"Sapient ponies, if possible ..."
Dobbin grazed closer and closer to the fence, enjoying the sweet green grass. There was a little more, just barely within reach from between the sharp thorns of the fence as he turned his head sideways and reached out with his lips.
Just a little more. Ouch.
Just a little more.
Ouch.
There was a sigh from behind Dobbin. He turned around to see a snow-white mare in gleaming armor, tapping one forehoof.
"Dobbin," Parade Rest said, "are you stealing from the National Strategic Wheatgrass Reserve again?"
"No," Dobbin said instantly. "... Maybe. I mean, no." He straightened up and brushed the grass from his lips. "I pay taxes, don't I? Don't part of that field belong to me?"
"No." Parade Rest sighed. "By that logic, you could eat Celestia's pillow, and — Get back here!" She snagged Dobbin's tail as he turned towards the castle. "No. Just no, okay?" Parade Rest groaned and massaged her forehead. "Of all the jobs in Equestria, they saddle me with foalsitting you."
"Weren't my fault, they framed me," Dobbin replied automatically. "How can a wheatgrass reserve even be 'strategic' anyway?"
Celestia took another measured sip of tea, floated a quill pen in her hornfield next to her half-full cup, and gracefully signed the committee report on top of her stack of paperwork. Then, without looking up, she said: "What's on your mind, Parade Rest?"
Parade nearly jumped out of her skin, and scrambled to cover for it by shooting to rigid attention. "Princess?"
"You've been squirming back and forth all shift," Celestia said, still not looking at her guard, and paused for a moment to sign the next report. A smile quirked her muzzle. "And while the awkward possibility of misinterpretation can never be ruled out, I believe I've lived long enough to distinguish between a potty squirm and a thinking squirm."
Years of Guard training told Parade to stifle her reaction to the princess' joke — but this was Celestia, who was fiercer than any battlefield general when it came to laying waste to formalities. Her smile proved infectious, and Parade gave in and let a chuckle escape. Celestia finally looked up, eyes shining with mirth, and Parade relaxed.
Mostly.
"It's …" Parade started, resolve already faltering, and lifted a hoof to cough into her solleret. She glanced away. "It's nothing, Princess."
A hint of disappointment crept into Celestia's smile before vanishing again into her maternal radiance. "If it's all the same to you … even if you don't feel it's worth my time, I'd much rather take a break from my paperwork and help you out than watch you squirm for another two hours."
Blood rushed to Parade's cheeks. "That's not it, Princess. It … I … uh." The urge to squirm was surging back, and she stammered, "Permission to speak freely?"
"You never need ask that of me, my little pony. But yes."
Parade felt like her blush could set the curtains afire. This is stupid. Insane. But she was committed. She cleared her throat, looked at her hooves, and went for broke: "Um, how can a wheatgrass reserve even be 'strategic' anyway?"
Celestia went silent.
Parade risked a glance up at the princess — and froze. Celestia's muzzle was deep pink.
They stared at each other for long, awkward moments.
"Are you certain that wasn't a potty squirm?" Celestia asked plaintively.
Parade Rest's eyes widened. She threw her head back, stomped a hoof, and whipped out a parade-perfect salute. "We in the Royal Guard do not have bladders we are aware of! Ma'am!"
Celestia snorted, nearly inhaling her quill pen.
"Or," Parade continued, leaning in conspiratorially, "at least not that we will admit to on guard duty. Although recruits with a cutie mark in bladder control are certainly sought after."
"I see Shining Armor's reforms are making their presence felt," Celestia said dryly. Uncomfortable silence returned for a moment, but she continued before her fading blush could return. "I apologize. You asked me about the ... wheatgrass reserve."
"I spoke out of line!" Parade Rest yelped. "No need to —"
"No, no, it's not ... classified or something like that." Celestia sighed. "There are simply some memories associated with it I would prefer to let lie. You see, I was a teenager for nearly two hundred years."
* . * . *
"Princess, it is time for court."
"Just five more minutes..."
* . * . *
"And although my sister tempered the worst of my mistakes, I was far from invulnerable to common foolishness."
* . * . *
"Pies are weapons of war, and so should be outlawed."
"And cakes, your highness?"
"EDICT REDACTED!"
* . * . *
"Truthfully, I have been through just about every single phase that affects ponykind at one time or another." She smiled wryly. "Including, of course, the health fads."
* . * . *
"Luna, I have decided to go hypervegan."
"Celestia, we're frakking ponies. I don't think you can go any more —"
"I shall require much hay. Royal Scribes! Prepare an edict!"
* . * . *
"And the National 'Strategic' " — Parade could hear the scarequotes — "Wheatgrass Reserve was part of one of those. The name is, I admit, a bit of an overstatement. Truth be told, I should decommission it. But it serves as a useful reminder to think things through. And it does get some use. We mow it every year, of course, but it's truly more of a tactical reserve."
"A ... tactical wheatgrass reserve."
"Mmm."
"How can a wheatgrass reserve be —"
Parade Rest cut off as three loud raps sounded on the study door. She nodded to the Princess and cracked it open. Six pairs of golden eyes peered in at her. She swung it wider to reveal a cohort of Night Guards, some of whom she recognized.
"Private Parade Rest?" The leader's voice was night breeze on silk curtains.
"Captain Brightmoon!" She saluted.
"We've been sent to relieve you. With your leave, Highness?"
Celestia frowned, but nodded judiciously. Parade stepped out, and Cloudshadow stepped in, passing her with a wink. When the door closed, Parade turned to Brightmoon.
"May I ask what this is about?"
"Princess Luna requires your presence." Brightmoon shrugged. "Something about a ... tactical reserve?"
When Parade Rest entered Luna's darkened chambers, the princess was hunched over at the window, peering through a hornfield-tinted gap in the closed blinds. Luna glanced back at her, touched a hoof to her lips, and frantically gestured Parade over.
Parade, raising one eyebrow, walked across the room — trying her best to set her hooves down lightly on the obsidian floor and muffle her steps. She quietly saluted as she reached the window, hoping for some explanation.
"Dost thou see that?" was what she got instead — delivered in what most ponies would have called a stage whisper, but what was most likely just the somewhat-recently-returned Luna thinking that she was being quiet.
Parade turned her head to the closed wall of blinds. Then back to the princess, who was insistently jabbing a hoof toward the window. Parade leaned in and raised a hoof of her own, shoving one of the slats up to get some sort of view of the outside world, and craned her neck.
"... The wheatgrass reserve?" she said.
"The spies," Luna hissed.
Parade looked again, and inwardly sighed as a brown figure loped across her narrow field of vision, swinging his shaggy head side to side and then craning it through the barbed-wire fence. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. As Dobbin's parole officer I really should be out there overseeing him, but when Sunchaser called in sick and I had to guard your sister's room —"
Luna blinked. "What sayest thou?" She yanked two slats apart with her magic and peered through the window again, then let them go and frowned. "Confound it! Nay, not the simple one. The spies." The volume of her whisper dropped quite nearly to the level of a normal pony's speech. "They must have gained awareness of our observation and absconded."
Parade glanced through the blinds again. Just Dobbin, eating the princesses' grass. Empty skies. Empty courtyard.
"Of course, Your Highness," she whispered back. That was the safe thing to say. That was always the safe thing to say, when somepony above your pay grade was acting this weird.
"Thou must FIND THEM!" Luna suddenly shouted. The combination of volume and air pressure blasted Parade Rest halfway across the room, where she landed hard at the base of a weapons stand. She squeaked, moments before an assortment of polearms clattered down upon her.
"Mine apologies," Luna said, keeping her voice regulated. "But in sooth, I think it only fair that thou shouldst choose a mighty weapon from our private arsenal, with which to smite this foul skulduggery!"
Parade Rest disentangled herself from the weapons and surveyed them. Without exception, their wooden handles were splintered, and their curved or hooked ends were notched or blunted.
"Um, Princess ... with respect ... I'm not certain if these are the best choice for ... uh, mighty combat."
Luna waved a hoof dismissively. "Our private arsenal is somewhat depleted of late. These are, how you say, loaners, until the royal smiths can finish our order. But, true warriors are undeterred by such trivialities! Choose thy weapon, and go forth!"
Parade Rest set her jaw to keep herself from grinding her teeth. She looked down at the weapons again, hoofed several aside, and raised one that looked like a snapped-off weapon haft. The end had been whittled down to a point.
"How about this?"
Luna grinned. "Aha, the pointy stick! A classic! Go forth, noble servant of the night, and give the shifty eyes of injustice a swift poke!"
"Y-yes, your majesty," Parade Rest said, turning away.
Being a parole officer had never been her first choice as a career direction, but she began to fear it could be better than being drafted into Princess Luna's personal service.
"I need a pint," she muttered.
Parade Rest sighed as she stepped into the hall, the doors to Luna's rooms closing solidly behind her. Brightmoon, who had waited outside, smiled sympathetically.
"Whatcha got?" The Night Guard looked at the ... "weapon" she had been assigned.
"A pointy stick." Parade swished it haphazardly through the air.
"Woah! Careful with that thing!"
"... Sorry." Parade tucked it under a wing. "What was all that about?"
"Something something spies?" Brightmoon smirked.
"More or less."
"Your guess is as good as mine. I don't want to call my commanding officer paranoid, but ..." Brightmoon shrugged. "She spends much of her day watching that 'wheatgrass reserve' and mumbling — quite loudly — about spies. Now you're usually out there?"
"Yes, thanks to Dobbin." Parade rolled her eyes.
"So just watch for spies and swing your stick around while you watch him. It's probably nothing, but if you see anypony suspicious —"
"Besides Dobbin."
"— besides Dobbin, give them a poke I guess."
"Alright, I can probably handle that." Parade sighed. "Look, I need a cider. You coming?"
"I guess." Brightmoon frowned. "But it's not apple season. Where ...?"
"Pff." Parade Rest snorted and led the Night Guard down the hall. "I'm currently paroling the pettiest thief in Equestria. Sure, he's an annoyance, but if anypony knows where we can get a cider out of season, it'll be Dobbin."
"And if he's not feeling cooperative?"
"I have a pointy stick." Parade Rest smirked. "What could possibly go wrong?"
"Right, come on then, Dobbin. You have to be full now, right? Don't make me prod you with this!"
"C'mon, I ain't done yet. Just three more bites. Look how big it is! Oughtta thank me, really, keeping it from getting overgrown and the like."
"Look, if we leave now, the first round is on me, okay? We'll call it a truce. I need a drink. The Princess was going on and on about —"
Suddenly the grass parted, and a rasping voice hissed, "Interlopers! To come here amidst our field! You must know of the operation!"
Emerging from the grass was some sort of pony ... snake ... monster? "You will be CLEANSED!" it hissed in a comically high pitched tone.
"What?" stammered Parade.
"The Princess must never know!" the creature continued as it suddenly slither-galloped towards her.
"What." Parade stammered again, even as the creature lunged at her — and got the pointy stick right in the eye.
"OWWW! We are vanquished! Curse you, interloper! Curse you! Though we are destroyed, the legions will come without rest!" And then it suddenly exploded into a series of magical sparkles that fizzled and popped in the air.
"What?!" Parade yelled now, dumbfounded as the stick fell from her mouth — and in the air appeared "XP +15. Bits +3. Found item : Old Shirt".
As celebratory music began to play from nowhere and the sound of fireworks exploding at a not-unpleasing volume filled the air, and the words "Level Up!" in big glowing letters sparkled about, Parade Rest could think of only one word.
"WHAT?!?!?!"
There was a moment of blessed, blessed silence.
"What," Parade Rest repeated. The word sounded musical, comforting, in her muzzle. "What." She savored it like Zesty Gourmand sampling a new morsel on Restaurant Row. "What." The word had a piquant flavor, she decided, refreshing and versatile, with a crisp bite of dark humor.
"Well, that's new," Brightmoon muttered from behind her. "What's an 'XP'?"
"Woohoo!" Dobbin crowed, and Parade heard the clinking of bits and the rustle of fabric.
Parade Rest slowly turned and stared helplessly up at the blinds-shuttered window in Princess Luna's tower. There was a tiny gap near the bottom of the blinds, and she imagined a beady pair of cyan eyes boring into her soul from the darkness beyond. The gap snapped shut. The window went still.
"What," Parade said faintly. The word was starting to taste bland from overuse, and she contemplated digging through her linguistic pantry for something a little fresher.
But before she could, an eager young voice rang out through the courtyard. "Ah-HAH! Roll for initiative, evil minions of the evil Squizzard!"
Parade whirled toward the newcomer, wings flaring out. At the entrance to the National Nominally-Strategic-But-Actually-More-Of-A-Tactical Wheatgrass Reserve's courtyard, a shrimpy purple dragon with an outlandishly oversized green hat and a similarly exaggerated walking-staff was posed heroically, with a red earth pony in layered black armor towering over his shoulder. A blast of trumpets sounded, and an odd chill rippled through the air — followed by a square grid of blue lines springing to glowing life on the ground.
Parade startled, glancing down at the lines. "What what what." The word had developed some unexplored textures and a savory aftertaste.
Then she felt a sharp claw and something large and fuzzy against her sides. Parade yelped and thrashed around as they clenched down firmly and she was lifted off the ground. Just as she was really starting to panic, she was returned to the ground, a half a meter to the left of where she started. "Stay in your squares until the movement phase, dear," a smooth masculine voice crooned, and a giant lion's paw patted her on the forehead.
Parade whirled around, heart hammering, just in time to be half-blinded by the flash of teleportation. She swiveled back toward the newcomers to see them joined by a cartoonishly tall chimera which appeared to be assembled from the cast-off rejects of a dozen different animals. "What have we here?" Discord continued, raising his eagle-claw contemplatively to his chin. "A Level 1 Night-Knight, a Level 2 Whatbeast, and ... Oooh! A Level 16 Mildly Avaricious Larcenist!" His eyes lit up and he shook two little fists in the air excitedly. "Here I thought we were just going to fight Slitherspies, but we've stumbled on the Quirky Miniboss Squadron!"
"Weren't my fault, they framed me," Dobbin said automatically. Parade Rest blinked. Hadn't there been an old shirt over there a moment ago? And maybe some bits?
"How?" she muttered.
"No, no!" Discord waggled a claw at her. "It's wha— glurk! Hurk! Coff! — chocolate horseradish?" His eyes crossed as he tried to stare at his tongue. "—have you done to this poor word?"
"Huh?"
* . * . *
"You sent her out there with a pointy stick?" Celestia elbowed Luna away from the blinds, leaning down to peer through. "What sort of game do you think this is?"
"Funny thou shouldst ask that, K.K."
* . * . *
"Sixteen." Brightmoon picked up the die and tossed it to Parade Rest, who stared uncomprehending. "Roll it!"
She kicked it gently. It tumbled across the lawn and came up 'one'.
"Oh dear." Discord frowned. "Critical initiative failure." He tsked. "Typical of the Royal Guard." He snapped his claw.
"What do — Blech! Yuck!"
The world blurred.
* . * . *
As the world resolved again, she heard yelling. She shook her head and her vision cleared. Whatever Discord had done, it seemed things had changed in the moments she was out of it.
"Watch out, Sir McBiggun! The M.A. Larcenist is behind you!" The dragon was pointing over the stallion's shoulder to where Dobbin stood.
"Never set nuffin on fire," Dobbin claimed, looking hurt.
"Eenope!" The red stallion jumped away, but as he did, his helmet and sword disappeared.
"Weren't my fault, they framed me!"
"Hey, Parade!"
She turned as Brightmoon's yelled.
"Give us a hoof here! You're the only one with an actual weapon!"
"Oh, right." She looked down and scooped up her pointy stick.
"Hold!" Discord yelled, shrilling a whistle and clapping a sound marker. "Is that ..."
"Eeyup."
"A pointy stick of plus seventeen bloody maiming!" Discord finished. "We can't play with that!"
"Oh, but firebreathing is allowed?" Brightmoon snapped.
"Natural weapons." The dragon shrugged.
"Haven't you heard?" Discord interjected, "everything's fun and games until somepony loses an eye!"
"Surely you don't mean —"
"Every. Thing."
"Would somepony please tell me what's going on?" Parade Rest mumbled plaintively around her pointy stick. She sighed as the group broke down into petty squabbling.
"Pst." She turned as something snakey tapped her on the shoulder. "If anypony asks for the Slizzard, I'm hitting the can."
She gave the scaled ... thing a long look. "Slizzard?"
"Do I look squiddy to you?" It scowled and galumphed off.
"Fine!" Discord yelled and and threw his arms in the air. They landed nearby, twitching. "You win! But I still think you're being unfair."
"I'm technically correct," Brightmoon retorted. "And technically correct is the best kind of correct."
"Munchkin."
"Say it!"
"Fine. We concede!"
"HUZZAH!"
Discord snapped his paw, and everypony vanished in a puff of illogic.
"And that," Celestia said, signing one last document and placing it in her 'out' box, "is how it can be a tactical wheatgrass reserve." She smiled. "Any other questions?"
"NO, MA'AM!"
Author's Note
Again, thank you to Georg, Not_A_Hat, CoffeeMinion, and Morning Sun for their co-authorship of this little excursion into whimsy. 
