Chapters Creature: Rainbow Dash
She was a thing, an it, a something else. That’s what attracted Dash to her in the first place; she’d always been a sucker for the underdog. Not that Gilda had needed any back up, oh no, as a matter of fact after Dash had stood up for her the first time she was rewarded with a swift punch to the nose. Never being one to take anything laying down Rainbow Dash had turned into the fight with her hooves flying and teeth bared. Later as they both sat outside the coordinator’s office, bags of ice taped to various body parts, she’d been given a high five for “kicking ass dude”.
Maybe that entrance should have tipped her off, but Rainbow had simply been happy to finally make a friend that could not only keep up with her but even knock her back. Gilda was tough; she flew hard, didn’t cry, and never once left Dash hanging. After so many years of wanting a friend she’d gotten a best friend. So what if she was a griffon? So what if griffons are a bit rough on the edges? Gilda swore that she’d never killed another sentient being, although she was very proud of, and more than happy to show off, her ability to hunt. Then again Gilda had promised and swore to a lot of things. Things like never abandoning Dash. And where was she now?
Dash wanted to imagine that Gilda was out in the mountains somewhere, gliding silently over a stream looking for a fish to catch. Or maybe she was relaxing on a cloud preening her feathers and giving an occasional roar to scare the birds. But she was never doing the things that they did together.
There was no late night clubs and fake IDs, no nicked drinks or cigarettes. She wouldn’t steal kabobs from the street vendors or a pair of sunglasses from some chump who wanted to charge double their worth. There were no back alley fights or pick-ups. No, those had all been partner things, nothing fun about them without a best friend there to help pick up the heat or smooth ruffled feathers. There was no best friend to spend a night in jail with, listening to some wind bag try to convert them into perfect little angels who they would mock. No best friend to crash with at the end of a wild night when both would be too exhausted to do more than laugh and then snore the night away. There was no best friend to pick you up when you fell, or push you down when you needed it. Those were all things that were special, special to them as friends, and Dash didn’t want to think that Gilda could do them without her there. Without her best and only friend.
So instead Dash put her in a natural environment with all the creature comforts, but without the joy.
Button: Fluttershy
Sewing requires very careful hoof-mouth coordination, and either the patience to check your project every few seconds or the ability to feel it out with nose and chin. If you spend too much time on it you could end up hurting lips and tongue, probably neck too from all the hunching. At least she did usually. But that never stopped her. Fluttershy loved to sew; she probably loved it as much as her most fashionable friend did. The difference was that Fluttershy didn’t have magic. With magic sewing was simple, a snap comparatively speaking. With magic a pony used the most basic spell, levitation, and at most had to hold the cloth aloft which would make visibility difficult. Hoof made was a hard road to go down thanks to its tedious and difficult nature; even with inventions like the sewing machine it was hard. A sewing machine needs magic to operate, so if you aren’t a unicorn you better find one. Of course she didn’t care for the easy road, oh no, Fluttershy liked the fact that there was one thing she could push herself to do. Even if the result was just a patched quilt.
She’d taken up the hobby as a filly; actually it had been when she fell from Cloudsdale and landed on the ground. Upon finding Ponyville she’d asked for help to get home. Well, she’d waited nervously unable to ask out of terror until an old and very near sighted unicorn had tripped over her. After bumbling out a half heard explanation she’d been dragged back to the old mare’s home, a carved out tree on the edge of town. After stumbling around and muttering that she was lost, the mare had declared that Fluttershy would stay the night. And Fluttershy was grateful for that kindness…it didn’t however stop her from crying. She’d never spent the night away from home. The mare had promptly dropped a basket of buttons in front of her along with needle and thread, her reasoning was, “Buttons are beautiful, and sewing them on will take your mind off it.”
Fluttershy was not surprised to later learn that Buttons was in fact her name.
It was hard, and she struggled silently with it that night; trying her best to sew with nothing more than hooves and mouth, all the while watching Buttons as she worked her magic on a set of nearby dresses. But while her cheeks and lips began to ache, Fluttershy had stopped worrying and was instead invested in sewing. When the older mare had finally realized that Fluttershy was in fact not a unicorn she’d offered to do something else with the filly. Her row of little buttons was haphazard and falling apart, a few dropped right off. Fluttershy asked for lessons instead. They stayed up nearly the whole night talking fashion, and by morning Fluttershy had managed to master putting on buttons.
So instead of giving up or in, or letting it push her back, Fluttershy sat patiently with her quilt and sewed. She added several red buttons for decoration and support.
Buoy: Twilight Sparkle
Twilight needed guidance, she needed it like she needed air or water or love. Or at least that’s what she’d always thought. Being raised by first her over protective parents, then her very protective brother and Cadence, then finally under the wings of Celestia herself had left Twilight with a distinct impression that she not only wanted but needed such help. After all there had always been someone hovering over her shoulder to see what she was doing and then weight a judgment on it. And she’d appreciated it, she’d wanted that, and when it didn’t come Twilight got worried.
Was it too much? Too little? The wrong color? Had she gone over the right topic?
Now here she was sitting at the top of her library, her own home in her own town, looking back towards Canterlot. When she squinted Twilight thought she could even make out the tower she used to live in. It was strange, being this far away. Yes she could still see it and just from that Twilight sometimes felt as if eyes were watching her from a distance. Her hair would stand on end as she glanced towards its foreboding shadow, silently levying a judgment on her. And yet…it wasn’t. If she didn’t write Princess Celestia, she’d never hear from Canterlot. Her brother was too busy as Captain of the Guard, her parents were constantly traveling for their research, her teacher had a country to run. She had nothing to hold onto, nothing to guide her anymore, she was lost at sea searching for a passing light.
It was terrifying.
The good ponies of Ponyville looked up to her, they looked to her for guidance and help. It was like getting dragged underwater. She hated it. She loved it. She was completely unprepared but always able to lend a hoof. Was this how the Princess felt? Did Celestia ever look around herself and wonder how she’d manage to keep her head above the tide?
The sun gently sank below, leaving Twilight unable to see Canterlot in the distance. The sun in its eternal grace could no longer light her world, leaving nothing but dusk behind.
She would find a way.
Disclaimer: I’m gonna do this once, I don’t own MLP fim. I don’t own the characters. I don’t make money from this. Sending lawyers to my door with paperwork will just make me cry.
Flowerpot: Applejack
Outside the kitchen window, not a half foot from the house was an old unused flowerpot. It was one of those items that had originally meant something and had been put to good use, but over the years had fallen to the side. A lot of projects went that way on the farm, time and money couldn’t be invested and something as simple as a flower could get ignored until it was too late. Her mother had bought the thing, and one of Applejack’s earliest memories was climbing into the giant flowerpot and curling up in the soil with the flower it housed. These days it sat empty, Applejack had long since dumped the dirt and rocks out with the plan to plant a new flower there someday.
Someday had turned to some week, month, year…maybe another life time from here.
The clay was nearly drained of color, the last vestiges of blue paint clung fearfully onto its sides. Cracks ran along it and a few flakes of broken ceramic littered the ground around it. Years of little hooves climbing in and out of the flowerpot had left their mark; not to mention the years of clumsy mistakes. As time passed she had taken the pot and fixed it up with glue or whatever she could find. That flowerpot was special in its own way. Her mother had meant the flower to live for years as a symbol. Applejack couldn’t remember what the flower itself had been or what it was supposed to mean and couldn’t have cared less. She’d slept in the dirt with it, several times she’d found Apple Bloom curled up inside the empty pot, a few times she’d even seen Mac sitting nearby. He would slowly roll and rotate that flower pot and learn the new breaks and chips, he’d tell Applejack and she’d fix it up again.
She never talked about it with her friends as the words never came to explain why it was important. So Applejack instead promised herself that as soon as she got the chance she’d fix it up good and put a new flower in there. Something special…someday.
Bake: Pinkie Pie
The bakery was sweltering. Pinkie watched as the air danced while the sweat rolled slowly down her brow and muzzle. In the high summer this was the worst place to be, the most miserable place to be, the absolutely most—most—not happy place to be. The heat caused her to be more lethargic and her giant frizzy mane drooped down, a large chunk was over her eyes cutting the world up into pink framed rectangles. As the baker’s assistant it was her job to make sure certain things were done, and like all assistants and interns everywhere she had to suffer a little for her job. The Cakes made sure she had plenty of cool water and took regular breaks, but they were allowed the luxury of planning, designing, and decorating what was made. They passed the recipes along to her and she baked the rounds, the cupcakes, and the cookies. Pinkie would rather spend her time decorating.
Every order she heard Pinkie planned out her own version in her mind. A half circle could be carved from pound cake, and an inverted cone on top of that. A rod through the center to keep it up and steady, some clear but firm plastic on that before the sheets got put on top. Stars on wires and a moon on a string, the observatory telescope could support the weight of the night sky. Purples, blues, a little green for highlights; bronze for the telescope…? Were telescopes even made of bronze? She wasn’t sure, she’d have to check. Yellow and white with a pearl dust for shine on the stars and moon. Maybe she would wire it to rotate slowly so the sky would actually shift in time with the real night sky. A small smile formed as she thought about it, her chin rested gently on the table top. She could ask Twilight about the sky, constellations and all of that…and about the telescope. Maybe she could use a real telescope as the rod for support? Would they like that or would it be scoffed at?
The timer pinged behind her, and Pinkie’s ears twitched gently. The rounds were done. And once they cooled they would be stacked into a boring old four tier cake. The frosting would be piped on by careful and skilled hooves and mouth, a few stars on a plain dark blue background. It would be delicious. The scientists and crowd would love it enough. But it wouldn’t be fun, they wouldn’t smile or laugh from it and everypony could use a laugh now and then, even scientists. Pinkie had to force herself up to grab the over mitt, as she pulled the rounds out the heat rolled out and stung her nose and eyes.
Gossip: Rarity
It was no great secret that Lyra actually believed in humans. Nor was it anything to get your hair in a twist over hearing about Derpy breaking something. But these were the things that passed from one set of lips to an eager pair of ears, their eyes darting both ways before leaning forward. Dish girl, dish! All the news was traded in half hidden insults and barbs, with their own spin and witty commentary thrown in. Oh it was not something Rarity took seriously, because honestly some of it was obviously rubbish and the rest was fabricated to entertain and not inform. That never stopped her from sliding to the edge of her seat with half lidded eyes and a beguiling smile that she’d practiced just to ease these sorts of situations along. Besides she was really most interested to hear what other had to say about her.
Oh, Rarity wasn’t foolish enough to think that most ponies would talk directly about her—although she did have a few that delighted in telling her the word on the street. It was in the way they spoke about others, the details added in, the winks and the conspiratorial nudges. This one thought Rarity to be a snob as was obvious by her constant griping over Bon Bon’s rude manner and poorly executed snips against the upper crust. It was the entertainment that she enjoyed from watching this mare flail about with her words, unaware of how what she didn’t say was more important that what she did. Rarity had always enjoyed a good logic puzzle or mystery, there was something mystical about them and gossip often had both. Especially when you listened carefully to the silence and watched the shadows that moved in the dark.
She justified her conversations as helping her to keep an image, and therefore helping her business. No one makes it famous without an image, and the few imprudent ones who didn’t care never lasted long in the spot light. When the dirty truth comes out and the flaws are there for all to see, even the most spectacular design would lose its appeal. But create a soft lighting, choose the right wall paper, and include just enough honeyed words and even a disaster could look like a rare jewel. That’s what an image is, and that is what must be kept. And to do that one has to learn to put a little bit of their worry and guilt aside; to lean across the two-faced table and say, “Did you hear?”