His Recipe For Love

by Jordan179

Rating: mature
Tags: Romance, Drama, Original Character, Horror, Adventure, Sex, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark
Length: 12535

YOH 1252: Aventurine Miter rhapsodizes in his journal about his love for his wife, Harmonia Pie.

YOH 1252 (248 years Before Luna's Return): Aventurine Miter rhapsodizes in his journal regarding his love for Harmonia Pie, a love which may well last forever, given the nature of Harmonia's rather unusual cupcake recipe. History may name her necromancer, warlock, dark alchemist; but to Aventurine she is but his brilliant beloved wife. Join him as the Hunt begins for the Ingredients of their Food of Life!

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Published 2015-11-01 18:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2015-11-01 18:20:01 UTC

Chapter 1: His Recipe For Love

Chapter 1: His Recipe For Love

1. My Beloved

Few understand my love: fewer sympathize with her; and fewer still can hope to follow the dazzling dreams that dance in her brilliant brain, the products of her sparkling cerebrations. The minds of most mares are leaden; hers is quicksilver. It is far faster and more profound than is my own poor head, and I am accounted smart for a stallion.

Her form is full well lovely, and I will confess that I lust for her in all normal wise -- especially when her cycle has come, and she gets that lickerish look in her red, red eyes, and from her wafts that marescent that is hers and hers alone, and perchance she skips across my path, her long straight raspberry tail twitching to tantalize with glimpses of normally-hidden glories, now half-revealed. And -- ah! -- if that tail should brush, as if by accident (and it is no accident, for well I know her loving dear designs!) -- if that tail should happen to brush across my muzzle, and I discover that it has previously dip't into her very Gates of Paradise, because it is directly scented with her Beloved Essence, and that Essence now be on my very nostrils -- oh, then I am quite undone. The civilized stallion, the glassblower and craftspony and scholar, who has learned Quadrivium and Trivium and much other lore -- he is trampled beneath the hooves of a primitive from the Primal Plains, a great hairy horse who knows naught of learning nor poetry but has only the urge to go into his mate!

Which, of course, I do -- as my darling knew full well that I would, which is why she thus did rouse me. And, when I am within her, my stallionhood both unsheathed and more splendidly sheathed within the warm wet velvet of her marehood, and I am atop her -- I feel her familiar form, so soft and pink and sleek, and yet so strong withal (for she comes of a family of rock-farmers) supporting my greater bulk, shuddering from both my motions and her own, her sweet rump rising to meet my thrusts, her inner reaches pulsing to deliver unto me the most intimate caress -- why, then I lick and nibble at her neck and shoulders, and she chuckles, and turns her dear head to look right into my eyes most lovingly, as if I were some wonder to behold, a Prince out of the vanished North-Realm, rather than a mere artisan who is privileged to be the recipient of her own most rare and precious gifts.

And, when she reaches fulfillment, the expression of blind passion, followed by utter adoration, which shines from her face? And I, knowing myself to be the cause of this great effect? There is no joy to be found in Heaven or on Earth to compare with that, save when I, seeing this, am also overcome with her passion, and we both attain that pinnacle of pleasure together in loving company, at the supreme moment gazing into one another's eyes.

Sometimes we even mate belly to belly, the better to see one another at that moment, though I of course must needs be careful how I rest my weight in that posture, lest I harm my sweet love. There is something about seeing the expressions of lust and love, of joy and ecstasy, playing across her face as I take her that makes my heart explode with happiness, even as another sort of explosion happens in another portion of my anatomy. She loves this too: she tells me that I am her Hero, her Prince, her God; and I almost feel as if I were, at such moments.

Yet for all her manifest physical charms, for all the delight I take in mating with her, it is in truth her intellect that binds me to her. I have rarely met a mare to match her mind, and never one who also has her fiery spirit, her iron will, her mordant wit. When ever I think on the truth that she is real, and that she loves me -- still, after more than a hundred years together, I am humbly-grateful at this reality. For I know I do not deserve her: nopony truly does: yet, still, she chose me. Still, I am astonished at my good fortune.

2. Her Great Discovery

As is it my good fortune that we are still hearty and hale, no older in form than fifty for me, forty for her, though it has been a hundred twenty years since I and over a hundred ten years since she first greeted Celestia's dawn. This is her gift to both of us, the gift of her brilliant mind and the alchemy she has mastered. It is a gift that one day she may give to all Ponykind, once she masters the difficulties which as yet unfortunately require certain Ingredients, difficult to come by and precluding the wider application of her great Discovery.

The Discovery. Such a small word for such a great accomplishment, for something which could so utterly change the World, were we able to make it publick. We cannot, yet, because of the unfortunate shortage of the Ingredients, and the impracticality of obtaining these Ingredients on a sufficiently large scale.

The Food! Ah, the Food, the very Food of Life! Life is sustained by the consumption of organic chemicals which our bodies do convert into new tissue to regenerate our failing Flesh, the necessary housings for our immortal Spirits. This was well-known to the Ancients of the Age before the Cataclysm, and this knowledge survived among the Savants of the North-Realm, being brought to Equestria in the very Hour of the North-Realm's fall by the King's own Beloved -- his learned and faithful Lady Tourmaline.

In the purely Chemical sense, this is a series of simple chemical reactions occurring in the stomach and intestines, which breaks down the food into a form which the Flesh may use directly, both glucose for energy and other stuffs for the chemical synthesis of new Flesh. But in the Alchemical sense, what happens is that we consume and absorb the very Life Force of that which we eat, subsuming its Patterns into our own, Transforming it into our own Selves.

Such Transformation is of necessity incomplete. It would be incomplete in any case because of the loss of Energy at each stage of conversion, that demonic Process called Entropy which is whispered to be the Mother of All Chaos. But it is more incomplete than it must be, due to the differences between our Selves and that which we Consume. This is why, though Ponies be mostly herbivorous, we benefit more from the eating of Fauna than of Flora, and of Meat than of Fish, gruesome as this might sound to the Ignorant.

The conclusion is obvious, or so my Beloved has to me most frequently declared ...

3. A-Hunting We Go!

To find them at all, we must go a-Hunting. We compose certain Preparations, gather our Hunting-Gear, and make it a Family Expedition. Mine own beloved Wife, my sweet Sister and some other Kin, whom we reward for participation in the pursuit of such most dangerous Game with a portion of that most precious Food we can make with the special Ingredient, whose procurement is the Aim of this Enterprise.

We pack away our Potions, Petards and other Bombs, crossbows and spears and swords and knives and nets and other Divers Armaments to use upon our Quarry. They ride beneath bales of Goods, so that to the innocent Eye, we appear but a company of Merchants, carrying our Wares with which to Trade.

We dye our Coats and Manes, changing them from their natural Colors to others, generally others less noticable. This is a sad thing applied to my Beloved Wife: her beautiful Raspberry-Hued Mane, so sleek and straight, puffed out into a Yellow Mop, her bright Pink Coat dulled to a sort of yellowish-brown, even her intense Red Eyes turned Orange with a simple Potion, because those lovely Eyes are far too much Hers. Her face is still Her Own, and the dulcet tones of her Voice, and I know it but Guise, but still I miss the Apperance Proper to Her.

We all alter our Marks, for by this might we otherwise be most easily Identified. We use oil based pigments, touching up the outer parts of our hair on a daily basis, that we might quickly shed these false Marks when it is time to become our own Selves again. To be safe, we often also wear Robes and Cloaks, which is not uncommon among Ponies venturing far from Home, to guard themselves against inclement Weather and the Hazards of the Road. Often these Garments are of bright Hues and phantastickally-decorated with Feathers and Brooches and Sashes and other Ornaments, the gaudier the better, that those who observe us might take notice not of our Selves, but of our Accoutrements.

Thus Outfitted, we journey to the Ends of Equestria, and at times Beyond, into dangerous and disorderly Lands, which are thick with Thieves. Sometimes in the Towns we let them steal some of our Goods, the better that they mark us as soft and vulnerable, natural Victims for more severe Predations. After all, did we travel Unmolested, to what end would we Journey? Always we forget to guard small portions of our Wares, but we keep strict and strong watch on our Preparations and Armaments; we do not want the Thieves to so much as Suspect their Existence.

We usually hire some additional Bearers, Teamsters and Guards, to swell out our Company. 'Tis an old trick of Thieves to hire on with Caravans such as ours pretends to be, and a convenient trick for our own Purposes at times. For all we Hire must Drink with us, and their Drinks are laced with a subtle Potion whose administration forces them to reveal Truth. Those Thieves we uncover may be dealt with at our Leisure. Sometimes they are packed away with the rest of our Bag -- on more than one occasion when the Thieves tried to infiltrate our Party with a large number of Traitors, we ended our Hunt then and there, for we had Bagged enough for our Purposes, and those who thought they would turn on us, instead most happily served our own Purposes. Some of them we may Enthrall with another Potion, and the other Thieves who had thought to find friends amongst our number found instead remorseless Foes.

Then out into the field we go, the Hunt begun in Earnest! We deploy our Spies and Scouts, both Magickal and Mundane. They arrange their clever Ambushes, under constant observation by our skilled Rangers. And then the Bandits launch their attack!

Sometimes they challenge us Openly, hoping to overawe us into Surrender by their Display of Might. Then do we beg and plead for mercy, terrified Merchants who had not realized that such a Potent Foe lay in wait for them. My sweet Sister most especially delights in playing the innocent, terrified young mare at such moments: truly does she understand Honesty, and is adept at its simulation! The expressions on the faces of the Thieves are always most comical at the moment that the Bolts sleet from their hidden apertures, felling their leadership entire, and my Sister draws the Knives she most likes to use, and begins keening her Fighting-Song. She is a pleasure to watch at such moments, though I must confess I always feel some Fear for her, that she might take Harm from the Quarry as she brings them down at Close Quarters.

Sometimes they attempt an Ambush. At such times our Scouts mark their Archers, and the battle begins with the Bandit Archers being cut down by the precise Shooting of our Scouts. These fights be surprisingly Easy if we carry off the Maneuver aright, because the Thieves did depend on their Archers to weaken us before their own Charge comes home, and they are always Dismayed when our unweakened force meets the shock.

And sometimes -- especially when their Numbers be Greatest -- they simply and openly Attack. We use the hirelings as a cushion to take the first shock; they will often break, but it matters not, as while they are breaking the hirelings, we are cutting down their own Leaders, and then our counterattack usually tumbles the Bandits back in Confusion.

We have of course plann'd these ploys in advance, and drill'd them many times before actually embarking on our Hunting-Trips. The Thieves expect this not. And the bombs and petards, the smokes and stinks and sprays of jagged metal, always take them by surprise. Our bolts are tipped with powerful soporifics, and even a scratch from one is enough to put a foe out of the fight.

Of course we also have a plan for escape, and have a few times used it when the odds against us seemed too long, beating hasty retreats under cover of our smoke-bombs. Sometimes this has preserved all our Lives; sometimes we have lost kin and friends. But by the Grace of Life and Light, my Wife, my Sister and my Self have never suffered worse than painful Wounds, in all our years of Hunting. Happily, all three of us are skilled Healers.

Clearly, or so is mine own thought, we have been preserved by Providence, that my beloved Wife might complete her Great Work. My Sister openly scoffs at this, and my Wife but regards me fondly in the manner that from any Mare to her beloved Stallion must have meant "dear idiot," from time immemorial. We have been wed for Nine Decades now, and thus I am no Innocent in this matter; indeed, given the Superiority of my Wife's Intellect to mine own, I may have been the Recipient of this Glance more often than Most Husbands.

4. To Stalliongrad

In the year of Harmony 1252, our Company on the Hunt comprises mine own Self; my beloved wife Harmonia; my sweet sister Honesty; our my huge son Tuneful, whom we all call Tiny; Honesty's winged daughter Ambrosia, who is even sweeter than than her Mother; and Ambrosia's Beloved, a highly-Skilled and highly-Born Mage, who never tires of reminding us all of both Skill and Birth. I love them all, save for Northstar, whom I endure only for the sake of Ambrosia. Privately, I wish him Quarry rather than Companion. But such Thoughts be disruptive of the Harmony which makes Hunts Happy, so I Speak them Not. Though, from certain Looks I share with them, I feel certain that my Wife and Sister, at least, are of One Mind with me on this matter.

This year our Hunt takes us to Stalliongrad, in the lands of the Speakers. These are sturdy Earth Ponies who came east to Equestria over the Cruel Seas many millennia ago, in the years soon after the Cataclysm, and originally settled the lands from the Seas east across the Smokey Mountains, braving the many eruptions which came from their peaks in the great wrecking of the world. Stalliongrad, which lies in the Far Northwest, was in its origin one of their most easterly Settlements, sometimes a vassal of the North-Realm and sometimes an independent City-State.

For many centuries had the city maintined its independence, even as the Speaker Cities to its west had one after another fallen to the savage Griffons, and other Foes. Only in recent years had it finally joined our Realm, when the great Coalition organized by the Griffon high chief, Guntram the Black, essentially gave Stalliongrad the choice between adhering to Equestria or accepting annihilation. Stalliongrad finally surrendered its ancient independence, submitting to Celestia's relatively-mild but still-foreign Rule.

In the wars of the last decade, Stalliongrad had been both a main objective of Guntram's hordes, and the principal Fortress from which the Armies of Equestria carried out the Campaign which led to the death of Guntram. This Victory, won by Captain-Marshal Aquila at the cost of his own Life, was now two years past. Guntram's death Shattered the Griffon Coalition, with both Equestrian and Stalliongrader forces hunting the surviving Griffons through their former Domains, but it did not of course fully Restore the Peace.

For the recent Wars had left Confusion in the Countryside. Masses of Militia had been formed and Discharged when the Need was past. Swarms of Refugees had fled to Stalliongrad, to be fed at the expense of Equestria; the Wars completed, these now must subsist by their own Efforts. Some returned to rebuild their burn't Farms and ruined Villages; others, lost alike to Hope and Harmony, became Vagabonds, whom some among the discharged Soldiery organized into Robber-Bands.

Equestria had expended her supreme Efforts in putting down Guntram and his Hordes. There was little Enthusiasm in Canterlot for the Expenditures needed to quickly Pacify this Frontier. So, those Guard and Militia formations not demobilized did what they could to keep the Bandits away from Stalliongrad and the Towns, while in the Wilderness prevailed mere Anarchy, a problem slowly being solved as Ponies of Good Intent destroyed the Bandits in a hundred little Battles.

We regard ourselves as Ponies of Good Intent, and are willing to do our Part, and in the process acquire Ingredients. Our Hunt would not merely earn us another year of Life, but also do our own Patriotic Part to reduce the Common Enemies of Ponykind. We at all times know our Great Work is Blessed, but this year our Hunt would be of Particular Use to all Decent Ponies, and to us this was Gladsome.

We travel on hoof to the Crystal River, then boat downstream to the Vale of Avalon. Harmonia and I look up at the beautiful spires of Canterlot, and wish that we could return to that lovely City, but such cannot be for us: we could never pass to Princess Celestia, whom we once counted our Friend, as our own Descendants, and she would Mark our Agelessness and surely Question us on its Origin. Perhaps one day when we have Perfected the Recipe, or found another source of Ingredients or their Preparation that we need Hunt no more, we can present the Conquest of Death as a great Gift to all Ponykind, and then will the Princess accept us gladly in Friendship For Ever.

We pass the dreadful Forest of Everfree on the south bank, and make sure to keep well toward the north, knowing that even this does not make us Safe. The north shore is littered with the ruins of one or another Town which was Destroyed when the Fell Beasts of the Forest raided across the river. For the occasion we unpack our Armaments, and keep vigilant eyes peeled Southward. Nothing challenges us, which is for the Best, as we have no use for the flesh of Monsters.

We sail up the Muddy, passing Pietown and South-Dunnich, the place where Harmonia, Honesty and I were born. We yearn to debark at the landing, and race up those well-remembered lanes to see our natal Homes. But that would be fatal to our long-term Plans, for if we ever hope to dwell here again, we must wait until those who knew us in our Youth be Departed. Only thus can we claim to be our own Descendants, rather than three Ponies who have survived, still in our Primes of Life, long past when we should have become Dust or Dotards.

We do watch the passing shore, and mark something Troubling. Many houses seem derelict and falling down, and those still Inhabited are not well Maintained. It seems worse every time we pass this way. Pietown is dying, no longer an important stopping-point on the River-Trade; we have heard that South-Dunnich, dreaming under the White Tails, is almost dead. Yet we know we still have kin there: always have been there Pies and Rocks, Quartzes and Miters, in these hills since the days when many Crystal Ponies fled the Dark King of the North to make new homes in Equestria, in a time now eight centuries gone, so long as to dwarf our own lives, which have lasted scarcely more than a century -- I am the oldest, and I will turn 115 this year.

Harmonia's family is even older than mine. Her family legends say that their rock farm, and rock farming itself, began over twenty-two centuries ago, when the Tyrant of Misrule himself banished Surprise of Paradise Estate to those hills, ordering her to "Go, farm rocks." Which she did, and gained both a new trade and the love of Petros Pita, retired soldier of the North-Realm. From those two sprang the Pies, of whom Harmonia is to me that family's most precious Result.

Surely the Pies still farm, surely they will always farm, the crystals of the dour hills in which they dwell, those Hills that figure in my dear happy memories, when Harmonia and I roved those hills together in the days of our youth, and found love beneath the circles of standing-stones that crown so many of them? Surely no Fluxation of Trade can possibly doom such an ancient and honorable Profession and Lineage? A world without the Pies, or the Miters, dwelling in South-Dunnich would to me be a sadder one, even though the fairest and noblest of all the Pies that ever were, by my estimation, stands by my Side as we pass our ancestral homeland, and nestles against me at Night in our Marital Bed.

There is no answer to my question, and dark thoughts trouble me as we sail up the Muddy through forests and fields, past plains and towns, toward Stalliongrad the Stern. My beloved Wife is also troubled, and I suspect by the very same Thoughts, though neither of us wants to make them Real by giving them Expression.

We find our solace in each other, both in quiet Conversation and in Embrace. Any Bed containing Harmonia is a happy place, even if it be but some boards with a straw tick and blankets, under which we make our Union, forced to Couple in Silence, lest we annoy our Companions by making too Obvious our shared Bliss. Side by side we Love, and afterward together Lie, nuzzling and caressing one another in our commingled Sweat.

5. Stalliongrad

After many Days of slow Sailing up the Muddy, we sight Stalliongrad -- a congeries of grim, block-house like buildings, some of wood and some of stone, but almost all square and spare of architectural ornamentation -- which rise from the flat country thereabouts, impressive only due to the lack of competiton from any other Objects in View. Our Boat docks at the Wharf, and we unload our Waggons. We are ready, ostensibly to sell the Finished Goods of Equestria in the Hinterland, in return for Furs and Ores; under the new Act of Union no longer required to do so at the city Marketplace. This gives any local Merchants in league with the Bandits good reason to let them know of our Plans, increasing our chance of encountering our Quarry.

We interview and hire Teamsters to help pull our three Waggons, testing each Prospect with the Draught of Truth which Honesty and Ambrosia have Mix'd for them. Teamsters are notoriously hard Drinkers, and few would pass up mug of Hot Mulled Wine, whose Spices do well cover the taste of the Drug with which my Sister and Niece have Fortified the Brew. To our Delight we discover that two of our new Teamsters work for the Bandit Chief Brightblades.

We give them time to learn our plann'd route and inform their Comrades, and then they are invited to partake in another Drink, this of the Draught of Long Sleep. We pack them away in our boxes with the conceal'd airholes, their Lives slow'd to a crawl. They shall not pull the Waggons, but instead Ride in them, out with us to the Hunt and back again to North-Dunnich -- important Guests indeed at the Feast we shall hold there, though we doubt they will enjoy the Part they shall Play in that Gathering.

With two Quarry Bagg'd at the outset, we know that we need only find four more if there be no Spoilage, and probably no more than six to eight more given the normal rate that occurs. Some of the Quarry we Bag will doubtless be Injured in their Taking, but we are all adept Healers, and the Draught of Long Sleep slows all aspects of Life -- including Dying.

With many a Speaker curse on the lips of the Stalliongrad merchants who think that we are bypassing their Marketplace ringing in our ears, our little Caravan pulls out of town on a northern road. The merchants fear that we imperil their own Trade, and Hoped that we should meet the Bandits and never again come to Trade in Stalliongrad. The first was untrue, while the second and third match'd our own Hopes exactly. Such are the ways in which the secret designs of Ponies may conflict, and in other cases Coincide.

6. Marching North

Near Stalliongrad there are towns and villages and garrisons, both of the Equestrian Army and of the streltsy archer-troops that serve as Stalliongrad's militia. We are some twenty-five miles out before we get into good hunting ground, where any fight will be far from witnesses. We make sure to stop at the inns and bruit it about that we are traveling without protection from Guard or streltsy, boasting of our foolish confidence, so as to further bait our Quarry. We look an arrogant and sloppy Company as we pulled out of the last town, but the townsfolk can neither see our hidden Armament, nor the far more important Arsenal contained within our Minds.

In truth, we are highly alert as the last town falls behind us, but none molest us on the road. Sloppy as we seem, we are a Company of six Merchant Adventurers and a dozen Teamsters, too great in Numbers for casual robbers to Molest. We actually prefer a pitched battle with a larger or more serious band to multiple small fights with mere Highwayponies, because the more the fights the more there was to go Wrong.

Our Bombs and Petards -- and our Waggons, whose panels were reinforced to shed anything lighter than Arbalest-Bolts -- give us a considerable Advantage in a stand-up fight, and one of which the Robbers will be unaware until they actually close with us. Mere Numbers do not unduly frighten us, as even a large Band will generally Break if one fells its Leaders first. And we are all good shots.

At our first mid-day rest, we cast a Divination with clippings from the two we had already Bagged. That, aided by Flare Northstar's magic (of whose potency he grandly reminds us at every step of the ritual) and an accurate regional map we had obtained before our journey began, give us the location of Brightblades' band. We attune a Talisman to give us warning of their Distance, and between such steady Warning and our thrice-daily Divinations, we see that they were marching north, faster than us on a nigh-parallel Road, obviously preparing to cut ahead of us and make ambush.

At night, we laager the Waggons (three being the smallest number of waggons with which one can make such a defense), and keep up a keen watch. It is eerie in the deep Forests, and we spy many Beasts who stare warily at our Procession, and some who dart away when they catch a glimpse of a Crossbow. Perhaps they know what this means; we have observed that the Speaker-Ponies are aggressive hunters, more so than are Equestrians. The cold stars stare down upon us, and from the forests we hear the howl of Wolves, sometimes seeming to be rich and complex Communications, though such is of course merely Fanciful.

We of course also keep an eye out for any other Bandits who might be laying for us undetected. It is unlikely, but there might be more than one Robber Band specifically laying for us, and we are always at risk of attack as a target of opportunity. Such had happened to us more than once in the past, and on one occasion nearly ended my Life -- I have an interesting scar to show for it, and had not my beloved Harmonia been a truly gifted Surgeon, the outcome might well have been more Tragickal. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how one looks at it, no other Bands attack us.

7. Brightblades Bravny

We approach the rendezvous. Our crossbows are at the ready by our sides, and the bombs and petards racked neatly, all within the Waggons. Brightblades, or whomsoever does attack us, shall receive a most exciting Surprise.

We briefly halt five miles from his likely location, at the last copse of woods before the place where we are fairly sure he means to lay his ambush. Ambrosia and Flare Northstar debark, she taking to the skies in a long spiral designed to make it difficult to observe her actions from Brightblades' likely position; Flare to cut around to the left and flank any of Brightblades' archers.

Harmonia and I ride in the lead waggon, crossbows hidden right behind us in positions of easy reach, bombs and petards in the boxes with us. Tiny rides in the waggon behind us. As our cook, there is nothing suspicious about his carrying a large wooden ladle, though close examination would show that this ladle is heavy, and its wood steel-cored. Honesty walks beside the lead team, the picture of feminine desirability in her colorful traveling silks, her blades hidden within.

This approach is dangerous, for Brightblades has the initiative, and he might just announce his presence with a shower of arrows. As we approach within bowshot, we quickly quaff potions of Alertness, heightening our senses and providing us warning of imminent danger. We immediately spot two archers hidden in the brush, one to either side of the road. At least Harmonia and I do; and I think that Honesty does as well. My sweet Sister is brave, sometimes to the point of madness, and she likes to fight entirely too much: more than once, she has made my heart nearly stop for fear that she would take one risk too many.

Though I have done this dozens and dozens of times, I feel fear as always as the moment of decision looms. We have planned as best we might; so has Brightblades, and though we deem ourselves his superior, it is never safe to assume that a Foe will fall into one's trap; one might fall into his instead. And in the confusion of a fight, any might fall, even oneself, or worse one's dearest beloveds. They are safer with me than without me, yet I am as always concerned for Harmonia and Honesty, my companions of a century past, and in my hopes of centuries yet to come.

Brightblades and three of his band, including a huge hulk of a Pony who seems an important henchpony, step forth into plain view. Brightblades could pass for any Speaker officer, though he is a bit of a dandy in red silk shirt and red-beribboned mane. The two swords at his side do not encourage accusations of effeminacy. "Step down," quoth he, "and surrender to us. All that is yours is ours now -- you are at the mercy of Brightblades Bravny!"

It is moments such as this for which lives my sweet sister Honesty. In her beats the heart of a frustrated actress; her inclinations are not in truth for the life of the theatre, let alone the wanderings of a strolling player. Yet she loves to put on a performance, and the drama of such a confrontation appeals to her greatly.

Wailing in despair, Honesty rushes forward, and falls at his feet. "O have mercy, fierce Bandit!" cries Honesty, a pathetic feminine sight indeed in this wilderness, surrounded by ruthless foes, calculated to inspire the pity and lust alike of any but the hardest-hearted or least lusty Robber. "I throw myself on your Mercy! Take our goods, take our Waggons, but do not harm my dear Kin! Spare us, and win my admiration!"

It is at this point that Brightblades departs from the script which Honesty has written for him.

"Hah!" he laughs, and swings his right hoof in a great hard slap, which sends Honesty sprawling into a different though equally dramatic Posture than the one she had chosen. "You, and all your Company, are now my slaves! And I shall deal with you as I desire! Please me, and I may keep you as my own spoil; please me not, and I give you to my followers!"

Brightblades is clearly a cruel Pony. He as clearly has no idea of the nature of my sweet sister Honesty. One thing is fairly certain. If Honesty has her way, Brightblades will survive the trip to North-Dunnich, for Honesty will wish to converse with him at length regarding the Manners one should show to a Respectable Lady.

8. The Battle

Matters now move very swiftly, as is their wont in such encounters.

When Brightblades smote Honesty, I knew that the Fight was on, as my sweet Sister has never been the mare to suffer such an Insult unanswered. All her Husbands and Lovers have been very kind Ponies indeed; for the cause that no Pony who was Cruel to her could survive her Close Company long enough to win her Favors.

In this, I perhaps do exaggerate. But only in slight measure.

Harmonia -- who comes to the same conclusion -- and I both dive for cover, reaching for our Crossbows. Tiny -- who has not the advantage of my Lifetime of experience with Honesty -- stands confused for an Instant.

Honesty more or less erupts from her crouch, a blade appearing as if by Apportation in each of her Forehooves, and those Hooves moving with blinding speed, steel slashing at the face of the Bandit Chief. Brightblades falls back before my sweet Sister's onslaught, a Speaker oath coming from his lips that really should not be spoken in the presence of such a delicate Flower of Marehood as is my dear Honesty. The damage has been done -- a red line, which as he jerks his head back to avoid further Injury, spatters drops of Blood -- has been scored on his right cheek. That he is not worse hurt is testament to his own great Speed -- Honesty is the fastest Knife-Fighter I have ever known -- but his own hurt is worse than he knows, for Honesty's blades have been smeared in our Soporific, and this potent Drug is already coursing through his Veins. Honesty's fight is far from over, though. The wound she has inflicted is superficial, and therefore only a small Dose has been introduced so far -- thus, it will take a while for the Soporific to even slow the Bandit.

Brightblades is finally able to draw his own weapons -- no daggers such as Honesty bears, but two long shasquas, or Speaker fighting-sabers. They are unlikely to be poisoned, most Ponies lacking our Foresight and Craft, but they do not need to be -- one good slash from either one can maim or slay my sweet Sister. What is worse, the Bandit chief's hulking Lieutenant, and his two other confederates, are closing on Honesty from both sides. If I do not act quickly, the Bandits will beset my dear Sister four to one!

Harmonia and I grasp our Crossbows at almost the same instant. Our eyes briefly meet, and we exchange a Glance of perfect mutual Understanding, regarding both Honesty's postion and what we must do in the next moment to keep our Kinsmare amongst the Living. We pop up, weapons in hooves, and shoot at our targets.

My bolt sinks right into the left barrel of one Bandit, jerking him around violently and spoiling his spear-charge at Honesty. The wound does not look mortal, but it stops the stallion, and the Soporific liberally coating the head of my Bolt is carried into deep tissues. The Bandit falls, gasping in shock and pain, and is unlikely to rise again.

Harmonia's shot puts a bolt right into the right foreleg of the biggest Bandit, as he rears to attack Honesty from her left. The head sinks into the upper part of his foreleg, right above the elbow. Amazingly, this does not instantly cripple the limb -- the Bandit is of genuninely impressive Frame -- but it does get his attention, turning him toward myself and my Wife.

Tiny's brief indecision ends, and he gallops to aid Honesty. An arrow whizzes past from the right, passing right behind his rump, narrowly missing his flank and lodging itself into one of the right side panels of our wagon. At the same time, flame lights from the forest on our left flank; I cannot see what transpires, but it is obvious that Flare Northstar is engaged there, casting his customary fire spells. Screams sound, some of which seem to be Flare's own; others belonging to another Pony. A shrieking, squalling ball of violence flashes by overhead; Ambrosia in close combat with some flying Bandit -- I get a confused glimpse of blood and feathers, and realize her foe is a Griffon.

It is very Chaos, which is to say it is quintessential War, even on so small a scale as this Skirmish. We are skilled and canny Fighters, with decades of Experience in such Affrays, yet we too must move quickly and choose wisely, let we Perish.

Bright Blades slashes at Honesty with both of his shasquas; for her part she ducks, leaps and parries with both her daggers in a dazzling dance of Death, striving to find an opening in the Bandit chief's swordplay, to permit her to strike with her own much-shorter blades. Honesty is a lethally-accurate knife-thrower, but she cannot spare the time or gain the space she needs to cast a blade -- if she tries now, her foe will cut her down, and she doubtless knows it. The fight is that closely-matched.

We duck down and reach for our bombs; we have neither the time nor the space to reload, a fact emphasized by a second arrow flashing through the air right where our heads had been. Had we been a bit slower, one of us would be dead or wounded. Brightblades' band is more skilled than the common run of Robbers.

My flint and steel are out; I light the fuse on a Petard and draw back to fling it in hoof, as I have not the space for a proper spin-kick. As I do so, the third arrow slices through the flesh around my right cannon. My blood sprays and I drop the lit bomb right into the waggon-bed beside us. Harmonia, blanching in horror, kicks the petard out of the waggon and then, throwing one of her shapely but powerful forelegs around me, propels us both in the opposite direction.

The bomb expodes, rocking the waggon on its wheels but not overturning us. My ears ring, and hearing anything is an impossibility. We pile out the back of the waggon, surrounded in a dense cloud of black powder smoke. The crossbows and our other bombs are in the wagon; abruptly it occurs to me that, had the petard detonated at my feet, if its own charge had not slain both Harmonia and myself, the simultaneous detonation of all the other bombs would surely have left nothing of ourselves and our Waggon but a smoking Crater.

We are slightly dazed, but know far better than to tarry about in the midst of such a fight, with at least one enemy archer unaccounted for. The smoke will not last long, and when it dissipates we shall have no cover. The second and third waggons are before us; their teams have, not unsurprisingly, dropped the traces and are running for it.

We leap into the second waggon from the side. Harmonia grabs a brace of bombs and I my largest wrench, a solid steel implement of repair that at times like this makes a serviceable war club. We gallop for the treeline to the right of our column, trusting to the thinning smoke for the cover we need against the archer.

He must see us, because an arrow whips past us, but we are moving targets seen through mist and his shot is happily inaccurate. We for our part get a good look at him as the smoke blows away in the breeze. He's drawing an arrow to his bow; Harmonia has lit a fuse and she spin-bucks her bomb right at him as I charge.

Her bomb falls short and I leap to one side, not wanting to get caught within the blast. The move saves me from more serious harm, as the bandit's arrow sinks into my left hip, causing me to stumble; had I not dodged I might well have taken it right to the barrel. For the moment it fails to hurt, and I hurl my wrench at the robber. The steel wrench slaps into his head; his eyes roll up and he falls, just as Harmonia's smoke bomb goes off, entirely obscuring our Vision.

I feel only a sort of tugging at my left hip, but it is clearly not working well, and it occurs to me that any attempt to run could cause me to slice myself up badly with the arrow-head still imbedded in the joint. There is as yet no pain, for which I am grateful.

"Lie down, fool!" hisses Harmonia, and as I make to collapse to the left she adds "On your other side!" and emphasizes with a push that sends me over to the right. As soon as I touch the ground I realize that she has just saved me from driving the arrow deep into my own pelvis, with various potential harmful Consequences to my Anatomy, which as a student of Surgery I could probably describe in detail, under better Circumstances.

I feel the soft sward on my right side, and Harmonia, casting nervous glances around to see if we are observed, clearly decides we are safe for the moment, for she opens the box of bandages and medicaments she always brings with her on the Hunt. "This may hurt," she says, which is never a good thing to hear from her, and she grips the arrow-shaft near the front end with one hoof to steady it while breaking it with a single strong, sure Bite. Happily, it is wooden-shafted, rather than steel as in the case of our crossbow bolts.

"It doesn't --" I start to say, and then abruptly it does hurt, very much, and I barely smother a scream of agony, converting it into a sort of low whimper that I know will not carry very far.

She shoves a pill into my mouth, and I happily swallow it, despite the lack of any drink to aid its Passage. By its bittersweet taste I know it to be one of Harmonia's opium compounds, and by my own healing Lore I know that I shall soon have some surcease from mine Anguish. Meanwhile Harmonia is probing my wound with various Instruments, which might seem an act of Torture had I not personal knowledge from mine Observations of just how much worse it would be were she attempting actual Torture, rather than Field Surgery.

She is very Skilled; it is not very long, though each Heartbeat of it is a short Eternity of Pain, before she has extracted the Head, liberally sprayed a stinging Cleanser deeply into the open Cavity, and wrapped my Wound in a temporary field bandage, good enough for the moment until a hopeful happy Hereafter where she can dress the Injury more neatly and carefully. My arrow-scored Foreleg receives more cursory Treatment; a smear of Cleanser and a quick bandage, but then it is but a scratch compared to the deeper Hurt.

We advance Cautiously toward the fallen Archer, where I retrieve my Wrench, which has taken no harm from its collision with the Skull of our Quarry; something which can not be said of the aforementioned Skull, though he is happily still Breathing, and may well survive the trip to North-Dunnich without Spoiling.

9. Aftermath

As we do this, we see that the Day is Won. My heart leaps for Joy as I see my sweet sister Honesty, a bit blood-spattered but apparently unharmed, standing over the fallen form of Brightblades Bravny, smirking as she delivers a scornful kick to his side, thus expressing her delicate Disapproval of his former Rudeness toward her. Tiny, also unwounded, leans on his ladle, watching the big bandit lieutenant and another fallen Robber for any signs of motion.

Ambrosia lands, wings wide, bearing in her forelegs a wounded Flare Northstar, who has evidently received an arrow to his barrel. Ambrosia herself has numerous Lacerations, including one very nasty-looking one on her side, but she only has attention to spare for her injured Lover. I do not like Flare Northstar, but I do admire Ambrosia and respect her Feelings for him. Harmonia comes over to Ambrosia and Flare, and begins tending to their Wounds, while Honesty sends Tiny to our medical waggon for further supplies.

Flare has actually taken the worst wound, an arrow to the lung, deeply penetrating the thoracic cavity, which might doom him were he not in the Company of some of the most gifted Healers in Equestria. He managed despite this hurt to down the archer he fought with a fireblast, a worthier deed which might have been the worthier had it not immediately Spoiled the Quarry. Ambrosia's wounds are painful but superficial, save for one deep gash to her side, which will keep her from flying for at least a couple of weeks, and which might yet prove dangerous. My own injuries are crippling but not serious; Harmonia sighs in relief as further examination shows that all my hurts are to muscle tissue, the abdomen proper not having been penetrated.

We add five Quarry to the two we have already Bagged, making a Bag of seven, though three of them -- the one I shot, the one I struck with the wrench, and one whom Tiny hit with his ladle, have sufficiently severe Wounds that they may Spoil in transit. Tiny does the heavy work of hauling them to our medical waggon, where Harmonia and Honesty tend their wounds and administer them carefully-measured doses of the Draughts of Long Sleep.

The Teamsters fled, we must haul the Waggons ourselves. Flare, the worst-wounded, could not draw a Waggon at all; I could do so only in dire Emergency at at the cost of great Pain; even Ambrosia must needs fear the gash in her Side opening under protrated effort, and she was the Smallest of us all. Tiny pulls the Medical Waggon, which is heaviest with its cargo of Flare and seven Bag; Harmonia takes the Lead Waggon which I ride; and Honesty the last Waggon, with her daughter Ambrosia aboard.

We start the Road back to Stalliongrad, made all the longer by our Wounds and Weariness. We must look the Defeated Party, quite vulnerable, which is to our Benefit as it led to a stroke of Good Fortune: we are attacked by four Bandits, quite ordinary Ponies who imagine that their mere possession of bows and spears makes them our Match. I down one with a Crossbow-Bolt, Ambrosia catches a second in a Net, though the effort causes her Wound to begin bleeding again; Tiny fells one with a single Kick, and Honesty hamstrings the last as he tries to Flee. All four are Unspoiled, and hence we now have Eleven Bag to show for the Hunt. With only one Box left free, the Hunt must now End, even were we in condition to Hunt further.

We make our way back into Stalliongrad, hanging our heads in shame, speaking of many and fierce Bandits who have taken our Wares and from whom we were lucky to escape with our Lives. Our evident Wounds show that we have indeed been fortunate to Survive. The Merchants of the City nod wisely, wagging their long beards, and strive with little success to control their Smirks; the arrogant Equestrians had sought to show them how Business was done in their own Lands, and have been quite properly Chastened. And so we board our Boat and slip away downstream, not to return to the domains of the Speaker-Ponies for another generation, at which time we will be wearing other Guises, and doubtless employing different Strategies.

And thus, we come again home, to North Dunnich, all of us alive and -- though not entirely well -- definitely getting better. We have our Bag, Ingredients enough to make the Cupcakes of Life for more than our own number, which means more years for our Loved Ones. Which, for a stallion who has already seen the passage of a century, is victory enough.

10. The Great Work

So into the secret Chambers beneath my Steading we haul the Boxes, and bring out the Bag. Of the eleven Quarry we took, nine have survived Unspoiled; which is not a bad haul given the Hard Fight we had of it with Brightblades' Band. When fighting for one's own Life, it can be Difficult to avoid Destroying, rather than merely Felling, one's Foe.

We give unto the Bag, who are now our Sources, the Draughts of Awakening, and strap them to the gurneys, strap them firmly indeed, since under the lash of the Will to Live, a Pony can at times perform Feats of Strength amazing by the standards of less Extreme Situations. Pain is a powerful Prod to Action, and the Harvesting of the Ingredient must of Necessity involve the application of great Pain, to induce the Soul to relinquish the Form, leaving enough Life to be worth Taking and Transferring into our Baked Goods.

Through the years and decades, as we good Cupcake Bakers have grown from a mere three Alchemist Ponies -- experimenting with the very Stuff of Life, learning how to transfer its Essence from Unworthy to more Worthy Vessels -- we have developed certain Rituals surrounding our Practices. Some are Necessary to the Transfer; others mere Custom, but custom is of course important, it being one of the things which distinguishes Civilization from rank Barbarism.

And we Cupcake Bakers, who can deal both Death and Life, must at all cost avoid sinking into Barbarism; for if the Enlightened, such as our own good Selves, cast aside Civilization, what hope is there for ordinary Ponies, who have less strength with which to resist Sin and Degradation? Hence, we love our Rituals.

We don our Ritual Garments, not the mere silks and cottons common to more ordinary Ritual Magicks, but the special Capes which each of us constructs for himself or herself alone, made of the tanned Marks, taken from the very Hides of those whom he or her alone has Harvested. We have found that in this manner that portion of the Life which feeds the Talent and expresses itself in the Mark is also transferred to the Harvester. Each Baker's Cape is sacred, a memorial to the Lives he Harvested, the most significant Meaning of those Lives being that their former owners, who were of negative Worth to Society, gave Ponies far better than themselves to do Deeds of Positive Worth.

Thus do we Transmute Evil into Good, a Transmutation infinitely more worthy than that of Lead into Gold, which the Ignorant imagine to be the main Purpose of Alchemy. By our Deeds are the Lives of our Quarry converted from Dross into the Sublime.

They do not understand this; how could they understand this? Most of the Educated would recoil in horror before what we do. Even Princess Celestia herself, Worthy as she is Beyond All Measure, would not understand -- her tender Heart would demand that we be put down as if we were but common Criminals. We would be tried as Warlocks, and doubtless Convicted, and I would not at all be surprised if we received the Ultimate Penalty for our supposed Crimes. One day, when we have Perfected the Process, and thus completed our Great Work, we shall be heroes of Science, honored by all Ponies for bringing the Gift of Immortality -- but that glorious Day has not yet come, and thus we must continue to work in the Shadows -- and meanwhile sustain our Lives so that we may continue to do our Work.

And even if they understood, they would doubtless Protest -- it is but Equine Nature to resist slow and agonizing Discorporation. That is why we seek our Quarry from amongst Criminals, Killers who have Forfeited their own Right to Live. To do as we must do unto Innocent Ponies would in simple Morality, let alone the Law, be a most Dreadful Crime.

So it is far from the light of general Knowledge, in the Chambers we have hollowed out beneath our Steading at North-Dunnich, that we stretch our Sources out in their straps, ignoring their various Noises as we lay out the Tools with which we shall effect the Harvest. The scalpels, the razors, the hammers; the pincers and gouges, the cauterizing irons, the flaying-knives. Our skills as Healers are important here; did we but inflict harm, the Bag would expire too swiftly, rendering it difficult to efficiently Harvest the Ingredient. We know what we are about; we can extend their expiration over several days, and yet occupy each moment of that time with the separation of the Sources from their lives.

We find it useful, when we are engaging in the protracted Extraction of Ingredient from many Sources, to perform the Operations on such a Schedule that those who are to be harvested later may hear the Extraction being performed upon their Predecessors. Thus are they Unnerved, even Frightened, and their Will, which might enabled them to cling to Life too long, sapped before we have laid even a single Implement upon their Flesh. It is also instructive to them as to their participation in the Extraction -- the manner in which what begin as bold threats and curses change to pleading, to screams, to thinner and thinner shrieks as their vocal apparatuses fail beneath their protracted employment in distress-calls which have no meaning, since of course they cannot move us, and there are no others to hear save those as doomed as themselves. At the end, not merely voice but sanity fail, and then what remains of the soul can be separated, leaving behind an ample residue of Life to transmute to Ingredient.

However, there is one thing for which we have learned that a certain degree of privacy is advisable. Not counting the Source, of course -- by this stage, whether its heart beats or not, nothing sapient lives behind its eyes (or, sometimes, raw bleeding sockets) any more. But rather for the Extractors -- for, when couples perform the Extraction, the touch of the departing Soul and sensation of transmuting Life tends to trigger a certain basic, though happy, reaction in both Bakers.

And that reaction is one best experienced by them in private.

11. Love Amongst the Shambles

Few understand my love: fewer sympathize with her; and fewer still can hope to follow the dazzling dreams that dance in her brilliant brain, the products of her sparkling cerebrations. The minds of most mares are leaden; hers is quicksilver. It is far faster and more profound than is my own poor head, and I am accounted smart for a stallion.

It is we who worked out how to perform the Extraction, and we who now perform it, and yet we are awed and excited by the solemn Joy of its Completion. The room is spattered in the blood and other fluids of the Source, who is even now taking its last, thready breaths, a sort of helpless whine the only vocalization still possible to itself. It was once an archer, and a very good one, who nearly accounted for me, and might have crippled me had not my beloved Harmonia been deft with her field-surgery. It is an archer no more -- it lacks certain important anatomical features to perform archery, such as forehooves with which to grasp the bow, and eyes to aim them. This is doubtless of little account to what remains of its mind, which is not much -- it lost Hope long before, when the subtractions we made from its physical attributes reached such extremes that what remained of its Existence, were it somehow rescued, would be but a long agonizing delay of Death to a Thing that was now little more than a brain and torso.

As we made these subtractions, peforming our mathematics of agony upon its quivering and shrieking self, we felt a slow excitement build between us, in the power we were displaying to change the very Shape of Life. We felt increasing Joy in the knowledge that we were to benefit from the sufferings of the Source, rather than experience them ourselves, and that by this we were showing ourselves Worthy of the Life we were Taking.

This is not entirely rational, but it is what we felt, what we always feel at this point. I could see a feverish light shine in Harmonia's eyes as her scalpels flew; and her tail twitched prettily as she bent to her labors, and amidst the tang of blood and the stench of less pleasant bodily fluids being voided, whether through the Orifices provided by Nature, or those that we, Improving Upon Nature, had whimsically Carved; amidst and through and beyond that reek was the enticing scent of the Arousal of my Beloved Wife.

And as she positioned my hoof to hold back the hide on some part of the Source, that she might better perform her ministrations upon the sensitive Tissues Beneath, the touch of her hoof on mine filled me with an excitement as if we were still young in the hills of South-Dunnich, lying on a hillside looking down on her family's Rock Farm, at a time when I was just a stallion full-grown, and she barely out of fillyhood, and the mere touch of any part of her on any part of me could drive me to distraction. I could not afford distraction now, for I must here be my Wife's competent Assistant; it is not yet the Time to be her Lover.

But as she performed each Operation, my own Mind marvelling at her degree of skill, her sureness of operation, I became increasingly aware of her marehood, both the condition and the sweet shadowy glories beneath her excitingly twitching tail. She knew it, the Minx, for she began to position herself so that I stood more and more behind her, my Lust building as I could see her own physical Marehood swelling with her own excitement. It was not yet her Cycle, but her own Lusts were bringing it upon her early, as often happens during this Ritual.

Now she performs the last Operation. The thoracic cavity gapes wide Open, and she pulls out one organ after another, handing it to me for placement, each in its own jar with its own Substances. These are the most essential physical Ingredients, and the wonder of her Technique is that the Source, despite its Exhaustion, is so Drugg'd and Handled that it experiences each of these final Deletions from its Self. My Beloved is a Goddess, a cosmic Editor, and the Source the Text which she revises. She makes the final Deletion, that of the Heart, which bloody and smoking she holds aloft in triumph, beaming a winning smile upon me as she bathes herself in a literal Shower of Blood, her Smile urging me on to stand beneath that Divine Shower so that we are both fully bathed in the symbolic Life of the Source, who of course now makes its final Passage Unto Death.

I know where she got the idea for this part of the Ritual, from the illustrations in that book about Old Mexicolt, and the savage ceremonies their Priests performed upon the curious Stepped Pyramids they built there, in honor of their Coatl Overlords. We read it together, before we were even lovers, when I was but in my late teens and she a brilliant little filly I babysat. It should remind me of that little filly, and in a way it does, but it only fills me with all the more awe at her intellect, the power of the mind and heart which has translated the shudders of childhood into glorious achievement in reality.

We stand close together, I embracing her as the heart she holds high ceases its motion, and the last drops of blood bathe us, and the Source dies beside us, and she nuzzles the side of my neck and I am overcome. With a primal growl I lick and mouth her neck, tasting the fresh blood on my tongue and smelling the scent of life and death alike on her hide, and she gives a throaty laugh and puts her forehooves down on the operating table, leaning over the corpse of the former Source, and buries her own head in its opened barrel thus angling her own body in such a way that, when her tail twitches aside, I can clearly see her engorged labiae.

I am most instantly fully showing and fully erect, and I almost leap on her, putting one hoof in the open corpse at her side and the other on the table, my erection thrusting into her almost brutally, sliding easily into the channel provided by Nature for our love, moist and warm and ready for me. She cries out in triumphant Joy as I take her, pumping into her as if we were mere beasts rather than educated scientists, then she buries her head in the corpse, enjoying the taste of it on her lips as she enjoys being filled with me at her other end. She blows air from her mouth as her cries are muffled in the Source, and bubbles rise in the mass of blood at the end of her muzzle.

This is the most brutally-primal love we ever make, at moments like these, when we rejoice in our triumph over the limitations of Nature. There is a deep philosophy here, a truth about the Universe that I feel almost on the verge of grasping as I feel her vaginal walls grip my erect phallus, nuzzle and play-bite her neck, and taste the blood of the Source which now drenches her. We feel a deep connection at this moment to the Source, not only of the little Ingredient we make in our little Great Work here in our laboratory, but to the greater Great Work that has filled all the Earth with life, and made Ponykind and Love and Friendship possible. I feel on the verge of grasping it as I mate with my dearest love, my wonderful Wife, and I feel as if I am touching it as my excitement builds beyond all bearing, so that it is almost as if my Life is spurting forth into Harmonia, a gift freed not by Pain but by Pleasure.

But, as I feel my testicles spasm and my seed shoot forth into the Depths of my Lover, I fall from this height of scientia, of knowing, just as a cannonball shot on a High Trajectory will reach a certain height in its parabola, then inevitably curve back down to mere Earth, describing a fall that is the mirror-image of its rise. In the Age of Wonders the Ancients shot objects with such force, propelled by Rockets, that they in truth did not fall down, but fell around the Earth. However, the art of making such mighty Rockets was lost in the Cataclysm, and as yet remains undiscovered.

I feel when I am United with Harmonia that we together might be such a Rocket, and Ascend into the very Heavens together, to a full understanding of the Mysteries of Life and Death, and when I ejaculate inside her, and I feel her answering orgasmic spasms, I come close to such an Ascension. And always, when we Extract the Ingredient, it feels like that, and we are closer than even we manage to come at other times. In the midst of Death, we celebrate our Lives, and in the Celebration take Action to Extend them.

It may be relevant in this regard that several of our Children were almost certainly Conceived at such Moments.

That is often but the beginning, for we then collapse to the floor together, kissing and licking and sucking and caressing one another in what often develops into hours of love-play, until in the end we lie exhausted amidst the cooling fluids of the Source, and rise to complete our tasks. Indeed, did we not have such Tasks, we might well fall asleep in one another's embrace, for there is no happier thing imaginable to me, than to sleep with Harmonia.

It is obvious from this why this last stage of the Extraction is a Private Ritual, to be Performed only between Lovers, for it would not be proper to perform such actions before the Prying Eyes of Others, even when those other be our own Beloved Kin. This is something I do not want to share even with my sweet Sister, let alone any Others. For I love Harmonia, and that love is a mystery deeper and higher than my own poor mortal understanding.

12. His Declaration

The Pleasure we give and take together is great, and we well love one another's Forms. Yet for all her manifest physical charms, for all the delight I take in mating with her, it is in truth her intellect that binds me to her. I have rarely met a mare to match her mind, and never one who also has her fiery spirit, her iron will, her mordant wit. When ever I think on the truth that she is real, and that she loves me -- still, after more than a hundred years together, I am humbly-grateful at this reality. For I know I do not deserve her: nopony truly does: yet, still, she chose me. Still, I am astonished at my good fortune.

In all the depths of Time and Space, all the span of the World and of History, that I have found my Harmonia is the most Joyful thing that I can imagine . I have loved her a century and more; I love her now; and I shall love her through all the ages to come. Her great Discovery may give us centuries more of life on Earth together, but I swear that even should I die, should she die, our Love shall Transcend Death and Dissolution. I shall stand by her always, in Earth or Heaven or Hell, and, whatsoever may happen, I shall always be her Adventurine ... and she, for as long as she wishes, may remain my Harmonia.

END.

Author's Note

Our two Principals here, believers in and practitioners of both eternal marital love and cannibalistic necromancy, are Harmonia Pie (1140-1308) and Aventurine Miter (1133-1308); his "sweet sister" is Honesty Miter (1147-1309) who was their best friend and confederate through their long career of science and slaughter. They might be seen as Harmonia's coven, as a secretive school of dark alchemists, or as (facetiously) the Cupcake Bakers, a name they sometimes use amongst themselves.

My inspirations for this tale of hot steamy love and delicious homecooked baked goods are, of course the (in)famous Cupcakes, and H. P. Lovecraft's "The Picture in the House" (1921, and possibly the original inspiraton for "Cupcakes" as well).

I think we all see the flaw in Harmonia's scheme for eternal life, and Aventurine might as well were he less in love with Harmonia Pie. This is a clear case of Love Makes You Evil and Unholy Matrimony.

Yes, Pinkie Pie is a dead ringer for her great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Harmonia, save that Pinkie's eyes are blue instead of pink. Even her hair is naturally identical -- straight -- it's Pinkie's power which makes it poofy.

We may speculate as to why Starlight Glimmer used powder and a water-based paint to cover her Cutie Mark with her false Sameness Mark. It might be that, in constant close contact with the Equal Ponies, an oil-based one would have looked too phony. Harmonia Pie, an alchemist and thus expert in the properties of substances, doesn't make this mistake; she can find exactly the right oil-based pigments to have it come out right.

Aventurine's daughters Proserpina (age 70, looks about 35), Crucible (age 67, looks about 30) and Cupcake (age 40, looks about 20), and some of his sons are all doing other things. Proserpina and Crucible (who can't stand each other) each lead separate Hunts, while Cupcake minds the more mundane business for the family back in North-Dunnich.

Yes, Celestia greatly underestimated the number of Ponies the Cupcake Bakers killed; it's in the tens of thousands rather than thousands, over about a century of operations. This is because their numbers were greater than she realized. Also, she doesn't want to admit to herself just how many really bad things happened because she had trouble remaining focused during parts of her solitary reign.

The "savage" Griffons are the Amareican Griffons, who before the fall of Guntrum the Black in YOH 1250 dominated what is today Northwestern Equestria. They lived at a tribal level, with no settlements larger than towns, and imported weapons from abroad. They are called "savage" to distinguish them from the highly-civilized Griffons of Neighropa, Hyperborea, and North Zebrica, who formed kingdoms and empires and developed sophisticated industries. However, the civilized Griffons often deliberately armed the savage ones, in order to harass the Realm of Equestria, something of which the Equestrians were quite aware.

This concept of Stalliongrad is informed on a combination of my concept of the Speaker Ponies as Ponified Slavs (as in His Mark on History and Ardashir's concept as outlined in Wolf in Pony's Clothing and some of his other tales. In his world, Aloe and Lotus are from Stalliongrad, a concept I like, as historically Slavic cultures often had elaborate bath house rituals (something they may have gotten from the Byzantine Empire) and so it makes sense for two Speaker Ponies to come to Ponyville and open a spa.

Obviously, Aventurine's speculations about the wolves near Stalliongrad are truer than he imagines. Though he doesn't know, which is good for both his Company and the Wolves, as those particular wolves have more than a passing resemblance to Whitley Strieber's Wolfen, who could smell the knowledge of their existence on you if you saw one of them. Bolts, explosions, fire, growling, ripping and sorrow all around would doubtless have ensued, if the Wolves believed they needed to protect the secret of their existence and thus attacked the heavily-armed Cupcake Bakers. Ardishir's Wolves would make formidable foes, especially in their own home country.

Here, I put Stalliongrad in the context of my larger history of the Cataclysm and the Crystal Empire, postulating that the Speakers colonized northwestern North Amareica after the Cataclysm, and sometimes fought but more often allied with the Crystal Empire; as was the case with Byzantium and the Kievan Rus (which is why Russia thinks of herself as the "Third Rome"). Combining this with Ask Aquilinus, this means that there was a whole vanished Speaker Pony confederation of cities in the Northwest, of which only Stalliongrad and a few other towns now survive. This destruction mostly happened in the Age of Discord and was essentially complete by the time of the Cupcake Makers.

All this history comes courtesy of, but interpreted a bit differently from, the information provided in Ask Aquilinus. My interpretation of Aquilinus is that while he is a well-educated Pony, he is also an arrogant blowhard who is fond of re-inventing his reality to better suit his daydreams and fantasies, and he is far from neutral regarding the significance of events involving his ancestor Aquila.

Note well: despite the fact that under Equestrian law they are all foul warlocks, Aventurine and the others of Harmonia's little cooking circle are also Equestrian patriots. As Post-Traumatic reveals, Harmonia was once even a personal friend of Celestia's, though continuing to know her would have made it too apparent to the Alicorn that she and her family were Undying, and inevitably led Celestia -- who wants immortal friends -- to inquire as to the reason for their good fortune.

Yes, the region of ruined towns which Harmonia's party passes is exactly where Dawnflower Apple and her friends founded Ponyville, a century and a half later. Ponyville was not the first attempt to re-settle that region, though, when it is rebuilt after the Changeling invasion of 1513, the new Ponyville will last for many centuries, as a town between Canterlot and the new Everfree City which will rise around the restored Castle of the Royal Pony Sisters -- as we see in Twelfth Equestriad Interview.

Over two and a half millennia there have been many Pie Rock Farms. As veins of crystals and ore were exhausted and new ones opened, as families waxed and waned, the lineage has migrated all over the Northeastern White Tails. The one which exists at the time of the TV series is but the latest, and it will not be the last, by any means.

O, friend Aventurine, would your shade be happy to know that the Pies and Miters are destined to endure and mine the rocks not merely of this Earth, but those of worlds numberless, orbiting stars so distant that you cannot see them from Earth, not even with the greatest Telescopes? And that these outcomes shall come about largely because of the labors of your distant progeny, the descendants of your daughter Cupcake? Harmonia, would it soothe the fury of your angry soul?

Some terms for the hunting technique employed by the Cupcake Bakers are "Q-ship" (at sea), and "Muggable Mary." Of course, navies and police forces do not eat commerce raiders and muggers. I think. An essential component in this technique is to have significant hidden backup firepower. In this case it is contained in the bombs and petards, coupled with the fact that each and every one of the Cupcake Bakers is a highly-experienced combatant.

Yes. The Cupcake Bakers are quite confident that they stand in the forefront of enlightened Civilization.