Way of the Wanderer

There are few things I remember from my earliest childhood, except that it was a happy time. I remember lying in a cradle outside of our family's cart underneath the open sky. I remember resting in my mother's front hooves, as she sang a lullaby in the old tongue. I remember my father's smile, the few times when he'd look down at me, when I'd tug on his vest with my magic to get his attention. That's the memory I try to cling to the most from among those faded snippets, for it is one of the few things I have from him.

My birth was seen as an omen of good fortune, for a unicorn with both an orange coat and mane was a rarity amongst our tribe. We all lived together in small traveling herd- cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents- because family was the most important thing to our clan. We were always on the move across New Equestria, trekking from one town to the next in our colorfully painted wagons. Usually my parents, along with my aunts and uncles, took turns pulling the carts as we rolled along through the countryside.

There are few places that don't blend together in my memories... though I do remember one particular stop off we made in New Baltimare. My mother had stopped to pick buy me a Pegasus doll from a shop for my birthday, using a few bits she had earned from selling a blanket she had spent weaving. The shop owner then came to us later that evening with an officer pony, accusing my mother of stealing the doll, and ripped it out of my hooves with his magic. My parents argued with the officer for nearly an hour, before we were ordered to pack our carts, and move on. We did leave that very night... but not before my father managed to steal back the doll from the unsuspecting gadjo.

My life really changed, however, when our caravan went to attend the Kirs, the great Romani meet where disputes between families were settled. Thousands of carts came together in the White tail wood, far away from the towns and cities of the despised Equestrians, and we had a wonderful week of feasting and song. While the Rom Baro, the leaders of our tribes, met in council and settled legal matters, the rest of traded stories and songs. This was the first time I actually got to play with some fillies my own age (Not from my family), and got to meet relatives from other tribes I didn't even know I had.

Also at this meet, I encountered the mare who would change my life forever. A blue unicorn with a white mane, a member of our culture whom the others seemed to hold in some great esteem. I never did catch her name, but she was a show mare with a charisma and presence I have seen in few other ponies. She saw a potential in my crude attempts at dancing and singing few other ponies could perceive, and asked my mother if her cart could travel with our caravan and train me in the entertainment arts. My parents stuck a deal, in return with providing her with food and repairs to her vardo cart, and I found myself with a tutor.

And so my teen years were spent under this strange mare's tutelage. She showed me how to perform magic tricks, how to play to the crowd, and how to use my charisma to my advantage. She taught me to dance, to sing, and to play the tambourine... she taught me to read the tarot cards,the crystal ball,  and pony's hooves to tell them what they want to hear. I had been born with a tambourine cutie mark on my flank (we Roma ponies are born with our marks, much like the ponies of many lands beyond Equestria) so performing and entertaining came naturally to me. The blue unicorn taught me how to use my special talent with flair, and I reveled in the skills her lessons brought me.

"Higher, leap higher! Your teacher wants to see the sweat pouring off of your coat!"

"You're not keeping time on that tambourine! Your teacher demands that you keep up with her rhythm!"

"Your great and wonderful teacher thinks you need to smile more when you read them their futures in the cards!"

As I crossed into adulthood, she taught me the more exotic side of entertaining. The swing of the flank, a high kick, a twirl on a pole... I have learned Equestrian stallions are perverse, disgusting creatures, easily manipulated by twirling hips and sweet words and false promises. The blue mare taught me how to easily part those spoiled fools from their bits with dancing and tambourine banging and sweet words, leaving them in some ditch in a dazed stupor. Our noble Roma stallions have far more dignity than they. I am amazed Equestrian mares can stand to be touched by the cold-hooved clods with small flanks and even smaller...hmph, all I can say is... poor Equestrian mares.

If I seem harsh on those equine pigs, it is because of what occurred during this time. My father was a worker with tools, repairing our vardo carts, during our long journeys. One day he made the mistake of repairing an apple farmer's wagon, in exchange for a part of his crop. The red stallion's wagon then got a broken axle, and he naturally blamed my father. There was a heated argument, and tempers flared... and...

I still remember my father, laying cold and quiet on the ground, with the rain coming down all around us. That over sized red behemoth simply trotted away, with no more concern than if he swatted a fly. Our lives meant nothing to those Equestrians, and it's makes me hate them loathe them all the more. It wasn't many years afterward that my mysterious tutor left me, and then a terrible illness claimed my mother. But by then, I was a fully grown Roma, ready for whatever adventure this world could throw at me.

My real adventure was about to begin...