps and marble towers, to forever search for some faint shadow of content. Like another raindrop fallen on a window among the storms fury, flawlessly flowing to a death below, all the passed souls collecting in a tepid puddle.

I tell you a mere echo, but also moment of change. Did I follow through? In a sense I did. But truly nobles can never keep their noble promises. I still look back, and I realized I escaped, all had eventually worked out, and I had gotten away again.

But I’m still left holding to some phrase, some abstract likeness to express this period of my life. I find in the center of it all it wasn’t me, but it was her, her who lingered in my heart, in my mind, in every garden and every alley and every sunrise and every sunset. Her, who was fulfilled, who soon claimed, who was not polluted, who I held love, grief, regret, faint disdain. I see what was done to me; I see I never had a chance.

If there is still one other thing I'm sure of, I still have my dreams, my thoughts, my solitude, that which cannot be violated, that which can create and destroy, that which allows me to continue this mad walk. And yet still I’m left with the question: what am I to do?

I suppose, like everyone else, I can only try.