Meadowbrook

930 ANM

Squeals and giggles could often be heard in and around the halls and grounds of Meadowbrook Cottage. It was a quaint little thatch, nestled away behind an impenetrably thick wall of forest the likes of which only the bravest normaly pony could pass through. Dark and secluded, the little village which it was part of was unknown to pony kind; it was the ideal hideout for the minority of the population known as the bat ponies. Shunned from society, it was quite the favourable setup for everyone who lived there.

Only set up a few generations before, the village had always been proud of its purebred, bat pony heritage. It was as such that expansion had been limited; the few new villagers were under constant scrutiny to ensure their breeding was of quality. Hence, the community was always incredibly tight knit—and everything revolved around Meadowbrook, as the local farm and source for all of the ponies' food.

With the exception of the occasional griffon or draconequus—though the latter species had all but died out now—the village was completely isolated. No unicorn, pegasus, earth or alicorn could be trusted; the village was, to put it simply, completely self sufficient.

It was at harvest time that the impressive organisational skills of the village really showed. Such was the case that day, with every bat pony who lived there lending a hoof and a wing to get the hay in. It was by no means an easy job, everything being done by manual labour. The pitchfork was the tool of choice that day; ten acres of hay had to be turned over to let it bask and dry out in the warm morning sun. It was hard work for a species who preferred to remain inside in the cool during the hot afternoon hours, with dawn and dusk being the preferred time to go out, but such was life.

Making do was, as such, a highly valued skill for an individual to have; none knew that better than the foals and fillies who skipped about and made merry whilst their parents slaved away to get their food on the table. Too young to be of much use with a pitchfork, their role was simpler; bring out the glasses of water and simply have fun—which could be interpreted as "keep out of the way". But that was not the case for one young stallion, barely sixteen years of age, who drifted about in the sky quietly.

"Hey, lad!"

The young stallion glanced about before he focused his gaze on the ground and fluttered lower. When he came to a halt, his leathery wings flapping rapidly to keep himself airborne, he then focused his piercing yellow eyes on the larger male before him before he spoke.

"What's wrong, Pa?"

The stallion on the ground narrowed his eyes and jerked his head up to the sky. "Just making sure you're getting on well, Pippin. If you aren't going to be a help, you can forget it."

The younger stallion—Pippin—flapped his wings a little harder and nodded resolutely, then struggling to fly up higher as he shouted, "You got it, Pa!"

Left below, the older shook his head and sighed before he picked up the pitchfork in his mouth again and began to get back to work. Before he could even turn over the first forkful of hay, however, he felt the hook of a wing rake down his side. When he turned to find the culprit, though, his expression softened and he said, "Whatever is the matter now?"

The mare before him rolled her eyes and draped a wing over his back. She was sweaty and looked just as exhausted as every other worker out in the field, but her cyan eyes sparkled slightly as she looked into his. "For the love of Luna, Moonstone! He's only a young lad; don't push him too hard. He's kept the sky clear so far."

Moonstone rolled his eyes and turned away, flicking his blue tail with his nose in the air. He then picked up his dropped pitchfork in his hooves and, whilst he began to turn the hay once again to expose the damp strands to the sun, he replied with, "That colt's a mongrel. His wings may as well not be there, they're so small, and then there's his stature... He could pass for an earth pony, of that I'm sure! If I didn't know better, I would be questioning if he was my son at all."

The mare scowled and turned around before she bucked, her hooves striking Moonstone's side so as to send him stumbling. "Watch your tongue, husband of mine," she hissed before she, too, turned away. The sparkle in her eyes had dissipated now. "You may be a hard worker, but I'm still the mare and you do as I say. And you should remember this; that colt up there might be... different. He might not look like a purebred bat pony, too. But he's our son and he's eager to prove himself, so for once in your life just give him a chance."

Moonstone mumbled something under his breath before he moved the pitchfork into his mouth, hence preventing himself from snapping anything back. The mare merely scowled and narrowed her eyes, flicking her tail in indignation. She brushed a few strands of scratchy hay from her moave coat before she then trotted off a little way, retrieving her own fork and getting back to work.

967 ANM

Against the bright blue of a midday sky, the thatch cottage stood out like a sore hoof. It was long abandoned, as was the farm that accompanied it. The lawn itself had been grazed, though the not-so pleasant weeds sill poked up through the shoots, untouched.

The bat-pony mare was quiet as she climbed out from her carriage, her suitcase in her hooves. She had already paid and tipped the stallion pulling it, and quite generously at that; the path to the small village had been wrought with dangers and, though the villagers were just about tolerant of outsiders these days, rumour had it that they had not once been nearly so passive; the thought made her skin crawl and she winced.

But she had a reason to be here. As an artist and an author, the chance for inspiration was plentiful. And so, despite her unease, she was not qoing to waste the opportunity—and at any rate, she felt somewhat as if she belonged here.

"Come on, Dakota," she whispered to herself before she moved the suitcase to her mouth. She then opened her leathery wings in preparation. Something about this place... It was so familiar, so right, and yet so wrong at the same time.

Her hoof trembled when she placed the key in the keyhole and twisted it slowly. Then, with a glance backwards to see if the carriage pony had returned—he hadn't—she tightened her grip on the handle of her bag and pushed the door open.

She wasn't sure what she had expected, to be quite honest. A skeleton? Perhaps. A ghost? Almost certainly. But there was nothing there to meet her except for a mouthful of long-abandoned cobwebs, a pair of dusty old wellington boots and an eerie silence in the small porch.

The mare let out a breath but kept her wings open as she stepped inside, the cool air then wrapping around her. Grateful for the extra fur that her species was granted with, she then transferred the case to her hooves and pressed her ear to the wood of the door to the next room. When she heard nothing moving inside, at least, she then gritted her teeth and nudged the door open with her nose.

The kitchen which she found before her was, in a word, dated. The cupboard doors had mold growing up around the edges and hung somewhat limply on their hinges and the oven, a dirty grey from neglect, looked like it would add bacteria to food rather than kill it. But she was staying and couldn't afford to not eat; reluctantly pulling a pack of matches from her bag, she cautiously lit the stove. The flames roared into life and spat at every wall of the room, kept contained for decades, and she screamed as she leapt backwards. She landed on her side heavily and then gave a muffled yell before she hastened to scamper back, her pupils the size of pinpricks—and then she realised that the flames were quite contentedly crackling away, the same size that they were normally.

The mare took a few deep breaths before she unsteadily rose to her hooves and wiped her brow with a hoof. She then picked up her dropped case and, whimpering a little, began to make her way towards the stairs. They creaked and grumbled just at the attention and threatened to break when she placed a tentative hoof on the first step. She winced as its groans grew louder and instead stepped back, opening her wings and slowly rising up into the air. Once she had bypassed the stairs she then flew slowly into the first bedroom and collapsed on the bed. For just a moment, she felt at ease—and then a rush of wind blew through the room which chilled the mare to the bone. She shivered and placed her hooves over her head, slipping under the covers and closing her eyes.

But no matter how much she tried to relax, she simply could not ignore the fact that this place was familiar, too familiar—and not in the good way.

930 ANM

The fluffy white cloud drifted alone in the otherwise clear sky. Small puffs broke off every few seconds as the young bat pony stallion who lay atop it shifted about a little, revelling in the cool dampness of his bed. It wasn't long, however, before his gaze fell on a spot far in the distance—to be specific, near to the entrance of the village—and his eyes gained a newfound sparkle. After a stolen peek down at the ground to check that nopony was watching, he then opened his underdeveloped wings and, with a grunt as he lifted his too-strong body from the cloud, he let the wind carry him away from the fields.

It was incredible, Pippin thought to himself, just how secluded the village was. The forest which surrounded the clearing was dense and unending, miles wide at the very least. Nevertheless, a mere speck in the distance, a pony city could be seen at the edge of a towering cliff, its pristine and magnificent white buildings a sight for sore eyes. Pippin couldn't help but grin at the sight of it; a moment later, however, he found himself face first in the dirt.

"Argh!"

The young stallion jumped up hastily and grumbled most audibly as he hastened to brush the dirt from his muzzle and tongue, a frown upon his face. Before he could get far in cleaning himself up, however, he found a rough force tugging through his mane. He spun quickly and snarled, his small fangs bared; upon seeing the griffon who hovered above him, he quickly scarpered backwards and looked to the ground, a blush on his cheeks.

"Oh. Sorry," he muttered before he began to paw at the ground. His ears had fallen to his neck by this point and his wings now fell open, not folded to his side but instead close to—but not quite big enough to drag through—the dirt as he took a step back. "I thought that you were perhaps a pony. A normal pony. I couldn't... I couldn't see all that well from over at the farm."

The griffon chuckled and extend a claw with which to clasp Pippin's wing. She then pulled him closer and ruffled his mane before she poked his broad chest and giggled. "That's alright, kid." She glanced about and brushed her crimson feathers from her face before her attention returned to the village gates where, it turned out, a group of griffons—all dressed up in a semi-formal sort of get-up—stood patiently. They chatted amongst eachother and jostled about, completely carefree. The griffon before him didn't break the mold, either; there was an eager grin pasted on her beak and her eyes, a strong orange, glimmered in audacious cheekiness. "The name's Talon Plight, ambassador for Beakjing. I'm just here on a little business trip; we've heard how your village here hates ponies, and we do too, so we figured we could lend you a claw—or, should I saw, a hoof? That's the phrase, is it not?"

Pippin nodded and straightened up a little as he pulled his wings up to his side. He then grinned turned away from the griffon a little and said, "Everyone is out in the fields right now. We've gotta get the hay in for the winter." He paused for a moment and scratched behind his ear. When he tried to move, however, he found himself stopped by Talon Plight's claws which gripped his off-golden tail.

"Well, you'll have to be the one to show me around then." Talon Plight released his tail and scratched her chin before she then stepped forwards. Her tail coiled itself around Pippin's neck and made him shiver. "That is, unless you're busy. Don't let me get in the way of the harvest."

Pippin shook his head quickly and hardly spared a glance to the hay fields. "They will manage without me."

998 ANM

"Scootaloo, sweetheart! Where are you?"

"I'm out in the garden, Gran!"

The old mare smiled and rolled her eyes as she glanced out of the window of Meadowbrook cottage, her heart warming as she watched her little grandfilly zip about on her scooter. She was a natural for sure, and the filly herself knew it; her grandmare couldn't help but be proud of what she would one day grow up to be. The poor thing had had a tough start to life—as a siblingless orphan, and an underdeveloped kid at that, she had needed to be strong. And that she was; with talent like she had for her scooter, but no cutie mark in speed or stunts—not that the mare was sad about that—then little Scootaloo surely grow up to do something great.

The old mare sighed and walked away from the window, turned in the direction of the kitchen stove. Before she got there, however, she faltered and backed up a little so that she stopped by the mirror; she frowned at the sight of herself, greying blue mane and all. Her tufted ears and leathery wing tips were losing their dark hue to become lighter, a fact which made her wince.

"Iolite!" A stallion's cry interrupted her musing and she spun around but she did not answer immediately. Instead she trod lazily towards the stove and lifted a heavy saucepan onto the hob before she then emptied a can of baked beans into it slowly. Turning the flames down to low, she then stirred the contents slowly before she finally replied.

"What is it?"

"Your mum's here. Says she ain't gonna come in 'til you go and get her, since you were the one who made her come in the first place." A white stallion, an earth pony, trotted into the kitchen at that point, his hooves and coat muddied. Iolite yelped at the sight and shot towards him so as to knock him away from her pristine kitchen floor—just as a screech sounded from the garden and the back door was thrown open. Scootaloo shot inside, her tiny wings buzzing and flicking mud all over the appliances. She then groaned when she fell face first onto the polished wood floor but hardly waited to even stand up, her tiny wings propelling her forwards through the kitchen on her chest before she stumbled up to her hooves and galloped out of the front door.

"Nanna!" she screeched whilst she leapt from the front door, buzzing feebly in the air for a moment before she dropped from the air. Before she could land on the muddy grass below, however, a large leather wing reached out to cushion her fall.

"You silly filly," an old mare said with a giggle as she pulled Scootaloo closer to nuzzle her affectionately. The filly, in turn, squealed and shot backwards whilst she gagged. The mare laughed even more as she folded her almost pure white wings away, with only a few patches of the original grey fur. "No love for your old Nanna Nightlark?"

Scootaloo laughed a little and rolled her eyes, then trod forwards slowly and bit down on the old mare's fur. Nightlark laughed as she walked forwards stiffly after the filly; when she reached the door to the old but renovated house, however, she frowned and slowed in her walk. A second later she had frozen, staring in some form of disbelief up at the windows. When Scootaloo opened her mouth to snap, however, she was cut off by the claw on Nightlark's wing.

"Don't mind me, little one. I haven't been here for sixty-eight years. It's just a bit of a shock to the system, that's all."

Scootaloo kept quiet for a moment before she nodded slowly. After a gentle tug at her great-grandmother's fur, she then dragged her quickly into the house and squealed, "Nanna, you've just gotta see my scooter!"

930 ANM

The table was quiet that evening as the dinner was served. Neither adult said a word and both wore an expression of displeasure on their faces, their already dark fur shrouded in shadows as they walked with their heads lowered. Only the young mare of seventeen looked remotely happy, though she was disheartened by her parents' gloom. More than once she opened her mouth to ask whatever was wrong; every time she tried, she found herself unable to speak.

The meal was only a little more uplifting than the atmosphere at the table. The young mare nibbled at her bread and knawed at the tough meat that she had been given—yet another unappreciated benefit of being a bat pony. When even her fangs couldn't tear through it, however, she unfurled her wing and carefully sliced through it with her claw. Though no less hard to chew, the smaller portions were at least easier to swallow.

It took a while for her to find the courage to finally speak up, and her voice was quavery when she did. "Mama?" She took a deep breath and fiddled with the grey fur on her chest absentmindedly. "Mama, where's Pippin?"

Both bat ponies at the table snarled at the mention and the young mare sunk into her chair quickly whilst her ears fell and wings clamped to her side. Her eyes darted between the two and she almost yelped when her mother finally spoke.

"Don't worry about that. Just eat your m—"

Whatever the older mare had been about to say was cut off as the door which led into the back porch was slammed open and a stallion of pure black coat and mane—the perfect specimen—burst in. His chest was drenched in sweat and his brown eyes were that of pinpricks, barely visible compared to the white of his sclera. He gasped and heaved before he finally managed to shout, "Fire!" He gasped for breath a few more times and danced on the spot before he then cried, "Fire in the hay barn!"

The reaction was immediate. Everypony at the table leapt to their hooves and shot into the air before they shot through the door, wings pummeling the air as the trio shot towards the easily-visible red glow which illuminated field upon field of a wet harvest. The newcomer followed close behind, half-dead from exhaustion. But that phrase would take new meaning a moment later when the family crashed into the ground outside the ravaged building which had already partially fallen down.

The flames had engulfed the entire building like a pack of vultures on a carrion, tearing the body of the barn to pieces. But, for a few horrific moments, the flames parted slowly—for just long enough to reveal the charred and scorched body of a young bat pony stallion, whose body was stockier than it should have been and whose wings were closer to that of a pegasus than his own species.

A scream rang out above the roars of the fire, followed closely by wails and shouts. When he caught up, the newcomer all but leapt into the danger himself; as a flaming beam crashed down from the roof, he was jerked backwards, kicking and screaming. And then, in a mere fraction of a second, the final remnants of the barn's walls fell down and entombed the fire's prey in tonnes of searing wood and debris.