0-0-0-0-0

Bitter was the wind that howled over Ponyville, dashing bucketful after bucketful of snow over the icy streets. Even at close distance, the dimly burning lamp lights could hardly be seen through the heavy snowfall, although nopony sensible roamed the streets at this hour. Above the billowing, bulbous grey curtain there was almost certainly a starry sky, but at times like these it felt as if all that existed above was the cruel bite of the winter chill.

As silent as the falling crystal flakes, a flickering shadow was cast by a passing pony. Hooves trudging slowly through the snow in a steady, even pace, the cloak upon her back was so laden with the falling snow that it no longer held any semblance to its original color; however, if this bothered the marching mare, she did not show it. She only pushed onward into the next snowdrift, mechanically and efficiently plowing directly through and out of the warm glow of the streetlamp. To onlookers, it might even appear as if the shadows outside the little ring of low light had simply swallowed her up.

But there were no onlookers, not tonight. It was simply too cold.

It felt like hours and hours that she walked, slowed to a painful crawl by the seemingly unending snowfall. A single shivering grey hoof drew from the thin cloak, shaking off the freezing paint of white and revealing a muddy green. The emerald cloak was drawn a little tighter as she struggled with the heavy wooden door to her home. Fighting back a wave of snow that desperately wanted to be invited in, she heaved with a grunt and shoved the door shut with an almost inaudible snap, puffing wearily. The mare stood for a moment in the blackness of her home, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

The snow in the entryway would soon become a puddle of water, but it was paid no mind as the grey mare dismissively threw her soggy cloak onto the back of a sofa, vainly ignoring the stiff, grave silence of the house. A small felt bag with a patched shoulder strap made its way directly beside the cloak, and tumbled right to the wooden floor.

Meadow's house was not a large one, nor was it impressive or even all that comfortable. The walls were bare of any photographs, but numerous awards and diplomas hung framed in varnished wood and glass. All were aligned perfectly neatly, not a single one out of place in a tight row. The dark reflection of her sopping deep ocean blue mane caught her eye in several of them at once, but she was already sullenly setting about drying herself with a ragged torn towel, pausing momentarily over her tarnish colored songbird cutie mark. The frigid air of the house was of little help, but this too was ignored in favor of stacking the last measly logs into the empty fireplace.

Once a small kindling was lit, Meadow allowed herself a moment's reprieve as the comforting embrace of heat washed over her chilled body, seeping into her bones. She heaved a quiet sigh through her nostrils, still terribly numb, though whether it was to blame on the snow or not was debatable. The slow, arrhythmic and heavy tick of the worn old grandfather clock that was the furniture's only companion drummed a weary beat into the night, which Meadow absentmindedly listened to as she drew a little closer to the meager fire, her thoughts reflected in the flames.

Meadow drew herself up after her limbs began to go stiff from crouching next to the fireplace, dusting the soot from her hooves and resisting the urge to sniffle again. In the crackling firelight she could see the kitchen opposite a bit more clearly, though the hall leading down to the only bedroom was dark and unwelcoming. A small prickle tickled the back of her mind, which Meadow was quick to shrug off as easily as her travel worn cloak. She doubted that she would even bother trying to sleep tonight, the felt bag that she was deliberately ignoring was a testament to that. She pried open a few bare cabinets out of habit, eventually shaking an old coffee tin down for its last precious remnants and letting the comforting scent waft up to her as it began to brew. Meadow automatically grabbed the next to last package of noodles, magically tearing open the package and dumping its contents into a bowl before shrugging and heating it as well. Magic felt useless, sometimes, for something so versatile; like it was a waste to use it just to open a single package of noodles.

Meadow held that thought in mind for a moment, then nabbed another package.

She nearly dropped both the mug of steaming coffee and the noodles as something huge and furry bounded at her out of the darkness of the hallway.

A cat, as it could have been called by those with no other description for such a beast, such as Meadow, ferociously hugged her foreleg for a brief moment before looking pleading up at her for food. Said 'hug' nearly bowled her over. The brown cat had to have been born of tigers from the stripes and sheer size, though that might have been an illusion. All the grace and fearsome predatory aura that a tiger possessed, Whisper did not. Whisper was a ludicrously fat and inordinately loud cat, who thudded when he walked and wobbled when he moved. He mrowed hungrily a couple of times before Meadow wryly passed him the bowl of noodles with a quiet sigh, sitting again before the fireplace with her porcelain mug. Whisper had found Meadow wandering the streets on a cold night much like this one many years ago; it was only thanks to Whisper's good graces that Meadow was allowed to feed him and live in the same house.

“At least somepony's happy to see me today, huh?” Meadow patted the noodle gobbling cat with a half smile. “I warned you that you'd eat me out of house and home, lard ball.”

Whisper glanced up at her momentarily, not even slowing in his feast, even attempting a couple of gargled meows in between bites. He failed. Repeatedly. Meadow turned her attention instead to the little felt bag with the patched shoulder strap with another long, drawn out weary sigh, magically dragging the accursed thing to her at last.

The bag, while not intimidating itself, once more held contents that were never intended for it, but somehow managed to wind up hiding inside anyway. Several manila folders tumbled out into her outstretched hoof, the red stamping atop them foreboding in and of themselves. Meadow took an extra long drought from her coffee, rolled her neck, and began to work on the case files of three more dead foals.

0-0-0-0-0

Author's Note

I thought I'd try something a little different with this story.