Chapter 1: Welcome to the Angelov Estate
Mannequins.
Save for clowns, spiders, and the eternal darkness of the ocean, not much is scarier.
Well, a mannequin spider clown... Ugh. Never mind.
The point is, Mannequins, in nearly all forms, can lead to the most terrifying nightmares.
Even if they wear a suit, asking "Would you care for for some tea, Miss?"
Yes. Absolutely terrifying.
Now, allow me to set the scene for you.
Ponyville lies in the foothills of ... eeeeeeh I forget the name of the range, but it's the mountain range with the great middle finger to physics known as Canterlot hanging on the side of that one mountain. Ponyville is an idyllic town, with the odd combination of thatched-roof cottages (most vulnerable to spontaneous conflagration), object themed homes with varying levels of structural integrity, and a tree castle made of crystal that will never fill the gaping hole in our hearts that was once filled by the Golden Oaks Library. Of course, none of these are quite as prim, proper, and a bitch to maintain as the Angelov Estate. I'm sorry, such an estate doesn't exist? You checked the wiki? Well, fuck you too then. I'm telling you it's there, so believe me at face value, without me providing any solid proof whatsoever.
After all, I'm telling a story.
This particular story follows a mare by the name of Silver Lining. Now, save for her eyes and cutie mark, this particular mare's coloration takes from the Pie Family Book Of Varying Shades of Gray/Grey, not to be confused with the widely popular book that celebrates Sex Dungeon Cults. Her hair is that lovely shade of grey called by pretentious fucks "Marengo," which just means if she lay down in a field of wet asphalt, her mane would seemingly disappear into the sludge. Well, at least until the asphalt starts to dry. Then she'd have some problems, but that's beside the point. Well, maybe not that many problems, due to her mane being relatively short, but her tail would definitely cause some issues.
ANYWAY. Her fur could be described as Nickel, again if you wanted to join the group that calls "light gray" an actual fucking measurable shade of grey. Now, her fur is by no means of the metallic variety, as statues have patented that particular medium, but that is the best way I can describe her fur without generalizing the colors too much. I can be specific if I want.
Now, Lining's eyes could be described as sky blue, and I don't just mean that specific color. Her eyes have that lovely quality of "Emotional Chromatization," a made up word for her eyes changing color depending on her mood. So, they can go from an incredibly whitish blue when she's happy and gay, and a lovely Midnight Blue when Fuck You. Easy peasy, murder children. Now, her cutie mark, the mark signifying her ultimate destiny, is a horizontal silver line. This lovely, thin little line breaks the ancient pact with the statues, and bears actual metallic coloration. Because if pigeons can irritate immovable monoliths of metal whenever they want, so should she. I mean, that would count as public indecency, and the pegasus/pigeon image seems oddly fitting, but that's beside the point.
The point was for you to get a possibly accurate mental image of this mare in her possible prime, to better contrast her mud-slicked hooves, nearly black eyes, and the tangled mess of sopping wet hair that was once a mane and tail. Her breath heaving, the taste of copper thick on her breathe, she raced down the water-logged paths Ponyville so arrogantly deemed roads. This is good exercise was all her special talent would let her think, desperately trying to keep its pony from drowning in the negativity buzzing through her. Now, fear, for you uneducated readers/listeners, is an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause pain, or a threat. This can be a threat to your well-being, your livelihood, etcetera. Now, Miss Lining was currently making the most of this emotion, pumping out enough adrenaline to sprint past the point of muscle fatigue, to the point where her vision was little more than a pinprick of color in a sea of black stars. Now, when I mentioned fear, that implied there was something chasing the poor dear. I'm not one to judge, but the unassuming unicorn walking after her does not, at first, strike any kind of horrifying creature.
I mean, he's only got the four legs, his suit is nice and clean, he has a kind sort of smile, gentle brown eyes, and, quite frankly, should not be keeping pace with the good lady whilst walking.
And yet, he does. Neither sweat nor rain mars his brow, his pristine white coat at odds with the charcoal black mane hanging limply off his head.
