Above all, Coco Pommel considers herself fortunate.
Within these towering pillars of glass were the most attentive of stares. Perturbed at first, she had grown accustomed to it, savored it even, mildly so. They have the loudest whispers here too, or the thinnest walls maybe. Nevertheless, she had heard her name in them a couple of times before. Day and night, she had heard them. She relished them, in fact. Mildly so, of course.
Nighttime. Her hooves gently tapped to a distant drumbeat, lost within the cacophonous malaise of Manehatten life. Upon a rusted iron chair, Coco threw her glance about, watching the world around her as much as she imagined had been watching her. It scurried. It sauntered. It stumbled and strutted and scuttled with the loudest of hoofsteps. Sometimes, on a cold night like this one, it shivered. Not this night, no. This night was too busy for the more superficial of instincts. It strode instead, and it strode proud.
On this night, her coffee was paler. Her eyes were a little heavier. Her mane was in need of a light trim, yet she found its fluttering in the occasional wind soothing, at times nostalgic. Stifling a wistful hum, she carried on, one hoof reaching out towards the plate on the glass table before her. A passing carriage roughly threw her mane before her eyes, though she spared not a thought about it. Life wouldn't be life without such trivial pains, and she should expect them, having lived in this affluent kingdom of trivial pains for so long.
She soon grasped, in her hooves, a bruschetta from the cluster, the crumbs clattering onto the plate with a crinkle. The crusted carriage soared, carrying with it the slivers of thinly-sliced tomatoes, all cluttered underneath a square of cheese and a fine dash of black pepper. There was a gleam about them, bestowed to it by the minuscule sheet of olive oil. It looked almost bioluminescent, one could say: bright cyan one thing, deep purple the next, fresh amber afterwards. For a moment, Cocoa stared at her dinner, marveling at its indecision, if only for a moment.
A whirlwind. Not in Manehatten — never in Manehatten — but in her head. Coco could picture it, yet she knew not of achieving it. Perhaps Rarity might know a thing or two? Surely Rarity knows— she still remembers clearly the dress she made on the day they first met. Coco giggled at that fond memory, hoof at her lips. She contemplated on it, for a moment, before she gave a firm nod. Once more, her eyes gazed upon her dinner, her chest swelling with a bit of pride. Mildly so, of course.
Rarity, she reminded herself. First thing tomorrow.
With that, Coco Pommel finished her dinner.
A truly fortunate mare indeed.
The Mare & The Yawning Mountain, Part I
"Have you ever heard those mountains yawn?"
Braeburn was asked that question in a bar in the quaint town of Gumweed Gorge, a township that shared all too much with his home of Appleloosa, standing stalwartly amid the dust and rubble of a barren desert. Life moves slowly and quietly here, as evidenced by the looks of awe and wonder that met him when he came strutting in no more than a day ago. Truly, there were some parts of the town that fit that old-timey aesthetic, left untouched still by the slow, creeping growth of urbanization, though he knew very well they would vanish within a decade or so. Everything has its time, after all. It's just a matter of when.
"Well? Have you?"
"Can't say that I have," he replied, stifling a chuckle with a swirl of his whisky glass. "That's news to me though."
"A yawning mountain? Didn't you say you've seen a glowing tiger before?"
"I think I saw one. Doesn't mean it was real. Never underestimate the power of a good drink when you have one." That had been a wild night too, according to the policemare that guarded his holding cell. "I'm thinking it was a neon sign of one, at least. Not many normal tigers in Vanhoover to begin with."
"Then you'll be glad to know that that mountain right there? Perfectly real. Yawns by sundown without fail, no question."
"You seem pretty sure of that, Miss..." he squinted his eyes at the gleaming nametag. "...Miss Cottontop."
Cottontop was a somewhat surreal name. The name of this lovely mare sitting across him with ethereal eyes of emerald and mane blazing black with highlights of vivid violet; the name of the waitress from the local diner that kindly served him a cup of coffee this afternoon and had been beaming joyfully in their ensuing conversation, all the while staring out longingly at the line where the earth swallows the sun; the name of the mare seated alone in a corner when he walked into this rusted, downtrodden bar in the corner of town. Cottontop was a wild mare among the herd of aging stallions, waiting for the right moment to burst free into a gallop underneath the stars.
Most importantly, Cottontop was someone he never knew he needed to know so badly in his life.
"I'm serious! I can show it to you if you want to!"
Braeburn's gaze yanked away from the gentle grasp of those graceful green eyes and to the distant mountains casting their shadows away from the sun. "Seems like quite a gallop from here."
"Good," she said crisply, starting into his whiskey glass. "The further we are from this place, the better."
A flustered sigh. "You really want to come along with me that badly?"
"Of course."
"And no one's gonna miss you this side of town?"
"They want me gone anyway." Her stare hardened, warily darting about. "I'm telling you, me leaving this place for good would be mutually beneficial."
"For whom?"
"Myself and the folks around town."
Braeburn chewed his lips. "Parents?"
"Buried them two summers ago."
"Friends?"
"Hightailed the first chance they got."
"...potential partners?"
Cottontop coquettishly grinned. "No worries there, partner."
Wide-eyed, Braeburn could only cough, silently hoping that she missed the light blush on his cheeks. "Alright, alright." he cleared his throat, before finishing his drink and standing up, hoof clenching onto his Stetson. "S-So... here? Same place?"
"Counting on it. See you tomorrow."
