Author's Note
Nine outta thirty-one. Only twenty-two more to go!
This is the first thing I ever wrote for FimFic but never posted. It is now a throw away piece. So feel free to murder it, tear it apart, whatever.
Bar Fight and Exposition
Home. What is ‘home.’ Is it that one place you can come back to after a long, stressful trip and collapse in your soft, downy bed in your large manor-house on your expansive property, like Canterlot Castle? Or is the place you go to come sundown, come the bell, where you can find a feast waiting for you after a hard day’s work, like Sweet Apple Acres? Or is it that unforgiving ground, cold as the stars in the night sky, like the Badlands? For me, it’s been too long, much too long.
Five years I’ve waited. Five hard, long years of war, of peace, of debauchery and enslavement. And after so long, will I even have a home to return to? Will those whom I counted as family still recognize me? What will they see? Will they see me as that bright, young, eager colt who went out into this cruel world of ours with naught but the clothes on his back, small change in his pocket, and some ill-placed belief in his fellow ponies?
Or will they see the monster; the soldier? The peacekeeper? The murderer, the liar, the trapper, the slaver? Who will they see?
“Who will they see child, you have the only choice.”
Home. It’s where family is-
“-Coltcuddler!”
Among other, hoarser sounding things commonly referred to as ‘people’ or ‘dogs’ I see animals because that’s what they really are. They all bleed the same. They’re all after the same thing, food, water, and shelter.
*Thud*
Welp. There goes my pay, my dinner and my cider.
“Now you list’n t’me coltcuddler!?”
Once I could see through the spittle that this broad, giant of a Diamond Dog had so rudely launched onto my face, I saw something... A crude beast of a Dog, easily 17 hands tall. It’s kind’ve hard to miss him when he’s been eyeing me for awhile. He’ll be easy.
“Yeah. Imma list’n.” I spit that phrase into his sweaty, grotesque, purple face. Oh lookie here. He’s drunk. Freak.
His greasy eyebrow twitches, a vein writhes on his greasy forehead, aaand I lean away from him putting my cider on the seat beside me, bracing my back against the rough tavern wall behind me, my back hooves on the shoddy bar stool under the table, and my front hooves on the splintered wooden edge of the table.
‘Come on, smart move, smart move.’ -He leans over my table to do something. Most likely detrimental to my health so- ‘Nope. Dumb move. Good-bye.’
With that I shoved the bar stool into his kneecaps, wait until his face is going to meet the table, then lift said table so that his face can examine the rather large splintered surface, and shove the table bodily onto him. Luckily for me, that awesome barstool saves me some effort, his feet get tangled up in it and me being me, I help to speed the process up.
I give the table a rather hearty shove. And there he goes. Backwards, onto the floor with a splintery, sodden, golden crash. And I clamber onto the table, ready to thoroughly enjoy my victory with more cider.
‘He’s down.’ Speaking of down, that’s my facial direction. Mainly because of the gold, but also because my cider mug is rolling on the floor but that’s besides the point because gold. You know the shiny golden stuff that you can exchange for different shiny golden stuff so you can buy food and drinks and-‘“Oh... That’s my gold. All over the floor of this, seedy... third rate... tavern.’
“Sooo. Does anyone fancy a drink on me?” I nervously laugh and take a swig from my cider mug sans cider. I keep my mug up to my face and pretend to chug the contents, if only to hide my growing apprehension mainly because I am soooo scr-
“-Yea colt. Drinks on you.”
And I’m not afraid to admit it. I jumped out of my skin for a moment, and I managed to drop my mug. Not because the voice was disembodied or anything (it was) or that I was afraid of getting mugged, drugged and dumped (I was) but because the voice sounded like it was underneath me. Mind you, I am on an oak table(those are heavy), that’s on a great brute of a man (no comment). And one of those two just spoke as if nothing was wrong... So, obviously, something is definitely, positively, absolutely wrong.
“Sooo, who was that? Was that the table, or was it that great brute of a Dog under it? Cause if this table spoke, we got a problem and I don’t think normal booze can fix that.” I look around the tavern as I say that, laughing nervously, I don’t think that patrons are getting any happier.
Much to my chagrin the table chuckled once, then twice then exploded into some deep hearty laughter. I. Was. Terrified. Mainly because I was bounced along that table until I fell roughly onto the floor at the base of my booth, unfortunately for me at that point the table decided it was time to get up. It rose into the air, balancing on the rather splintery edge exposing its glorious underbelly to me. I swear that I shall never forget that sight as long as I live, why with its pitted and rutted underbelly it could’ve been a new lunar landscape brought to this tavern, although it would have to shave it’s legs. Decidedly uninterested in both my musings and its potential for fame, the table fell back into its proper place which just so happened to be where my head was... I think I see the Mare on the M-
*Thunk...Thump*
“Now child, need I remind ye of yer origins?”
“Ye need be told of times past? When magic incarnate descended upon us and graced us. Of the thousand years past? And the wars that followed. Of the brave souls who gave their lives so that you might have your little tales told to you by your big, brave father so that you might tell your son and so he can tell his son who will tell his daughter and so on and so forth.
Or, would ye prefer those Tales. Tales of those beasts that roamed this world. Tales of beings with godlike powers. Of tales long; of tales short I tell. Come here and sit.of ones who were found, married to the ground. Who, when we showed our might,
In my forests’ they were found, married to the ground. S’not so wise they tried to run but they’ll survive.
In my towers they were found, buried in tomes of lore. S’not so wise they tried to run but they’ll survive on their knees.
In my skies they were found, And fight they did. That was wise. On their knees they’ll survive looking up and away to the sky.
They know I’ve won. They’ll survive on their knees for me.
