NightShade and the star casters!

It was a cool night and spring was coming fast, a young filly sat on a hill just outside of ponyville, there was silence and an undisturbed lack of motion, the small grey Pegasus was motionless, her eyes shut and her ears cocked slightly backward, not a sound was heard, not a animal stirred, she opened her eyes and looked forward with disappointment then looked down in front of her, there was a small pocket book, inside there where many songs, only one she sang.  The filly looked up at the wonders of the night and began singing in an ancient tongue that very few have even heard of. Her voice was sweet and slightly raspy, and her eyes where a light turquoise, her wings where bandaged and her feathers gently rounded to a dagger consistency. Her mane was black with splashes of a creamy blue, her ears where cut. And her coat was dusty.  All around her the mushrooms lit up and the mist began to clear. The sun began to rise sleepily over the horizon. The young filly stopped and slammed the book shut in a panic then putting it in her mouth she began galloping home, houses began to fill with noise and ponies began to open doors and sleepily look around, the filly ran faster trying to get ahead of the time, grunting with the effort to get home before the orphanage master woke up, she was a horrible mare with the shortest of tempers and the worst of punishments. That’s why your wings are bandaged, NIGHTINGALE ROSANE SHADE!! The shout filled the air and the filly slowed and slumped down and sighed, she got found out.

A few years later.

“You can’t be serious” said the weather pony “you honestly believe in that stupid old ponies tale” she continued. “Yes and it’s not a ponies tale, its real” you answer gruffly “one day I will prove to you that they exist” sure and when you do ill change my name to john”. You sigh and return to your small cubical , the space was small but easy to move in , on your wall are pictures of the stars and the moon, you  keep them as if they meant something , “nightshade get back to work”, a paper ball hits you in the ear,  reluctantly you spin around to the weather chart and begin scheduling  an area close to the sweet apple acres area, the apple family have requested a slight storm on one of the fields, it was an odd request but they payed a generous amount of bits and said something about  a zap apple.  Sighing you look in one of your drawers for a quill, scrounging around in the messy compartment for anything useable, “purple glasses, sketch book. Muffin bag, book of star-songs....” you voice trailing off as you blow the dust off the cover, a slight memory breaks your mental silence and you toss the book into your saddle bag. Picking up a pencil instead you begin plotting cloud settings and water pickup locations. Oh the days as  a weather pony the wind in your mane and the freedom of the air. And if it were not for that storm you would have been able to fly. Now you just sit at a desk and coordinate the weather ponies, you would do anything to be able to fly again and to be able to feel the freedom of the open air and to feel the soft clouds against your hooves, and to see your friends up in Cloudsdale. but those days are never to come again as your wings are damaged with a third degree bur n from a lightning strike to the centre of your back. RING RING!  A bell sounded signalling the changing of shifts pegasi fluttered in and others walked out. You pick up your bag and walk out the door the sun hurting your eyes after spending the day indoors you slowly walk towards your house across the street, humming an old song to yourself.