The Demon of Canterlot

"Wherefore art thou, mine inspiration?!" Buttercup cried. The soft yellow earth pony stretched a hoof to cover the setting sun, gazing with glazed eyes down from her perch atop the parapet of her cliff side home. She wrung her hooves frantically, beginning to pace as she withheld her tears. " My glass runneth dry, I cannot write nor speak but plainly... why have you forsaken me, flirtatious minx?" With a resounding sigh, she slumped to the ground.

"Mayhaps I am not meant for this life, but the next. Oh, but to abandon a life of such sweet agony would be to enact a curse most foul upon my soul! I must strive to write, to begin anew the cycle of beauteous word play! Alas, I have not the luxury of time, oh WOE IS MEEHEEHEEEEE!" Buttercup collapsed on the marble floor, weeping openly. She stayed that way for a good twenty minutes, rolling around, sobbing and cursing, before finally sitting up. As she wiped her eyes, the mare shivered, suddenly colder than she was a moment before.

"Is this it?" she whispered, drying the last of her tears. "Has Death heard my plea and given me my respite? Come then, foul Spirit, before I change my mind! Whisk me away from this place that strangles me so with its literary shackles!" She spun around now, facing the rising moon. Her searching eyes found nothing at first, but then she saw a shadow leap from the darkened walls of her manor. She let out a quiet gasp as a coyote, clad in shadow, landed before her. Its golden ringed green eyes beheld her with a quiet, interested calm. Suppressing a shiver, Buttercup spoke.

"Art thou Him, Spirit?" she asked quietly. "Have you heard my pleas?" The coyote cocked its head, then slowly nodded.  The air grew warmer, and the mare felt herself relax a bit more. "I would not think myself a selfish mare, Spirit, truly I wouldn't. But I cannot survive in this world. This place, this horrid city on the mountain, it is cold in a way no temperature could ever mirror. The masses salivate at the thought of clawing their way through the crowd, to bite and rip at the soul of artists such as myself. I am weak, Spirit. I cannot take this place anymore, not now that my minx, my flirtatious muse has left me. Take me, Spirit. Take me away from this horrid world." To Buttercup's credit, she only flinched slightly when the coyote rushed forward silently, its eyes piercing through her very soul. It said nothing as it circled her, as if searching for something. Then, with an entirely un-coyote-like grin, it bared its many razor sharp teeth and spoke, its voice as cloudy and oozing shadow as its form.

"Verily." There was the sound of wind, a feeling of utter cold, and the howl of a coyote, and Buttercup Dream knew no more.