Dearest Journal

Chapters

Packing Up
Setting Out
First Leg
Second Leg
Third Leg

Packing Up

Meadow Surprise was tired, but not in body- well, maybe a little in her eyes, but that was more due to a faulty prescription than anything else. Getting new glasses was as good an excuse as any for going to the mainland, as everyone knew that it always took months to get anything to the Misty Isle, and Meadow's eyes had a very particular prescription that was easy to mess up- and, of course, the dear mare couldn't possibly sell all her honey on the island, not without setting chins to waggling again.
Meadow Surprise's Estrus was a month and a half late; and, after using a spell she learned in the health class of Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns, she knew the reason why.

Trottingham is not Equestria- let the record be marked plainly. Trottingham is most definitely not Equestria. For one thing, it's so small that everyone of even slight prominence knows almost all the business of everyone else; for another, the values of Trottingham are a good four or five hundred years out of date.

It doesn't take much time for a Spellweaver to pack all their things; maybe an afternoon, once they've settled things with the Bank and the Mayor's office. The Bank is the one institution in town that is, for better or worse, completely private; and the Mayor's office closes at noon and doesn't reopen until sunrise the next day. People don't move to Trottingham all that often; most of the population is adult, or transient to take advantage of the military base. A bit of paperwork at the Bank; a letter in the Notary's drop box at the Mayor's... and that's really it.

Legally, anyway- Meadow Surprise is free to leave any time she'd like.

"You don't have to go, Meadow,"

"Yes, I do- Auntie Ravel, if I want any kind of life for the Little Bobbin, I've got to go right away, before anyone really figures it out,"

"-yes. Yes, I suppose you do. I wish... I wish... I'll miss you,"

"I'll miss you too... And please, Auntie, you have to know- I'm so proud of you- proud to have known you, proud that you were mine-"

"...In everything you do, you must always be yourself..."

"In everything I do, I will always be myself,"

"-And I promise to be true,"

The two mares stared at each other, long and silent in the gloomy village of Trottingham. The Royal Army Base, on the shore, was just waking up.

The older one, careworn and unraveling over time, worn out and worn in and wearing away at the seams- she embraces a younger, straighter-legged mare, still trim and fit and shaggy with winter. Their noses touch; their necks cross; their horns gesture around each other's heads in an old Unicorn gesture of goodbye, weaving a little cantrip of farewell around each other. It will break in the dawn's light; but for now, while the moon still holds sway, the magic stays.

The young mare, tall and high-headed and itching to go (longing to stay)- she dabs a few tears from her eyes, and smiles at her Aunt. Her Aunt, helplessly, lovingly, sorrowfully- she smiles back.

"Love you, forever,"

"Love you, forever, too. Goodbye, Meadow Surprise; I don't think we'll meet again,"

"Goodbye, Ravel Ripstop; I rather think you're right,"

A Heartsong gets sung when the emotions in a pony's heart overwhelm their rational mind; it's what happens when you're too old to have magical surges, but you still have all the emotions that made surges possible. Babies and foals are too small to handle their emotions- after all, emotions come full size, it's the pony that has to grow into them; thus, the Surge, which keeps their powerful emotions from doing permanent harm to their still young and tender bodies.
The more mature and complicated the emotion, the more private and intimate the Heartsong becomes- because, really, how do you properly sing about something as bittersweet as leaving your home, your life, your family and friends and business, all because the laws of your country don't allow you to become something you've always wanted to be?

How much does a life weigh? That depends on what you're defining as someone's life. It could be just enough to fill a modest sized cart, mostly small things but with one or two larger pieces- almost entirely soft goods and tools, aside from the two large beehives on the back and the clinking jars of amber honey. Not too much for a mare Meadow Surprise's size to pull; actually, rather less than one would think she'd need, considering how unicorns generally have at least a small library somewhere. Then again, there is a set of very particular scrap books and binders in a weatherproofed box... perhaps Meadow Surprise is not so different a unicorn after all, though she's certainly the largest you'll ever meet.

It could be balanced against this- a formal dance in the winter, for those who'd finished their five years of service to the Diarchy's Crown, and a stallion with eyes like sapphires in the summer's sunlight and wings broad enough for the both of them. It could be laughter in the dusky light, the gasping sigh of night, dawns warm pleasures and breakfasts dumb puns, pastries and scrambled eggs, and I can't stay, I'm sorry; I can't go, forgive me. It could be leaving, and letting them leave, and forgetting- until spring came, and with it six weeks of increasing worry. It could be a spell, learned at a school far across the sea somepony got into on scholarship and skill; and she was so embarrassed to learn it, but so grateful when it showed her-

It could be the same weight as half a jar of clover-honey.

It could be the weight of a dusty law book from the library, stuck in with a pile of periodicals woefully out of date.

It could be a choice that isn't a choice at all.

It could be going to the Bank, as usual; and clearing out your accounts, which is not; and selling your house, which is not; and packing all your belongings in an afternoon, which is not; and telling your bees, which is usual; but what you tell them is not, and their joy is only matched by your worry.

It could be the same as the weight of a soul- which is the weight of a story.

It could even be the weight of your Aunt's tearstained smile, proud and afraid for you, all at once; two letters in your saddlebags and a cart hitched to your withers, the road to the Guto River Ferry long and silent in the predawn gloom.

-or even, and this is most bizarre, but even... it could even be all of those things at once, and a strange fluttery feeling somewhere that isn't your stomach at all, but farther back and deeper.

The mare named Meadow Surprise takes the ferry from Trottingham to the Griffinstone side of the Guto River, which is the cheapest option. She's got a bit less than a year to get to Equestria proper, find somewhere to live, and amass a bit of money- and then, well, then it'll be quite too late to be doing much of anything at all.

Setting Out

End of Winter, Guto River Crossing; A Journey is a collection of hoofsteps, one after the other

~~Dear- Lovely-~~

Dearest Journal,

I suppose I should begin by stating clearly at the start that I am no pony, as the Sisters would call their subjects- a pony is rigorously defined in literal fashion as anypony who is fourteen hooves or below; I am, at my withers, very nearly nineteen hooves. Thus, I am more properly defined as a horse- note the lack of prevailing ‘w’! Still, I am a pony, though not of Equestria- I soon hope to change that, but... for now, it is good that my winter coat is so very thick, and I'm not further along than a month and a half or so.

Particularly, I am (really, my entire clan is,) what is called a Coldblood, or Draft. This means that, well aside from my stature, I am- despite being a mare, and quite beautiful I might add- known for a number of things. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly for any descendants reading this journal, Coldbloods tend to steady any line we’re introduced to- indeed, Saddle Arabians in particular have been known to seek out a prospective mate from the colder north, my homeland, when their bloodlines- which they keep rigorous track of- become too crossed and fractious. A coldblood can be any of the three tribes- unicorn, pegasus, or earth pony; what is true of all coldbloods is that we are generally large, much larger than the average pony. We tend to be heavily muscular- not in a grotesque or ugly way, merely that we tend to be strong in our bodies. Our hooves are large; our patience is long.

My name, Journal, is Meadow Surprise. I am a bay, with a harsh red sheen to my mane and tail. I do not currently wear shoes of any kind, and though I had some misgivings at the beginning of the journey, I must say that not needing any of the files or clippers to keep my hooves in proper order is a great relief, and a great savings on weight in my cart.

The Surprise clan is mostly earth ponies, with branches all over the known and unknown world- indeed, our clan is so very large that we have entire groups of families that have never actually exchanged greeting letters, much less introduced themselves to each other in person. The mare-clan, Surprise, splits into the Coffyns and the Spades; then the Coffyns became Pies, and the Spades became Tricks. It's fairly rare to have the 'Surprise' still inside, these days- but I didn't feel comfortable with any of the other names I could have taken, and I refused the name thrust on't me...

I have left my home of Trottingham some six weeks past, and have been steadily making my way south. I have in my possession a cart, which I have been using as a base for a lean-to as I travel; it holds my entire business, as well as my personal possessions, and my beehives. One cannot, of course, keep bees as pets- then again, they are not entirely wild creatures either, not so long as I’ve had them.
I also have in my possession a very important pair of letters: the first being a letter of introduction to Cloudy Quartz, one of my Aunt Zipper's only remaining family- and the second being a letter of introduction to her niece, Pinkie Pie. Both letters detail the particulars of my situation, I assume; though, quite frankly, my situation will reveal itself in the coming year.
Tristan was- is(?)- a very large stallion, a half-hoof taller than I, and... I am a large mare, and he's a large stallion, and the foal in my belly will be a very large foal if I've got any sense for surprises...

I suppose my beekeeping started with my cutie mark- I had been watching a swarm of bees turn the hollow trunk of a tree in the overgrown back of our yard into their hive, and it was fascinating. Each day I would spend a good hour or longer observing- and it seemed to me that each hexagonal cell of beeswax was marked in a this-or-that fashion. Slowly, slowly, I gained a sense of the purpose of the bees- how each cell was marked out for a specific use, and how each level of the hive had its own purpose. I was also learning to knit, at the time- and then one day, almost as if in a dream, I turned my head and found my mark.
It's not for keeping bees; and it's not for knitting. Because, you see, what I actually did was write out instructions- how to understand what bees were saying when they did their graceful curving dances, how to knit something I'd only ever seen... I've only been refining my ability to Create Instructions ever since.

My cutie mark is two balls of black and yellow self-striping yarn, one larger than the other; in the smaller ball, there are two knitting needles stuck in a bit like antenna; and on either side of the pair of yarn balls, a single hexagon of bright yellow. It looks rather like a honey bee, though one made of knitting supplies and abstract shapes… Or, if you've the technical knowledge, it looks like a rather fanciful knitting pattern, written down visually instead of in shorthand.

Well. On that day, I discovered two things- firstly, that I had several small, seemingly disparate knacks for a few things, that being: making soft goods, such as knitwear, lace, or cuddle buddies; making cheese; making pickles; and keeping bees. There are some things made easier by the horn upon my head; and there are some things that simply must be done by hoof, not because there’s not a spell to do the job- or even because I can’t do the spell, I certainly can- but rather… there is a quality to an object that cannot be replicated by spell. There are instructions a spell is simply not smart enough to interpret; and…

Here, let me explain.

Knitting instructions and spell matrixes are basically the same thing. A knitting instruction, after all, is the written instructions of how one goes about making a certain piece. There is usually a picture or description of what kind of thing should be left behind, provided all the instructions are followed correctly, and all the necessary basic properties of a good knitted object are present. Similarly, a spell matrix is the written- or physicalized- instruction of how a spell is to be cast. Most spells come with a description or warning about it’s use, thus allowing the forward thinker to divine the purpose and method of the spell in question- intention, is the word I was looking for.

Knitting something and casting a spell are both matters of intent. It need not be a powerful intent- keeping warm in the cold, a light in the darkness… I find that the simpler solution is often better. I could cast a heating spell to keep warm- or I could take the time to knit myself a fine set of legwarmers, and a heavy shawl, and a scarf, and a hat that I can tie around my throat. I could cast a mage light; or I could light a candle.

Then again, I suppose the devil is truly in the details- there are times when clothing is not practical, but a spell is; times when a flame is a terrible, irresponsible danger- but a tiny firefly of mage-light is not.

Ah, I suppose I should explain the actual- right. Well. I have been banished from my clan lands in Trottingham; and I am now making my way to Equestria, in hope of a better life for myself and the one(s?) soon to be in my care. To start with, I aim to get to the Griffonstone Bridge, where, if all goes well, I will cross and enter the very edge of Equestrian territory. If I have enough money left over, I shall get a ticket to the farthest interior of that pleasant country I can- but I doubt it will be so easy.

The light is fading; and my quill is less than sharp. I shall write again when I am in more stable accommodations.

Best Love, MS

Crossed the River, First Day of Spring; Bebotherance and Condemnation to Greedy Griffons!

Well, Journal, my worry was well founded- crossing the Griffonstone Bridge from the Griffon side was an exercise in politic and frustration. I suppose it’s really my fault- I did not expect such high tolls for crossing a bridge, nor the need for bribes. Even so, I only now have enough bits to go to the Crystal Empire or Vanhoover without crunching into my savings and fresh-start monies.

Bah! Enough of this pity party!

I am currently resting in a very fine traveler’s stable, with my cart as is proper. Across the walk, there seems to be some sort of altercation- I am quite pleased and sure of the runic protections laid into the bones of the stable, so feel no worry leaving my cart be and sticking my nose in where it isn’t wanted.

Ah, Journal, I am glad I had a look! I never could stand for anyone being mistreated for something they’ve no control over- one cannot control their tribe, nor their coloration, nor even if they be a zebra or otherwise.

Taffeta Dracule- though she prefers Taffy- is a zebra, one of the Travelers I do believe, though I would need to put my glasses on and double check the stitching on her saddlebags to be sure. She stands at the average fourteen hooves, and has a curious dun tinge to her stripes. There is something distinctly wiggly or snake-like concerning her cute stamp- like a snake with wings, wrapped around a stick, I think. Odd, but no more than my own cutie mark- as for the mare herself, once well away from her tormentors- who I will not describe more than boorish, cowardly, and entirely too sure of their strength when with their fellows (a sure sign of a coward)- she is proving to be a kind and gregarious soul.

She has not been off-put by my taciturn nature, nor my resting expression (which has often been compared to a scowl). Indeed, after enjoying a fine dinner of oats, sorghum, barley stalks and dandelion leaves, (with a sprinkle of my own necessary supplements), we have decided to be traveling partners for as long as our roads intersect. We have also decided, after I voiced my lack of bits and general concerns, to go to Vanhoover, not the Crystal Empire direct- and, as it turns out, Taffy is a doctor. Specifically, she is a midwife, learning how other cultures and other bodies go about the business of birth.

Quite frankly, I am put greatly at ease having her along.

It’s getting late, Journal; I’ll write again soon.

Best love; MS

Twenty First of March; Pegacast for Slightly Cloudy, no scheduled rain

Dearest Journal,

Taffy is a Traveler! What fantastic luck! Further, she has several coupons for our journey ahead- and has agreed to pool her bits with mine, that we may make them stretch farther. (Just a note, Journal- Travelers are Zebras who leave Zebrica to explore the world, broadening their knowledge and mastery of a particular subject, art, or science. They have flowers, vines, and medicinal herbs embroidered into the carrying straps of their saddlebags as a good luck charm; Taffy’s are fern, ivy, dandelion, and willow, with flowers of pea, rose, and lily.)

Our itinerary is as follows; we will board the Mail and Freight leaving Griffonstone Station at Three-thirty AM for the Crystal Empire, where we will have approximately twelve hours of layover; then, we will board the Sparkling Continental from the Empire to Cloudsdale Station, where we will connect with the Vanhoover Limited (Canterlot to Vanhoover round-trip daily), thus getting us to Vanhoover.

Apparently, Taffy’s older brother, Hawkeye, works in the Vanhoover General Hospital as a surgeon, quite the necessary occupation to have on hand for the seaweed farmers I’m informed.

Taffy says that Hawkeye is much kinder than he appears, and will let us stay with him for a good three months- at which time, with luck, we both will have had a chance to make some good money, and will be able to continue into Equestria.

-I’ll continue my musings later, Journal, I’ve got to help the porters load my cart onto the train-

Best Love, MS

It’s Still March; Ugh

Journal, Railcars do not agree with me. Taffy is very concerned- she says that she can find a remedy for me in the Crystal Empire, but if it doesn’t work, we’ll be walking to Vanhoover. Apparently, being absolutely sick to one’s stomach is no fair exchange for convenience- and I seem to have made a fast friend in Taffy, as she absolutely stomped my queasy objections flat. I at least managed to talk her into going as far as Cloudsdale- walking from the Empire to Vanhoover would surely be a deadly enterprise.

I've no desire to foal on the road, no matter what my ancestors put up with; they did so out of necessity, not desire.
I’ve been resting for a good hour now in the nice sunlight, on the blessedly firm and unmoving ground; Taffy saw to my cart’s resettling on a different freight car, and scolded the porters into helping me off the train car and into this park where I’m resting now. She’s gone to get me something to settle my stomach, and has decided to spend our layover making a remedy for my motion sickness- and here she is now.

Goodness, but what a difference a hot infusion of herbs and spices can make in one’s lookout! I’ve left my saddlebags with Taffy; she was quite insistent that I do my best to stick to my original itinerary, and that she did not need my presence to make a proper cure. Fair enough- on to the wonders of the Crystal Capital!

Hearthstone City is a wondrous place, a shining beacon of warmth and light for all. The Crystal Ponies are glimmering and delightful- even my duller colors seem mysterious and grand in the gleam of the crystal wash. I have seen innumerable wonderments, and am filled with delight- aha!

My first stop on this layover, a dye and knitting shop- I walk away, saddlebags heavy with dry dyes of fantastic color and vibrancy, new skeins of wool, and a fine selection of buttons. Some are simple colors; others, magical in nature, adding a touch of crystalline sheen to this or that. Some are additives; beads, notions, clasps, books and instructional scrolls… and now, for the souvenirs.
I have had it as a habit since my very smallest youth, that any place I go- excepting, of course, the great outdoors- I will take some small things as souvenirs. A number of things catch my eye, the first being a delightful garden of crystal succulents- and, after some inquiry, I walk away with a small portable garden that will keep is beautiful crystalline shape and coloration well outside the Empire, provided I feed it the appropriate mixture of gem shards (a small pouch of which I bought, and the ratio of mixture and feeding schedule is included as well).

I have already begun collecting jewelry for my child- my clan, every member of my clan, has some habit of collecting rocks (rock candy is still rocks), but I, in particular, collect rock-adorned hairpins. I, personally, have a collection of over a thousand unique hair pins- and for my child, I have decided to collect combs, as I want the pins too much to share- and so, I will get my child something of their own, and for myself, pins!

I bought a hair pick , and I’m not sure why- it’s a lovely piece, made of wood and soft on my lips, but... Well, perhaps Taffy will like it? Her mane is long, and I’ve noticed her irritation when it gets in her eyes… And if I buy a small grab bag of blank crystal shards, and I use my graver’s tools, I can put a small spell into the pick- nothing fancy, mind, just a simple set of nested spells to clean, style, and bind her hair up into… well, considering the pick itself, I can get away with four styles total. I’ll have to discuss which styles with Taffy, but that shouldn’t be too bothersome, and I see no reason why it shouldn’t work… so that’s sorted, then.

I bought a mane comb, but… I’ve no idea who for. Perhaps a friend I haven’t met, yet- it is a fierce looking thing, yet stark and plain. I understand why no one bought it before me; there’s a certain harsh quality to it that some ponies would find off putting. I, personally, found it rather refreshing- like the first bath of spring in the stream after a long, mucky winter… Ah, I’ve made myself sad.
For my foal, a silver and crystal mane comb with pink and white daisies adorning it. Cute; unisex; and sturdy enough to be a foal’s mane comb for generations.
For myself, a set of twenty crystal and pearl mane pins , obviously meant for someone’s wedding- but at that price, the wedding must not have come to be. A shame for them that ordered them; a bargain for me that bought them! The salesmare was so pleased to move the stock, she threw in a pair of shawl pins for good fortune.
And finally, for us both- a crystal suncatcher with a series of nested spells meant to create a formless sort of music. I think we both(?) could benefit from such a thing; and the spells make slightly different music each time, so it shouldn’t ever get boring… and in the sun, it scatters a multitude of rainbows and glimmers, so even if the music doesn’t help, it will be nice to look at.

I must say, a walk through the capital of the Crystal Kingdom did me a wondrous good. Taffy’s remedy served to settle my stomach further- and, after a fine repast, we boarded the train for Cloudsdale in high spirits.
I shall inform you of the efficacy of the remedy soon enough, Journal.

Best Love; MS

On the Train to Cloudsdale Station, Five Days in One Entry

Dearest Journal,

Taffy’s remedy worked a treat, and we’ve been on the train to Cloudsdale for a good twelve hours or so- the whole night, praise Luna, though I will say that the bed was both lumpy and small.

It will be quite a while until our first stop, in the Unicorn Mountains- it gives everyone a chance to stretch their legs, as well as repair anything needful of repairing. I, myself, am repairing something- really, considering it’s state, I’m actually making an entirely new one.
My Aunt Ravel and her special marefriend, Zipper, are the ones who helped me leave Trottingham after the- This pattern is my Aunt Ravel’s, and I’m making a new one as a comfort for myself. Aunt Ravel and Auntie Zipper gave me a plaque for my studio, wherever I end up settling down- it’s a simple bit of cross-stitching on a wooden frame, meant for hanging on the wall.

It says:

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin,
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

My Aunts wish me, and my foal-to-come, a better life than could be found for us in Trottingham. My Aunts have not lived their lives in vain- and so, I can only hope that I won’t either. I do wish I knew how to find Tristan- or even where to begin looking for him... it seems wrong to me, to leave him out of such an important undertaking as this; alas, I have no other option. I am not yet an Equestrian, and so I cannot write to his CO or Army Company and enquire, not legally and expect a prompt reply; I do not know his full name, and so cannot address a letter to him and mail it and put my faith in the Mail Ponies; what I have of him is not enough for a tracking spell, it just rebounds to my belly.

My conundrum is both frustrating and a bit absurd- making a new shawl out of the old shawl pattern, however, is not. The original shawl pattern was pony sized, at seven hooves long by sixteen and a half wide; that is, pony hooves. My hooves are several times bigger than that- but the proportions of the shawl will be correct if I modify it properly.

The exact gauge of the yarn used is not critical, but it works best with a one-hoof, or ten centimeter, gauge. The finished fabric ought to be light and airy; use a mohair yarn, or any of the pegasus yarns, to give it a cloudy, light, and fluttery frog. This is a fairly easy pattern, requiring one skein of appropriate yarn, measuring to a length of (three hoofs a leg; three legs a yard) two hundred eighteen yards at one hundred grams per skein- or, in my case, as my hooves are three times the size of an average pony, you must triple the amount of yarn, and expand the pattern.

I will be using three skeins of self ombreing seventy percent mohair, twenty six percent wool, and four percent silk, or six hundred fifty four yards of one color yarn in that distribution of fibers, at one hundred grams per skein.
I am using size fifteen circular needles, at least two hooves long- and yes, they are sized lengthwise to my hooves, the size chart of needles refers to it’s gauge, or width around.

I will write out the instructions as I have them written, and then elaborate on their meaning.

CO 7 sts.

Garter:
Row 1: K2, yo, ktend (8sts)
Mark RS with pin.
Repeat until half yarn used; end after working a WS row.

Eyelets:
Row 1(RS): K2, yo, k1, (yo, k2tog) to last 3 sts, k3.
Do not worry about extra plain stitches at end of row before last 3sts; just knit.
Rows 2, 3, and 4 : K2, yo, knit to end of row.
Repeat 1 - 4 until twelve yards of yarn remain. End after plain row.
(If preferred, switch to plain garter stitch in center after working five or six eyelet rows for solid border at top edge of shawl.)
BO loosely; weave in ends.
Shawl does not need to be blocked; wash and lay flat to dry if needful.

In elaboration:

Cast on seven stitches.

For the garter portion of the piece:

Knit two, yarn over, knit to end (it should be eight stitches).
Mark the Right Side with a pin.
Repeat the first two steps until half your yarn is used; end after working a Wrong Side row.

For the eyelet portion of the piece:

For the first row, knit two, yarn over, knit one, yarn over, knit two together to last three stitches, knit three. This pattern is fairly forgiving; extra stitches at this point will not matter in the completed piece. Simply knit two together, or knit until you come to the last three stitches, and follow instructions from there
For rows two, three, and four, knit two, yarn over, knit to end of row.
Repeat the four rows in order until about twelve yards of yarn remain. End this section on a plain row of stitching.
Bind off loosely; weave in ends with appropriate crochet hook or needle.

Blocking not necessary for this piece; wash and lay flat to dry if needful.

Blocking is the process of stretching a knitted or crochet piece, allowing it to take it’s actual shape and revealing the stitch pattern. I chose to make this piece on the train because it doesn’t require blocking; there’s no room for it on the train anyway.

As for the fact that the above pattern is sized for a pony, not a horse, that’s where resizing comes in.

Firstly, one must swatch the pattern with their yarn of choice to see how the fabric will behave once made. It’s a very important step in any knitting project; any time you start a new pattern, use a new yarn, or break in new equipment, it’s always best to do a swatch. Arithmetic can only take you so far; actually having something knitted in your hooves will tell you more about what can and can’t be done with your knitting or crochet pattern than anything else. It will tell you if you need to wash and block; it will tell you if you need to adjust your gauge, or even if your skills aren’t there yet.

I recommend swatching at least a hoof’s worth of fabric for an accurate measurement. Once you are satisfied with your swatch’s feel on your frog, you need to figure the number of stitches per row you will need. You do this by counting how many stitches per row you have in your one hoof swatch.

I cannot, for the life of me, write this out- I’ve never been able to. I can explain it in pony; I can demonstrate it. I can even walk somepony else through it, if need be- but I cannot, for the life of me, write it out. I’ve just done it too many times; I don’t remember how to write it in words.

Frankly speaking, knitting and crochet aren’t things to learn from books- you have to do them to understand what’s happening.

However, I have managed to finish my new shawl , and just in time- we’ve stopped in the Unicorn Mountains for an engine switch, and the weather without is brisk! My new shawl pins and shawl prove their muster immediately, in the sharp gusts of wind. Taffy, poor mare, shudders with every gust, until I placed my hefty self between her and the prevailing- this seemed to work quite well. A purchase of hot apple cider for both of us kept us in high spirits while the engines were switched; and I was able to purchase a new almanac for the year, with broad weather forecasts for the wide country of Equestria, and the climate notes for each major city- oouf!

If I’m reading the almanac correctly, the weather is going to be worse in Cloudsdale Station- I’ve been before, and it’s always foggy and cold there, excepting around the Summer Sun. Hm. And it’s going to be worse still in Vanhoover- it sleets there nearly every day, when it’s not foggy or windy. Oh, yes, I bought a tourist guide for Vanhoover for Taffy- she seemed curious, and then very apprehensive as she read more of it on our next few days of travel. I, myself, purchased a Cloudsdale Station guide for myself- we traded them after reading, thus avoiding buying two of the same book.
One of the many perks of having friends.

I busied myself thusly, during our ride south: I took measurements of her legs, from knee to pastern, measured her barrel and chest… I even got Taffy to pick out a manestyle she likes from my stylebook, so I could start on her manepick.

As for her other measurements, after deciding on a pale undyed wool, I began work on a set of warming garments for her- an infinity cowl , a shawl much like mine, and a set of four leg warmers that button up the side to obviously separate them from the lingerie styles of socks, which cover the hoof and go up to the elbow and stifle, front and back… Perhaps she’d like a hat as well? A chullo, I think; and I’ll make another cowl for her brother, and a hat as well.

According to Taffy, her brother Hawkeye is a good two hooves taller than her; that’s enough for me to make a judgement about how to resize the pattern. Taffy actually has a set of pins for a shawl and scarf or collar- a gift from her brother last Hearthwarming; she’s just been putting off getting things to actually put those pins on, as she didn’t need them.

Silly mare; still, it’s always nice to have another project to work on while I’m waiting.

I don’t mind setting certain things to stitch with a spell; cowls and leg warmers are basically rectangles, and those can be woven by spell just fine. It’s just telling a mage hoof to repeat a certain series of actions a set number of times- nothing I can’t do by hoof, but I need to begin working on the manepick.

Nested spell manepicks used to be commonplace during the Three Tribes era, but after the Unification, they fell out of favor as Unicorns began adopting Earth Pony and Pegasi methods of mane care.

There are three basic spells that go into a mane pick; a spell to clean and condition the mane, a spell to detangle and section the mane, and a spell to style it. I’m etching the spell matrix for each spell into a discrete set of gem shards, and carefully inlaying them in the smooth wood of the manepick.

First, the cleaning and conditioning spell in shards of turquoise, as both stone and spell fall under the school of health; second, the detangling and sectioning spell in shards of carnelian which isn’t as good as amethyst but the look of the manepick has just as much importance as it’s effectiveness- and further, zebra manes tend to self section along the stripes. Both stone and spell fall under the school of peace, by the by…

As for the third, the styling spell itself in a combination of citrine, aventurine, and moonstone- the first two for just her mane, the last for the mind underneath it. Combined, stone and spell fall under the school of wonder.

Tie off the loose ends of every spell you cast; never, ever, leave them open.

I presented Taffy her new set of garments, as well as her mane pick, at breakfast today. She was overjoyed to receive them; apparently, she budgeted for traveling, food, accommodations, and medical supplies- all of which are totally necessary for a mare traveling alone. She did not, however, budget for clothing. Me giving her warmer garments was a huge relief to her- she hadn’t been able to save enough money to commission or purchase a set and keep up with her itinerary.

I do enjoy doing things for others, especially when it’s needful; ah, Journal, we’re pulling in to Cloudsdale station for a two-day layover.

Best Love; Meadow Surprise

Cloudsdale Station, Early Spring; Day Trip to the Ruins of Delphi

Dearest Journal,

Taffy and I took accommodations in Cloudsdale Station when our train from the Crystal Empire finally arrived, well after sunset. We had agreed during the ride down that we would take the opportunity to go on a day trip to the famous Ruins of Delphi, where the pegasus poet Delphinus Wake used to perform plays and poems that are still performed today.

Cloudsdale is often considered to be the oldest of all pegasi cities, chiefly because while it’s skybound portion is still in full use, it’s land based districts are all given over to farmland, woods, and ruins. It’s mostly tourists like myself and Taffy who go and explore them- as most pegasi, sorry to repeat a stereotype- but most pegasi have little lasting interest in affairs on the ground. Why should they? They’ve wings, and all pegasi can manipulate the weather… saa, I’ve gotten off track.

Day tours through the Ruins of Delphi cost about eighty bits a pony; the high price is due to two things. Firstly, the tour provides trail shoes, which are not cheap to replace and someone will always either lose or ruin one, even if they’re my size; and secondly, they provide a full meal for something like thirty ponies, which doesn’t include the tour guides. I’m not so far along that I can’t go on the walking trail, and Taffy is very excited to see a Tourist Attraction.

However, before we went on the Ruin trail-tour, we went to the museum.

The Archaeological Museum and Library of Delphi shelters an extensive collection of artifacts- scrolls under careful preservation spells, ancient pegasi weapons, and astonishing objects, from urns to votives. All the items in the museum and library were unearthed during excavations at the Delphi Ruins, it’s vicinity, or were donated by local families seeking to preserve and share their legacy with others. It’s located on the Station side of Cloud’s Hillock, adjacent to the archaeological site, on the modern side of the little train-stop town.

The ‘Equestria Must See’ guidebook my Aunt Zipper gave me lists it as one of the top must-see museums in Equestria, mainly because of the breadth and quality of artifacts it includes. The permanent exhibition alone covers over a thousand years of art and upheaval, from the ancient Musteri Era to the Hurricane Renaissance.

Taffy and I spent a good three hours on our feet, wandering through the museum while it was open, admiring the ancient artwork of the pegasus tribe. Then, we went to the gift shop, for souvenirs! Well, the shop had the usual items- totes, quills, ink pots, posters; but, having read Aunt Zipper’s margin notes on the Ruins of Delphi, I plumped for a pair of mare’s sun hats- a cute one for Taffy, and a very broad one for myself; the touristy part about them was, of course, the styling, which was in ancient pegasus tribe fashion… or sweetgrass country fashion, as there are only so many shapes that fit well on a pony’s head and shade their face from Celestia’s sun. I also bought us both over the neck water bottle holders, and the medium size bottle of water which are, according to Aunt Zipper, large enough to be worth carrying but not so large as to make carrying them a nuisance.

Aunt Ravel’s margin notes were about the most iconic Delphi souvenirs- our sun hats, for one; blue eye protective jewelry, believed by pegasi since ancient times to ward off windigos; a string of komboloi , more commonly known as worry-beads- Aunt Ravel wrote that nothing else held a chill-spell better for a teething foal, and that the strings only break when the one who wears them daily dies. Grim, but good to know; the last two items are actually three items- a Build Your Own Weather kit, and there’s a child’s version and an adult’s version; and a free catalogue for getting refills and other Weather Factory products, and I bought an adult’s version and the catalogue because it’s free- and finally, Pegasi folk art reproductions, and reproductions of famous objects d’art.

I bought, in order, our sun hats; a blue eye suncatcher for myself and a cuff bracelet for Taffy; a set of turquoise worry beads ; a Weather Factory approved Build Your Own Weather Kit for adults; and a big yarn bowl with it’s own lid .

After our quick exploration of the Delphi Museum, which keeps the strangest hours I’ve ever had the misfortune of reading, Taffy and I joined our tour group and enjoyed a long, leg-stretching walk through the Ruins of Delphi.

It’s best to pace yourself, visiting a place like Cloudy Hill. It’s the site of an ancient city, ruined, true- but, if you give yourself time to really take in the scale of the ruins, if you let yourself absorb the wonders around you… well, once I got Taffy to slow down and just look, to see , her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped- because she could see it too.

The shadow of the ancient city of Delphi, rising above the quiet hills and valleys in the sunny lee of Cloudsdale; the echo of poetry and plays in an amphitheater, sunk into the good earth and o’ergrown with weeds; the ringing majesty of the winding vistas where wildflowers grew over bloody fields…

As it happens, Taffy has a camera- it’s one of her only just for fun expenses, getting film and having it developed whenever she stays in one place long enough. She and I took a series of beaming photographs of every beautiful site we saw; ruined columns, echoing hills and valleys, glad-hearted forests and winding trails up towering hillsides.

We lunched on alfalfa sprouts, wildflower blossoms, soaked beet pulp, rice bran, and garlic blossoms. Hearty fare, and good for sensitive stomachs; and then we had a long wander back to the station, Taffy and I, enjoying the cool yet bright day.

We slept again at the station, quite well worked from our lovely excursion; and then we boarded the train again for Vanhoover.

Best Love, Meadow Surprise

Vanhoover; Are you sure it’s still spring? It doesn’t feel like spring,

Dearest Journal,

Not much of note happened on the ride to Vanhoover, aside from a steady increase in dreary skies and stoicism in our passengers. Taffy took to wearing her legwarmers as soon as we get back across the Unicorn Mountains, and added her cowl when it began raining; by the time we actually got to Vanhoover, she’d added the shawl, and the hat I’d finished knitting for her.

I myself was well pleased with my shawl and not much else; and, once I retrieved my cart from the porters, I followed Taffy who herself was following a carefully marked map of the city.

Vanhoover sits on the west coast of Equestria. It’s the largest city in the county and, as a result of it’s coastal location, is a very important port. It’s climate is incredibly unpredictable by Equestrian standards; dreary weather is always on the verge of returning, and the wind here likes to play tricks.

It’s a popular city to live in because of it’s very mild winters- something about proximity to the oceans and the Unicorn Mountain Range blocking cold fronts from the city… Snow only falls on average, eleven days in Vanhoover; it rains and fogs much more often, so much so that the Weather Crews here put out percentage warnings rather than hard weather options. They always make an effort to keep the summers dry, sunny, and reasonably warm- especially as the Summer Sun approaches. It’s also usually warm enough for any sort of costume come Nightmare Night. Historically an Earth Pony city, Vanhoover is still mostly earth ponies- that’s usually what you’ll see on the street, alongside innumerable immigrants- camels, sphinxes, zebras, cows, sheep, goats, boars, yaks, and so on. There’s always work here for someone of strong disposition; so, this is a popular city for immigrants from Saddle Arabia, Yakistan, and even Minoa- all of which have native populations of equines, alongside their more foreign natives.

I’d happily stay here if it didn’t remind me so strongly of Trottingham.

Ah, Taffy soon took us through a side street into one of the many villages that Vanhoover swallowed as it grew; until, at last, we came to a fine townhouse. Taffy went up and met her brother- and then, the two of them helped me secure my cart in the carriage house built into the side of the townhouse.

Hawkeye Dracule is a zebra of different stripe than his sister, Taffeta- and I do mean that literally, no Zebra has the same stripe pattern as another. I also mean that metaphorically, as it takes a very particular kind of pony to be a surgeon- not a magisurgeon, a surgeon , as many of the unicorn magic based spells work as advertised on ponies but not other equines, even, much less those such as camels, yaks, and so on.

His job is to cut somepony open, fix whatever’s gone wrong, and then close them back up again. His specialty is tummies- he knows more about the digestive system of any creature on four legs (or two) you care to name than he knows about current events.

Point of fact, the only thing he knows anything like his trade is music- apparently, the doctors and nurses and surgeons in the operating room play records while they work.

He liked the cowl and hat I made him; apparently, it’s always in danger of being dreary in Vanhoover, and having a nice warm cowl-and-hat set at the ready is very good. He said he hasn’t had time, what with his working hours, to go get a set for himself- so me giving him a set as a gift…

It’s getting late, Journal; I’ll write more tomorrow.

Best Love, Meadow Surprise

Vanhoover; Oh, it’s actually very nice out right now

Dearest Journal,

Vanhoover is far too expensive for my taste. It’s a large metropolitan city, the most welcoming of all Equestria’s cities- but… the downtown core is large, and offers an affluent arts scene, diverse foods, and innumerable sporting events.

It’s bounded by ocean and mountains that result in a moderate climate, allowing outdoor recreation year round.

The housing market in Vanhoover is the fastest paced in the country, and crime rates are higher than nearly anywhere else.

Hawkeye owns his house outright- and the only reason he can do that, Journal, is he’s a very busy, very good surgeon who works two hundred and sixty five out of three hundred sixty five days in the year. He doesn’t take vacations except the mandatory ones; he doesn’t get sick; and, were it not for his best friend, Longshanks Rojomane, and his marefriend, Heron Vondergeist, he would spend every off hour he has either sleeping or puttering around in his house.

According to him, the city has grown twice, noticeably, since he’s lived in it- and he’s lived here for fifteen years. -Oh, yes, this year he told us that Winter Wrap Up was late, something about a Weather Team strike… and if what we entered the city in under, a wet miserable sky and gloomy light… if that’s every winter…

I can’t stand it.

All the positives you can think of for living somewhere don’t matter if you don’t like it- if the rhythm of the place, it’s mood, do not agree with yours, then nothing- not even the presence of your family or a job or a school or an opportunity, can make you happy if you stay. I’ve spent far too much of my life grey and miserable to live somewhere grey and miserable, not permanently at least.

Enough of that- let’s see, I have not yet written about my cart yet. It isn’t a particularly good one- and it’s one of the things I actually set aside a significant portion of my savings to upgrade. Vanhoover, aside from being a metropolis, is one of the few cities where one can get nearly anything built to spec. I came to Equestria with what is, frankly speaking, a covered wagon- good enough for Trottingham, but as I will be spending a great deal of time on the road soon, I need something better.

I actually really like Hawkeye’s vardo, a stately and well cared for bowtop vanwain with crisp purple and magenta paisley designs painted on its sides, and cheery minty-green flowers around the door. Hawkeye let me borrow one of his books from Zebrica- it’s a book all about Traveler’s vanwains, and I’m truly grateful for his generosity.

The Zebrish vardo has evolved into one of the most advanced forms of travelling wagons; they’re prized for their practicality as well as their aesthetic design and beauty. There is no more iconic or recognizable Zebrish symbol than a highly decorated vardo- excepting perhaps their masks, or the habit of their shamans to speak in rhyming couplets.

A vardo is typically commissioned by families in lieu of a cutiecinera, by a newly risen master of a craft, or by a newlywed couple, from specialist coach builders. Building a vardo properly takes about three to six months, using a variety of woods- including oak, ash, elm, cedar, and pine. Vardos are prized by all equine travelers for their overall design and beauty, as well as their practicality. The general design of all vardos evolved over time and were named after the home’s owners, for their traditional style (Ledge), for the town of its construction (Reading), or for the name of the builder.

There are six design types . They are known by various names, but are perhaps best called the Reading, the Ledge, the Bowtop, the Brush, the Burton, and the Open-lot.

Bowtop vanwains are typically pulled by Zebrish Travelers, or by anypony lucky enough to be given the van upon the Zebra’s decision to put down roots; they’re the most iconic, and I’m least interested in them. There’s the Brush, which is nearly extinct now- often used by brush, broom, rush, and wickerwork makers; the Burton, which is often seen in circastics or with travelling showponies; and, the most modern of them, the Open-lot.

Being individually built by vanwrights, no matter their origin, no two vans are exactly alike. They vary according to use intended, customer requirements, available funds, materials used, skill and location of builder, and the time period- even the time of year the van is built plays a role. With that said, all vardos have certain exterior features in common, and with few exceptions the interiors conform to a set plan or layout. Thus, though there are many kinds of vans, the Zebrish vardo is always one-roomed on four high wheels, with a doorway (possibly with a door in it) and moveable steps in front (the Brush-style vardo being the only exception), sash windows, a rack called the cratch, and a pan-box at the rear. Only minor variations in design occurred after the Unification, with the exception of the Open-lot which was built in response to a general lessening of pegasi-xenophobia and a rise in inter-tribal marriages. Homemade vanwains, literal ‘peg-knife wagons’ tend to be along the same lines as the professionally built wagons, because the general design of the average vardo is just so perfect for what generally gets asked of it.

It’s also not uncommon for a traveler using the vardo to add or remove features of an old wagon, remount a body on underworks other than its own, or replace unsound wheels by ones that differ in weight, size, or structure from the original, thus altering the proportions.

Hawkeye actually had to go back to work about our second week into staying with him- apparently, he’s a bit of a workaholic. To be fair, most doctors- good ones, I’d say- are. Therefore, Taffy was the one to show me the interior of her brother’s vardo.

It actually belonged to their parents, who were lost at sea; they died right around the big shift in Zebrican culture that allowed orphans the option of keeping some of their parents larger possessions, rather than burning them all up as was custom.

Before I go into specifics, I must mention that neither Taffy nor her brother Hawkeye are particularly special, as zebras go; their parents were humble pots-and-pans sales and repair ponies, and their vardo was a pot-cart before Taffy went off to school. The only repair Hawkeye’s had done on it, according to Taffy, is fixing a few broken pieces of decorative filigree and getting new gargoyles.

The interior of the wagon has an atmosphere of snug homeliness, and the Dracule van is of very fine quality, giving it all a regal splendor. Almost everything a pony would need is to hoof. Even in winter, Taffy was never cold; the fire in the stove, if built up with the windows closed for half an hour (counted by candle-flame, no less!) will so heat the rails near the roof that they will be too hot to hold. Taffy has fond memories of baking cakes and cookies on the roof-rails in tins, and her brother getting them down for her once they came in from the cold.

Inside the vardo, the cabinet work may be either dark red polished mahogany or stained pine, and the walls are grained or scumbled in light golden brown. The Dracule van has had a long, adventurous life, and so most of the original wood finish has been painted over- but Taffy showed me the patch under the walk rug where the original finish has been protected these many years.

The internal layout, which varies only in the proportions from van to van, has not changed for a thousand years. The basic needs of the resident, after all, are still the same- and in such confined space, there are only so many sensible ways to meet those needs.

The entrance of the Dracule vardo is frontal and half-doored, to allow cool summer air into the van. Through the door on one’s immediate left, you will find a tall, narrow wardrobe and beneath it a small cupboard, generally used for hoof-picks, coat brushes, and wing-combs (along with a variety of hoof oils and conditioners). The stove stands next, and is always on the left as you enter- for on that side the chimney pipe is in less danger from roadside trees.

From a point about six hooves above the top of the stove, the fireplace is boxed in to form an airing and proofing cupboard. On the front of this cupboard and above the fireplace is a brass-railed shelf; and next to the stove is the offside window, beneath which is a locker seat for two. The Dracule vardo’s offside seat is large and plush enough for a guest to sleep on, a useful feature- as I understand it, Longshanks Rojomane went traveling with the two off and on for years before Taffy gained her apprenticeship and Hawkeye went to medical school, at which point the vardo was in ‘Shanks care.

When Taffy looked into the storage beneath the offside seat, she discovered all her family’s photo albums, neatly tucked away- and she sighed. I spent a good half-hour helping her move the small shoebox full of unsorted photographs, as well as the several albums, into the kitchen. I then helped her sort through the photographs, making sure to take notes about the average- and not so average- measurements of them. We made a plan to go get actual albums the next day; and, when Hawkeye didn’t come home that night, well…

Taffy loves her brother, I know she does. Taffy also has no patience for his emotional constipation, and refuses to allow him to forget their shared past. I understand both sides of the argument, and refuse to involve myself beyond helping as a friend would- supporting her in buying new albums for the ones that are falling to pieces, and helping her make sense of the shoebox full of photographs, ranging from her and her brother’s foalhood, to her great-great-great grandparents wedding photographs.

As it turned out, I was able to help put the various photos into order, not by person to person- but by their clothing . I even managed to separate some of them out by year, and labelled them with approximate dates- with Taffy’s permission and some special archival ink from the Crystal Empire.

Even Heron Vondergeist, Hawkeye’s marefriend, helped out- she had been moving in with him when we came to stay for a while, and once she noticed our little project, she immediately started helping. She cleared off a shelf in the living room to put all the finished albums on, bought new albums as more and more pictures were curated and labelled, even helped put each photo into an album… and, of course, when Hawkeye finally came home with his friend, ‘Shanks, she talked him through the meltdown he had at seeing his parents again.

Taffy was barely out of diapers when her parents died; she doesn’t really remember them. Hawkeye, on the other hoof, had just gotten his Cute Stamp, and dearly loved his parents. He’s got a lot of trauma associated with these pictures- apparently, it was tradition in his family, before his parents passed, to go through the collection and tell stories about those pictured.

It was several days before Hawkeye calmed down enough to talk about the pictures; and longer still before he began sharing stories with Heron and Taffy about the people in the pictures. I listened in and dutifully wrote down the names and important details about each pony pictured.

That’s been the evening’s occupation for the past month or so, Journal. Ah, let me finish the description of the interior of the vardo before my candle burns too low-

To the right, as you enter, there is a bow-fronted corner cupboard; the top part, usually having glass or mesh doors, is used for storing perishable food and in the finer vardos, enchanted with cooling or stay-fresh spells. The cupboard below is for non perishables, utensils, and dishes, usually metal or wood.

Opposite the stove there is another locker seat, usually containing those cooking things that do not see often use or are too unwieldy or fragile to have out every day. Of a cold winter’s day it is good to sit at this seat, lean back, and rest your frozen hooves on the brass guard rail on the front of the stove; it’s also a nice place to dry out after a hard rain. Next to the seat, further in, there is a bow-fronted chest of drawers- this is where clothing, writing supplies, and other sundry goods are kept when not in use.

Filling in the back of the vardo is a two-bunked bed; the top bunk just below the rear window, and beneath are two sliding doors. These in the daytime shut away a second, less open bed-place in which foals sleep. Light is supplied at night from a bracket lamp above the chest of drawers, the surface of which is used as a table. More light may come from candles, or spelled gemstones.

After helping Taffy reconcile with Hawkeye, and their shared memories, the both of them decided to help me procure my own vardo- theirs being entirely too small, I could just about fit my head and shoulders through the door, but no more than that. As it happens, Hawkeye’s best friend, Longshanks Rojomane- Shanks, as he prefers- knows where a very high quality van could be procured, provided I have the funds. I do, as it happens- which is how I ended up meeting one of my cousins, Ace Spade- Ace, for short.

I also made a new friend, Mark Merryweather.

I’ll write more tomorrow, Journal; my eyes are starting to sting from the smoke, these are not good candles.

Best Love, Meadow

Galley and Van Builder’s Company, No.7, Garage 1; Purchasing A Vardo Today, Hooray!

Dearest Journal,

I mentioned yesterday that I made a new friend and met a cousin of mine. The two events are not unrelated.

Ace works as a mercenary, in the employ of the Whitebeard Company; they’re known for their honor, their just dealings, their strength, and their commitment to the stallion they call ‘Pops’, Rich “Whitebeard” Guard of Newgate- apparently he began going grey in the whiskers as a foal, and the nickname stuck.

I suppose I ought to say it now- I’m a Master-level Spellweaver, which is not like other forms of magery available to a unicorn. A spellweaver literally weaves spells into fabric- a dying art, to be sure, but… well, I can’t help but brag on it a bit. In this day and age, spells usually get put into crystals or wood, or merely cast, and that’s fine- but if the crystal breaks, if the wood burns, if the caster looses their concentration, the spell falls apart, sometimes quite disastrously. A woven spell, on the other hand… well, think of it like this. Even if you put a great big hole through the center of a piece of fabric, it’s still a piece of fabric- depending on how quickly and carefully you patch or repair the hole, it can still be used for its intended purpose. After all, a scarf will still keep you warm, even if there’s a big hole at the end of it.

Similarly, even if there’s a big hole in the physical structure of a woven garment with a spell woven in, the spell will still work- not as well, and not for as long, but it will still work. Guardspony cloaks, most every saddlebag, yokes, baby things- all of these are bread and butter for the spellweaver.

Anyway, after helping my cousin in a way I know he’d be mortified to learn I wrote down- ask me in pony, if you want to know- I gained an invitation to meet his Pops, and get a contract with the Whitebeard Mercenary company as a contracted Spellweaver- they go through saddlebags and gun holsters like you would not believe, according to Ace. For a spellweaver such as myself, this represents an opportunity for steady, easy work- and as there will soon come a time where I will be unable to do much at all on my hooves or off, I need to secure such things as I can, as they come, now.

I explained the bare bones of my circumstances to Ace, and after talking him out of going after- well, I talked him out of it, as that really would be much too far to go for something like this. I did accept his offer of being the foal-to-be’s godfather, so that’s one thing settled- I know if anything happens to me, Ace will care for the one to come.

As for Mark- he’s the clerk who helped me get through all the paperwork needed for the purchase of my new home.

To start with, he helped me narrow down what I’d like my home to look like- warm colors, like my shawl and coat, with a sharper blue color to make the other colors pop and laugh lively. I needed something large enough for me, in a design that would resist tipping even on very uneven roads and terrains; something I could pull at my full speed, which is a comfortable run for most ponies. After a long discussion about what I’d need- somewhere to store my supplies, somewhere to sleep, somewhere for my foal-to-be to sleep, a table, all the necessary- a model began to take shape under Mark’s clever hooves, made of heavy cardstock and colorful paper and glue. For me, heavy decoration is not so important as strong, sturdy construction; leaving the decorations rather plain will allow me to set a variety of spells and enchantments into the wagon myself- I’m a unicorn, and a master spellweaver at that, what else would I do?

As for my secondary goal of keeping the price within reasonable limits, without sacrificing sturdiness or comfort- well, that meant the local pine, oak, and elm would see heaviest use, and the finer woods of mahogany, ash, and teak would have to be gone without.

Most of the actual work in making a wagon for somepony my size has been done already- while the Galley and Van don’t make such large vans often, they’ve done it enough to have all the jigs and things necessary for it already- as I understand, that’s half the work right there.

Then, the actual undercarriage was built- the wheels, the yoke, the stairs, the breaks- and there, the first enchantment I made! I linked a pair of shoes to a crystal which I set in the breakwheel, and I left myself a way to change the alignment of the spell from shoe set to shoe set- thus, when I do a specific pattern with my hooves, the spell engages the break, and the entire van slows down to a halt. I also, after some research and conversation with the fine stallions of Galley and Van, added a way to put my vardo into parking position without bending over or even getting out of harness, if need be.

The foreman for my van, Frank Starbuck, is very interested in the sheer number of spells I can learn, even more so in the set of books I found in the local library- a set of dusty tomes meant for the itinerant unicorn traveler, to lighten and ease their way. The majority of them are meant to be cast on vans and vardos after they’ve been built- but basic spell theory is a spell is more powerful if it’s put into an object at the time of its creation.

Anyway, I’ve gotten a lovely set of crystal lamps put onto the back porch, with double spells of dimlight, foglamp, and bugs-b-gone on them; and, as soon as it’s finished drying, another pair will go in front.

I was quite liberal with my use of cushioning and steadying spells in the base of the van; so much so that taking it on a preliminary run ‘round the yard with Franky on left him faintly nauseated- apparently, I went too far. I toned them down until he could tell he was moving, but only just- even when I pulled flat out, as hard as I could, he still barely felt a thing. The brakes also work a treat, and my new roadshoes are getting nicely worn in.

The walls are of box construction, insulated quite well with cloudy cotton batting, and I put spells in for insulation- a simple cantrip usually used for lunchboxes, but it scales remarkably well, hence it’s inclusion in the old unicorn wanderer’s guide. Without the spells, leaving the box out in the sun made the air within quite stuffy, even with the lack of window panes and solid doors; with them, even Taffy, who is still shaggy with her winter coat, felt quite at ease.

When the subflooring went it, so too did the first sound dampening spells; I don’t particularly like the sound of creaking wood as it travels over roads, and even Taffy seemed quite delighted by the change. Apparently, there’s nothing worse than a particularly heavy groan from the axles in winter waking one up when they’ve no reason for it. The bed structure, when it went in, got positively inundated with softening, quieting, and insulating spells- so much so that one of the apprentices, Fern something-something, fell asleep and couldn’t be found for a good four hours one day.

Cute filly; I didn’t know a fern and a hammer could be someone’s cutie mark, but who am I to judge?

The roof got soaked in anti-smoke and dust spells, because those rafters are where I’m going to be storing most of my unworked skeins. The purlins have little rows of outstretched hooks, shaped quite like antlers; I like them rather a lot.

The window and door jambs got the first half of the windcease spell put into them; and then, when the doors and windows were added- three windows, one on each side and one above the bed; one split-level door- the second half of the spell was added. The wash pan was included free of charge, since I’m doing so much of the enchanting and heavy horsepower jobs myself. As each new piece of furnishing was added- the drawers, the stove, the cabinetry- I added various spells that were of use. Soft-close spells, firebreak spells- as soon as the first layers of varnish went on, so too did the firebreak, the waterproofing (for the wood), protection from wood rot, fungus, and woodworm; each successive layer got it’s own bevy of spells, all quite the same. The roof got it’s own treatment of powerful anti fungal and waterproofing spells, right alongside the shingles, caulking, and so on.

Next came the fanciful designs, which I did not ask for- but apparently, when you help tear out loathed stumps, haul massive carts of wood, clean and mend all the curtains, and are gently encouraging to the young apprentices when they have meltdowns, you gain the adoration and respect of the stallions working on your vardo. Every time I look at my home again, one of those silly stallions has added another intricate piece of something, somewhere- Starbuck’s the worst, as is his apprentice, Fern, always finding little places to add yet more delicate carvings.

I think Starbuck’s been snitching from my personal design book, as well as taking cues from my cutie mark- why else would I find sunflowers where the lightest yellow’s going to go, and goldenrods where the darkest biting yellow is going; cosmos and coriander winding around the doors and windows, that’s Taffy’s influence; mint along the red parts, and even a small planter box, full of… well, mint is nearly unkillable, so… and coneflowers! All across the roofline! Hexagons and winding sinuous shapes- someone’s seen my drawings of bee dancing, and all of the dances are versions of ‘welcome home’- these stallions are s-so silly, so very silly-

Sorry for getting tears on you, Journal. Ah, they’ve also put in iconography of Vanhoover- frogs, hawks, hard edged curves and swerves… It’s all very beautiful, and it’s being painted beautifully, which means I can finally add the last few touches- a spell for health, a spell for love in the home, a spell for safe travels… and then, today, it’s done.

The nights are still cold enough to need a warm blanket; and down nearer the coast, the winter hasn’t actually ended, as they’re on a slightly different schedule due to the water. Thus, for the purposes of field testing, I’m to take my mostly finished vardo to the seaside for a vacation. I’ve a list of things to do, and a list of things to look out for that can be changed; and, for the sake of checking the ride of the interior, I have to take friends with me.

I, personally, think that everyone just wants Hawkeye to take his bucking vacation already; Taffy came with me to most of my vardo building appointments, because she’s very interested in this part of her culture. She also began to complain, at great length, about her brother not taking his vacation time seriously.

We all got tired of it about the third day in, and it lasted the entire five weeks it took to build my vardo, even with all the added fancy woodwork. So. I’ve made a plan.

First, I talk to Heron and Shanks, to get Hawkeye packed and to get supplies for my vardo; then, I talked to Taffy, to make sure he wouldn’t have a bad reaction to my plan; and then I talked to his superior at the hospital, who was also quite exasperated by Hawkeye’s resistance to actually taking a break.

Then, today, I kidnapped him. He’s actually on my back as I write this, and is sulking quite adorably. I’ve invited Heron, Shanks, Taffy, Frank Starbuck, and Mark Merryweather to come along on our beach trip- Starbuck agreed so long as young Fern and his other apprentice, Carrot Sundae, could come along. I agreed, of course- it’s always fun to have young ponies along on a beach trip, they seem to get more out of it.

Ah, time to go get Taffy, and purchase a stove- a relatively quick errand, but, well, Hawkeye’s vardo needs a new stove and neither of the zebra siblings know how to purchase one. I do- and I don’t mind teaching them, as I buy my stove and insert for my vardo.

The type of stove you need depends on what you’re doing- if you’re going about with a vardo, you need a stove; if you’re just by yourself with saddlebags, you need a saddle stove. The two are only interchangeable in basic applications. Which type you need is determined by the space available, weight restrictions, and what you’re willing to cook. Stoves are large, heavy, and require a lot of wood or charcoal to burn steady- but, they can do everything a home stove and oven can do, accommodate standard kitchen cookware, and are very durable.

Saddlebag stoves are designed to be efficient. This could mean they’re efficient for their size and weight, or just use fuel extremely efficiently. Some saddlebagging models are designed solely to boil water, while others can simmer and cook food. Most saddlebag stoves are not that stable even flat, and tip over easily. The saddlebag stove is a useful tool regardless- perfect for boiling water quickly, or creating a small amount of heat as needed.

I have three pots (a two quart saucepan, a two and a half hoof saute pan, and an eight quart stock pot), a low skillet, a large metal bowl with a hole-y lid, various utensils, and a number of baking things- sheet pans, muffin tins, and so on. Thus, I need a stove.

There are six key features to consider when purchasing a new stove: weight, the stove door, fit and finish, positioning, safety, and fuel needs. Each thing has some bearing on the safety of the stove, it’s fuel costs, or the amount of heat it can give out.

Weight is determined by the weight of material that stove is made, as well as from the size of the stove. For some ponies, shopping for a stove by weight is a reasonable way to choose, especially if you’re saddlebagging or hauling a smaller wagon. However, for long term use, weight is not the best method of selection. Lighter weight stoves are lighter because they are either smaller in terms of dimension, made from thinner gauge materials, made from lighter materials, or some combination of all three.

Some ponies use thinner gauge materials to make their steel stoves lighter; this can be very dangerous, as when the material making anything is too thin, you run a higher risk of failure. For stoves, this means warping, and failure to perform in severe conditions. Finally, a lighter stove may produce less heat than you need to keep warm in cold weather; and in worst cases, can be the cause of a fire or smoke inhalation injuries.

My first piece of advice to the zebra siblings, then- do your best to choose a heavy stove, one that has thick walls and suits your purpose- be it saddlebagging or vardo living, or even for home use- the same list of things still applies. The most important thing is to have the right stove for your uses, and build a fire in it properly.

The second thing to consider is the stove door. It’s important to look carefully at the door of any new stove you’re considering, since the design and fit of the stove door can make or break your stove. The door must be high quality, with a tight seal- airtight is best, as it give the most control over your fire, adds years of use to your stove by preventing overheating and reducing warping, and keeps the quality of flame high. A cheap, poorly made door allows air to leak into the stove, which makes controlling the fire within almost impossible.

A proper stove door will help your fuel burn cleaner, as the process of turning dry wood to charcoal is much faster with a well-fitting door. A proper door will also create enough turbulence for the fire to draw properly, and recombust the hot gases released by the wood as it burns.

My second piece of advice- a heavy, well fitted door is safer than a thin flimsy one. The door to the stove does more than keep the fire in; it helps direct airflow, keeps smoke from filling the area, and keeps the stove from warping.

The fit and finish of any potential new stove is important to see first-hoof, before you buy it. You must be able to trust the stove with your life; did the craftspony take care with their work? Did they use all the safety features they ought have? The door must have a high temperature gasket, to truly be airtight; there must be a baffle, to spread the flame across the top of your stove evenly and keep it from going directly up the stove pipe; you must be able to damper your stove to a low flame without smoke coming from the seams; and least important but not unimportant, you must like the look of your stove. You’ll be living with it a good long while- you must like it, like standing in front of it, like what you purchase.

My third piece of advice- be conscious of the crafting that went into the stove. It’s more than just aesthetic and personal preference- it must be a well made piece of equipment.

The position of the stove is important too. It must have proper clearance from combustibles- at minimum, six hooves all the way around, on all sides, or if it’s against a wall, there must be a fireproof insert behind and below it. If you have a storage box for kindling or charcoal, it must either be far enough away from the stove so as not to spontaneously catch flame, or be enchanted to keep the contents within from taking on too much heat- I, personally, am going to be going with the second option, as I’ve already put a cold-spell on my perishables cupboard. If you’re using your stove in a tent or a camp, put it in the center.

Fourth piece of advice- fire safety is important no matter what!

Fifth piece of advice- FIRE SAFETY IS IMPORTANT NO MATTER WHAT!

The andiron is a horizontal bar that is used to support the logs that get fed into the flames. Very important to keeping a fire going all night long; the andiron allows for air flow through the burning logs. The stoker is used to hook, rake, or push burning materials in your fireplace. Not every stick burns up cleanly; that’s what a tool is for. The bellows allow you to deliver controlled gusts of air to specific parts of your fire; increasing the flames without you losing your breath or getting your face too close to the flame. The shovel allows you to move piles of burning material, or piles of ash, in your fireplace. Tongs, like the stoker, help you move burning logs in your fireplace or stove. Finally, the broom is for sweeping bits of ash and soot back into the fire, and sweeping ash out when everything’s burnt out.

As for actually building a fire, it is best to keep a supply of tools available at the site of the stove. Highly flammable things, such as dried grass or oilpaper; wood shavings; kindling, like twigs and small sticks; small pieces of cordwood; and a way of striking a flame, such as matches, spark-stones, or a candle-lighting cantrip. Keep these things in a box, well away from the open flame when a fire is struck; and replace them after each new fire started.

To make a fire, separate a full hoofull or two of dried grass or full sheet of oilpaper. Bunch and compress them, and lay them on the bed of the fire box just in front of the door. Lay a few half-hoof strips of wood shavings on top of the flammables, and place several pieces of small kindling wood or dry bark on top of the shavings. Finally, a piece or two of cordwood split to about a half hoof diameter on topmost. Open the vent as far as they’ll go, and light the fire.

After the cordwood ignites and burns for several minutes, add one or two larger pieces of wood. Be sure to flip and bunch the burning debris together before adding the larger pieces. Keep the air vents open for several minutes or until the larger pieces are well ignited; then, adjust the vents according to the desired heat output of the stove.

At night, when it’s time for bed, banking the fire is a must especially when the following morning promises to be bitter cold. To do so, one must let the logs in the wood stove burn down to the coals; fully open the flue, and use a fireplace shovel or similar tool to rake the coals to the center of the stove; place one or two small logs on top of the coals; completely cover the logs and coals with ashes from your ash pail. The wood stove should be dark once you’ve finished; then, turn the flue down so it’s mostly closed- you’ll want a little air to get through, but not too much. In the morning, open the flue, and scoop as much of the ash as you can back into the ash bucket. The wood you had placed on the coals will now probably be gone, and in its place should be lots of glowing coals. Rake the coals forward, and place two or three logs behind the coals. The coals will relight the fire; and thus, a successful banking is performed.

Sixth piece of advice- learn to build a fire properly! There are six tools you’ll need- an andiron, a stoker, bellows, hot coal shovel, tongs, and broom. A fire is not just a pile of sticks set ablaze; building one and keeping it banked at night requires practice.

By the end of my purchase, I’d picked up Shanks and Heron, the both of them laden with heavy saddlebags. Shanks had all the food and toiletries I’d asked him to buy for me- I gave him money and a list with little ticky boxes next to each item, and he showed up about halfway through my calm explanation of how to purchase a good stove, eyebrows high under red bangs. Heron joined us after I’d purchased the stove, reapplied the stickyback charm and firmly stuck Hawkeye to my withers, and returned to the building yard for my vardo.

Ah, Ace added himself to our outing- apparently, he wants to keep an eye on me. Sweet, silly stallion…

Installing the stove, and the charcoal box underneath, and the ash pail with it’s own lid, and all the stove tools, takes a bit less than half an hour- the door wasn’t hung quite yet, you see, and wouldn’t be until all the final tweaks had been attended.

My seat cushions and mattress are all clouds- literal clouds, actually. The perks of being a spellweaver- weaving a cloudwalking spell into three seat cushion covers and a mattress cover is simple enough, and with the spell, store bought seat covers and bedding is just fine- or, in my case, using what I brought from home- for my bed, at least.

Proportionally, each seat is fully large enough to comfortably sleep an average pony; and my bed could sleep a group of six, with plenty of room to spare. I’ve got a few projects, and the majority of my things- but I won’t completely move in and settle until my vardo’s finished.

As for what I actually asked everyone to pack- well, Journal, that depends on the type of trip you take as well as how far to your destination, and what you’ll be doing when you get there. Before departing, one must of course check the weather schedules for where you are, where you’re going, and the route you’re taking- should be fine weather, but there’s a chance of cold fog as we near the coast. Even if the forecast is perfect, one ought be prepared for sudden storms and unexpected winds.

Once we arrive, I expect I’ll be setting camp securely before I even consider leisurely activities like exploring tide pools or making sandcastles. We won’t be camping directly on the beach, but rather at a campground a half hour or so away from the beach, clear of the stony shore.

For food, though we all have dreams of beetroot tartare and herb salads on the beach, those aren’t practical options when living in a vardo by the shore- sand gets into absolutely everything, after all. One-pot meals of tubers and beans, chilis, pasta dishes- these, fruit, small cheeses, pickles… things that can be prepared in a covered pot or not at all are best.

Sand will still get into absolutely everything, however.

First on my list, a tarpaulin that can attach securely to my vardo, along with stakes to securely anchor it into the ground, and another tarpaulin for groundcover- I almost asked for stakes, but two tarps and some rope should be just fine. I also asked for sleeping mats, and an extra blanket.

Lamp crystals, flashlights, bug repellent- incense, and stuff we rub into our coats- as well as sunscreen are always a must at the beach. If you’re staying past sunset, that’s when all the bugs come out- and beaches are always much darker than they seem. I purchased some folding chairs myself, ones meant to fold down very very small indeed, as well as a beach umbrella with sand anchors. Sturdy trash bags, a small broom to sweep sand out of the vardo… nothing I’m bringing can’t be brought out.

I’ve unloaded my kettle, and my tea pot; my set of wooden bowls and plates; my four cooking knives, a chef’s knife, a small paring knife, a long serrated bread knife, and a carving knife. Nothing goes through giant radish roast better, after all. Then there are my baking tools- mixing bowls, measuring spoons and cups, mixing utensils, spatulas, baking pans and trays, parchment paper, piping supplies, pastry brushes, little bowls… a cake stand, and a small box of toothpicks. Then of course there’s my multi tool, complete with knife, can opener, basic pliers, and corkscrew. We’ll be gathering driftwood once we’re there, but we’ll need to take along firewood and charcoal for the journey there and back…

As for food and water- my water jack, which saw me through Trottingham, is still in nearly new condition, and still enchanted to weigh nearly nothing and hold far more than it should. I’ve made pickled lemons, for a pickled lemonade one of my penpals from Golia taught me, very good for hydration; Shanks got the food for a variety of one pot meals, as well as a multitude of fresh fruit, loaves of bread, veggies good for sandwiches, fruit, milk, eggs, butter, flour, sugar, spices, vanilla extract, yogurt, tea, salt… I, myself, got refills of my particular mixture of supplements, to keep healthy.

Everyone is to bring a swimsuit, broad brimmed hat or flat hat that covers the neck, a lightweight rain or wind jacket, quick drying towels, your warm winter articles just in case of a sudden storm off the sea, sunglasses, toothbrush and toothpaste, sea-safe soap, sunscreen, bug repellent, and whatever medicines are needed.

Oh, yes- as for toys… frisbees, balls, snorkeling gear if they’d like, life jackets if they can’t swim well… and a camera if anyone wants to record precious memories.

Ah, yes- and I told the bees of our upcoming beach trip. They seemed quite exuberant- I assume to taste the lovely new beach flower flavors.

Ah, Journal, everyone’s finally finished packing and running off to get one last thing- I’ve only to put Hawkeye to bed in the vardo as he’s fallen asleep on my withers, and then we can be off. I’ll write again once we’ve either stopped for the night or have arrived.

Best Love, Meadow

Early Spring, a bit wet honestly; Whitecliff has so many tidepools

Dearest Journal,

Whitecliff Park is located near West Vanhoover’s Horseshoe Bay Neighbourhood; perhaps half a day’s steady trot. It’s a Marine Protected Area of about fifteen or sixteen hectares, and is currently home to more than two hundred marine animal species. It’s a place known for it’s extensive trail of tidepools, and for the sea lions that sunbath on the beach during the summer.

We arrived about a week after leaving Vanhoover proper, set up camp, and slept the night away to the soft rushing of the shore. Hawkeye settled- begrudgingly- into enjoying his vacation after we well and truly left city limits. Apparently, there’s a law that makes it so that any doctor entering city limits for any reason that wishes to practice must be cleared of all diseases, infections, and lingering magics for two full weeks before they can legally attend any medical affair- Vanhoover’s a city of immigrants, so it does make some sense. There are some truly nasty diseases in Saddle Arabia, much less Phynx; no one wants La Gripp!

I’ve finally settled on an appropriate hobby- and previous Journals well know how easy it is to let my work become my life. Take note, future reader! Do not let work become everything you are, and everything you do! Take the time to make the time for a hobby- even if it’s something very dull, like stamp collecting or growing extremely large vegetables, you must have a pastime that pleases you for no other reason than: it pleases you.

My hobby is watercolor sketching- particularly of the natural world. I will first detail my kit; then, the wonderful times I’ve had painting what’s around me.

To start with, the paper- do not begin with the cheapest watercolor paper! Even mixed media paper would be better than cheap watercolor paper… Use the most expensive watercolor paper that your budget can afford. Your paper is one of the most critical deciding factors in the quality of your finished product . Get a journal of watercolor paper- one from a company known for fine products, like Mole’s. Get a big sheet of very fine watercolor paper and cut it down to the size you need, or fold it up into a book. But this is not somewhere to save your money.

Secondly, the brush- for sketch work, a brush pen is truly essential. It holds a reservoir of water or ink inside it, and is absolutely perfect for traveling. Your final product depends less heavily on the quality of your brush; the quality of your skill can make up for the lack of quality in a brush, but only to a point. It’s okay if you don’t have the ‘perfect’ brushes right now- good brushes are expensive, and are easiest to collect over time.

Thirdly, the paints- and here, I am torn. For some things, I prefer liquid watercolors; for others, paint pans. Different approaches for different things- but the one thing I won’t skimp on is vibrancy. You can always water down a paint, Journal- but you cannot build it up forever, as there comes a point where your paper quite literally spits your efforts out at you. Concentrated liquid pigments also require a palette to use correctly- pay attention!

As for actual kit, in order- a zippered pouch from the hardware or feed store, large enough to hold your journal or paper and board; an eraser of good quality, a bit better than school quality but would not be out of place there; a fountain pen that won’t leak, and probably a refill for the pen; a pencil and a sharpener, or a mechanical pencil; refillable brush pens, sometimes called water brushes; paper napkins, paper towels, or a small cloth- and moist towelettes or wet wipes, as the pigment always stains if not cleaned promptly; a journal or sketchbook with the appropriate paper; and the paints, which can be a watercolor pan, or a full on set.

The first week into our group vacation, the fillies- Carrot Sundae and Fern- were already quite bored. By the second week, they were annoying each of the group in turn by following somepony around and spying on what they were doing- Heron and Hawkeye on their dates, Starbuck and Mark on their hiking trips, Taffy during her dance practice…

So, before they could get to me, I decided to teach them how to paint and draw- more so than their drafting courses would have made them.

In this case, since I don’t ever venture farther than a half-hour’s walk, I felt it prudent to make actual painting satchels for the girls, as well as put my own in order. Firstly, their saddlebags- one day, after Mark and Taffy lost their tempers and chased them up and down the beach for several hours, the girls were well asleep long before their normal time. I took the liberty of emptying their saddlebags, taking proper measurements of their backs and flanks, and pulling out my bolt of ripstop canvas, and my bolt of plain white canvas (ripstop color changes with a minor spell and setting wash) and sewing machine. I put quieting spells on my machine when I went to college; I needed to be able to sew at any time, without disturbing my roommates.

All sewing projects start with a pattern- the girls are big enough for standard saddlebags, ones meant for adult ponies, which saves me the trouble of drawing a new one. A simple do this, then that spell has the fabric ironed flat and cut cleanly, notched and pinned for sewing; then, the actual stitching of the satchel-style saddlebags, which went quietly ignored by the slightly disgruntled members of the group. The girls had passed out underneath my bed, where I was calmly longueing as I put together their new saddlebags.

Carrot’s saddlebag is a cream color, to play against the orange of her coat; with a lovely bit of applique over the magnetic closures in the shape of a beautiful orange float , the same as her cutie mark. Fern’s applique of a fern branch and hammers is no less beautiful, particularly on a pale mint ground.

The little beds under my bed have tiny shelves on either end- I carefully set the girls things from their old saddlebags away on these shelves, and then put their new, finished saddlebags on the little hooks where their old one’s hung. Then, I pack their old ones away in my mending box; I’ll fix them up, and give them back if they ask- but I don’t think they will.

Carrot and Fern are city girls- they’ve never really been on a vacation before, and they’ve never really had nothing to do, either. Carrot, at least, has a few novels in her bag- but Fern has nothing so diverting.

Thus, I feel no shame in giving both girls a full watercolor kit- journals with their names in my neatest calligraphy on the inside covers, empty palettes I fill with twenty four colors and let dry before packing; pencil cases, each with a fountain pen and pen refill, mechanical pencils, regular pencils, a pencil sharpener, brush pens, small cloths, and moist towelettes; and a note from me, informing them that they’d be spending the next few days with me as punishment for their misbehavior these past two weeks.

I also made sure to impress on the group how very miserable the girls would be with me- as neither of them had shown any real interest in exploring tidepools, and flatly refused when I offered to teach them to sew or knit. After much griping, and some protests from Starbuck, the group agreed to leave the punishing of the girls to me.

A proper punishment isn’t fun, and it isn’t something anyone wants to experience. Thus, painting was never the actual punishment- no. My punishment was this- the girls had to, by the end of the day, apologize to everyone they’d hurt these past two weeks, and they had to mean it.

I announced their punishment at breakfast, to the horror of the girls; and I explained to them that their actions had hurt everyone, and that the only thing they could do to be forgiven was apologize- and that, as it sometimes happens, an apology might not be enough. A pony should do their best to do right; and if they do wrong, that is their choice, but they might not be forgiven for it.

Then I took them off and taught them how to paint with watercolors- just the basics, of course. I doubt much of the lesson sunk in, but that was the point. I packed lunch for all three of us- and so, that day, it was like this: Me, the Girls, and their own remorse, observing the antics of those strange creatures that dwell in tidepools.

At dinner, they both apologized to each person, individually, and were so heart-weary they could not even enjoy my strawberry-rhubarb crumble. They ate their sproutburgers and hayfries; and then they went to bed, miserable and contrite.

As an aside, all the others seem a bit… in awe of me? Somehow? I suppose they thought that I’m a soft touch. I’m not; I’m responsible, is what I am, and I don’t expect adult behavior from children, for another.

Ah, Journal- I might never understand what exactly the rest of our group was expecting of the two fillies in our company; I know I expected them to be bored fillies, and I got exactly what I expected.

Best Love, Meadow

Author's Note

Whoops I wrote a MLP fanfic when I was writing something else hahaha

First Leg

Mid Spring, Warm and Sunny; Whitecliff perks up the warmer it gets

Dearest Journal,

It’s been quite a while since we last had time together, hasn’t it? Well, in the time we’ve been apart, only a few things of note have happened: I’ve expanded my portfolio of watercolor paintings to include sunrises and sunsets and seals basking on the stony shore, and I’ve discovered a love for teaching, and I’ve painted my first two students painting their own paintings.

Neither of them want to learn how to make any sort of fabric good, and that’s alright- I’m just glad I got to teach them how to do something I know how to do.

Fern Woodsmoke and Carrot Float have distinctly different eyes. Fern has a very photographic eye, an eye that sees the world exactly as it is, no more, no less. She got bored of painting about the second day in; and so, Taffy took her under wing and taught her to use a camera.

Carrot is all about abstraction- she’ll lift her wings and gather up a nice cloud, and then paint up there. The best of her work came with the first really nice spring day, when the water was finally warm enough to swim in; a beautiful painting of splotches and streaks, resolving into dancing waves and laughing ponies enjoying the beach.

Tristan Vinsmoke is a Prench national, who joined the EQ Royal Militia’s Foreign Legion to get Equestrian citizenship, as he couldn’t buy it nor prove relation to a Equestrian native in good standing. We knew each other for five years before- We were friends, best friends. And then he had to leave.

The only things I could think to give him at the time were my Magazine Illustré de Science Biologique posters, the one that was rejected, not the one that was accepted- well, I gave him a copy of that one too. I gave him a lot of things, come to think of it… and he gave me everything he could, and be a part of the EQRM. I gave him… almost everything. Not my heart- I was never quite brave enough for that, but… I gave him everything else.
He gave me… everything I wanted, everything I needed. A reason to smile, every day; someone to tell my day to, someone who wanted to hear every stupid detail, and listened to everything I ever said. He gave me his company and his time; his thoughts and his feelings, everything he could say about his day without breaking the law of the Army- His wing over my back; his shoulder against mine; the smoky smile of him...

We met because he wanted to speak prench with someone, and I needed a partner to practice my prench with. Tristan was the pony who answered my advert in the paper; and for five years, he and I were best friends. He’s from the prench city of Maresille- the only place in Prance that feels like Curacao, not Prance. He speaks curacan almost better than prench, does Tristan...

Five years- that’s how long a pony needs to join the EQRM Foreign Legion to become a citizen. Tristan only had four years left, but he took another year of duty to get bonus money- so he said, at least. I think he really did it so he’d have more time with me, and money to get to somewhere in Equestria- somewhere called Canterlot Village.

He even gave me a forwarding address…

Journal, am I being a coward for not writing him? How would I even word that letter? ‘Dearest Tristan, sorry to spring this on you, but remember that Hearthwarming where we warmed each other up all night? Haha, turns out my Estrus was the week after that-’ no, that’s terrible. ‘Surprise, it’s a foal?’

‘Tristan, I need you, please-’

I wish he was here. I wish we were together. I wish, I wish- well, wishing won’t get me anywhere, but a letter might. -Should I even attempt it at all? There’s every chance he’s moved on- that he’s found someone else, someone prettier than me, someone… Someone more Harmonious. Not like me.

Not like me.

-You know what? I will write him a letter. I just need a permanent address first, so he can actually send me a reply- and possibly, I need to be an actual citizen of Equestria, to avoid deportment. At the very least, he deserves to know that I- that we, that the Little Bobbin exists, and I am caring for them.

There’s nothing wrong with enjoying looking at the surface of the ocean, of course, except that when you finally see what goes on underwater, you realize you’ve been missing the ocean party the whole time. Staying on the surface of anything is like going to the circus and staring at the outside of the tent.

I really don’t know how to explain my connection to the sea, except I think it’s because in addition to the fact that the sea changes and the light changes and ships change and what’s in the tidepools changes and the smell is different every day- I think, I think it’s because we all came from the sea. It is an interesting biological fact that all of us quadrupeds and bipeds have in our veins the exact same percentage of salt in our blood that exists in the ocean, and, therefore, we have salt in our blood and our sweat and our tears. We’re tied to the ocean; and when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch it, we are going back from whence we came.

In a very literal way, we are going home.

I- arrgh. I want fish! I want… I want… I want Moules Marinieres!

A quick head count, and possibly an explanation. Hawkeye and Taffy are Zebras, who eat meat more often than any other equine; Heron Vondergeist, Longshanks Rojomane, and Carrot Float are pegasi, and have cultural acceptance of eating fish; Fern Woodsmoke, Frank Starbuck, Mark Merryweather, and Ace Spade are earth ponies, and while there’s no stigma to eating fish, there’s no real tradition of it either; and there’s me, Meadow Surprise. Unicorns don’t eat fish, or any meat- unless they’re from Trottingham, where often the only options during the winter are fish and seaweed.

In the two years since I’ve been introduced to the world of meat-eating, I’ve eaten a rather astonishing amount of flesh. Gamebirds, pig, kine, and ostle; even some very odd things, like duck and quail.
However, I’ve not quite embraced les fruit de la mer and this constantly mocks me on my epicurean adventures. (There is one cousin of mine, and she will eat anything except honey. Just the one thing- and it’s honey! I keep bees! Why would you keep that detail to yourself for years, Maud? Fuck!)

My issue with seafood isn’t an aversion, or a dislike of the flavor; it’s a reaction to Tristan’s leaving and my falling pregnant. It’s a vaguely nonsensical thing, to freak out at the taste of fish because that’s the last meal I had with Tristan before we- before-
It’s a strong, abrupt, illogical reaction. I actually saw a hypnotist for it in Vanhoover; because I want to eat fish, indeed, if my suspicion about the tribe of the foal I’m carrying is correct, I need to eat fish. I got a professional to trick me into eating fish without becoming frightened or disgusted. Seeing a doctor- or something like it, for when you’ve an ailment is only sensible.

The only seafood dish Tristan ever taught me successfully is a mussel dish. It’s a gateway fish, as mussels are some of the only fish I- and most other ponies barring those with allergies or religious or moral objections- can stand to eat in anything like large amounts. The batch I cooked in Trottingham suffered from a poor state of mind while I was eating them- as I know I cooked them correctly, or I’d have never been able to leave at all…

The batch I made at Whitecliff was one of the tastiest I’ve ever cooked. There was an hundred-percent success rate with the local mussels; not a single one came home popped, or refused to open after cooking- they were unbelievably savory-sweet and respondent to July Chili’s mariniere broth.

For those who were a bit nervous of eating moules, the traditional side is frites; I made waffle-cut versions and deep fried them in a heavy cast iron pan Taffy and Hawkeye gave me as a vardo-warming gift, along with a crusty sourdough bread, and a dry honey wine I’d made at ho- in Trottingham about eight years ago. Every bite was wine, shallot, and butter-drenched; with every morsel past my lips, my quiet melancholy over not being with Tristan, not knowing if he was alive or dead or if he would ever want to speak with me again, see me again… it all faded from my mind for that evening, and with them came a promise that one day, maybe even soon, I would have some kind of closure.

Moules à la Marinière
Fresh Mussels Steamed open in Wine and Flavorings
Recipe from July Chili’s Mastering the Art of Prench Cooking

A stock pot with cover, though it works alright in other pots
2 cups light dry white wine, or 1 cup dry white vermouth
½ cups minced shallots, or green onions, or very finely minced white onions (sweet yellow onions are too sweet, and red onions overwhelm the flavor of the mussels- but if it’s all you have, please use them)
8 parsley sprigs
½ bay leaf
¼ teaspoon thyme
⅛ teaspoon pepper
6 tablespoons butter
6 quarts scrubbed, soaked mussels (by this I mean give them a few hours in fresh water to get the sand and dirt out of them- they’re filter feeders, and the sweet, delicate flavor is elevated when cleared of the seas silty flavor; that said, I’ve noticed earth ponies prefer a slightly siltier taste to their food. Keep in mind who you’re cooking for, I say)
½ cup roughly chopped parsley

Bring all but the last two ingredients to a boil in the pot. Boil for two to three minutes to evaporate most of it’s alcohol and to slightly reduce it’s volume.

Add the mussels to the kettle. Cover tightly and boil quickly over high heat. Frequently grasp the pot, clamping the cover down, and toss the mussels in the pot in an up and down herky-jerky motion so the mussels change levels and cook evenly. In about five minutes, the shells will open and the mussels are done.

With a big skimmer (Tristan called it a spider for some reason), dish the mussels into wide soup plates. Allow the cooking liquid to settle while preparing the rest of the dinner service; then ladle the clarified liquid over the mussels, sprinkle with parsley and serve immediately.

If making in the traditional Prench style, use whichever Frites recipe suits your taste- baked, bought, waffle, curly. That said, for a lighter dish, or if you’re serving somepony who isn’t familiar with la mer, hay fries are fine.

The dessert was clafouti, one of the few baked goods I didn’t know the recipe of by heart before I met Tristan. It’s his very favorite, any time of year- but really, it’s a spring dish of red fruit, egg heavy and filling. It’s made by pouring an eggy batter over fresh fruit or rhubarb; this then is baked into a sweet, vanilla-scented custard that is firm enough to serve in slices, but soft enough to eat with a spoon- or directly off the plate, I don’t mind.

Traditionally, it’s a cherry dish; but as I get further into Apple-country, the price of cherries gets from merely fair to exorbitant to not worth the bits, as the quality inevitably goes down as the price goes up. So far as I can tell, cherries only get good around Dodge Junction in the Appleoosa region, anyway.

When roasted in the oven with just a few spoonfuls of sugar, the rhubarb becomes soft and slightly caramelized while retaining it’s signature tart flavor. The pieces retain their shape during roasting and baking for a pretty presentation, and then melt like warm jam as soon as you take a bite. Rhubarb is also good for stretching a small amount of strawberries, or increasing the pectin output when strawberries aren’t available. Strawberry-rhubarb pie is a particular favorite of my cousin Pinkie- she always loved the color, of course.
I always remember wondering why ponies think her favorite food is cupcakes- or even rock candy. In some ways, those are her favorite foods- but really, her favoritest foods are what ponies who love her make for her, with their own hooves. Bonus points if it’s actually good.

One of the best things about clafouti is eating the leftovers for breakfast the next day. The custard firms up as it chills, becoming ever-so-slightly chewy. I usually save a few slices in the fridge because I only made it for myself- but this time, if I hadn’t made four with the express purpose of breakfast tomorrow, there’d be none left at all.

A short note about heating ovens:

A low oven is warm enough to nap on in the winter, or hold my hoof quite near the coals for seven to nine seconds- or until dinner, if I’ve nothing better to do, or a bit of a chill. Honestly, the only reason I pulled my hoof away from the coals at this stage was because I was bored. I entertained myself for the first few seconds by thinking about bee dances, or rolling on sandy beaches, but that loses appeal after a short little while. I gave up after fifteen seconds or so, because I’m a busy mare and I can’t afford to hold my hoof over hot coals all day. I guess if the oven is warm, it’ll cook something eventually- which is the whole point of low-slow cooking, anyway. Whatever.

A medium oven is actually, y’know, hot. This is about where young fillies and colts start getting told to not go near the oven for their own safety, though with a mit or grabber I feel it’s probably fine. I can hold my hoof to the coals for about five seconds, at which point it definitely feels hot on my frog, though I think I could hang on longer if I have someone to impress. At this point, the heat isn’t so much ‘painful’ as it is ‘annoying’. Like a little rock in your shoe, or a burr under your saddlebag- definitely ‘there’, but not a stop everything and fix this situation. My hoof does feel hot at this point, though- and heat’s what we’re using to cook with, right?

A high oven is very hot. This is where fillies and colts are not to use the oven, at all; and some of my less responsible acquaintances are also not allowed. As I extended my hoof to the coals, images of sizzling eggs and popping kernels of grain dance across my wincing eyes. The words ‘high’ and ‘heat’ in big, angry, cartoonish letters also entered my mind, just before I instinctively withdrew my hoof from the coals. This is, without a doubt, a hot oven- just the thing to get a good crust on a loaf of bread or quickly crack open a stonehull pumpkin. Now we’re cooking with charcoal! But seriously, two seconds on the hoof is more than enough.

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that doubling a recipe is much simpler than modifying a knitting pattern. The original recipe for Clafouti, as learned at Tristan’s side, serves four to six, and I will write it here.

Clafouti
A Prench dessert of red fruit (cherries; strawberries; rhubarb) and egg custard

This recipe serves four to six ponies.

For the rhubarb:
2 cups (8 ½ ounces, or three long stalks) of diced rhubarb
2 tablespoons of granulated sugar
½ teaspoon of cinnamon

For the clafouti:
⅓ cup (2 ½ ounces) of granulated sugar
3 large eggs (chicken; refer to the egg conversion chart in The Joy of Cooking if chicken eggs are not available)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup (8 ounces) whole milk
½ cup (2 ½ ounces) all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon lemon zest
A pinch of salt (sweet things only taste amazing when you add salt! Do not skip this step!)

Set a medium-low oven.

Combine the rhubarb with the sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl and set aside to dissolve the sugar and begin extracting rhubarb juices.

Spread the rhubarb in the bottom of an two by two hoof baking dish or a two and quarter hoof pie pan. Roast uncovered for fifteen to twenty minutes, until the rhubarb is soft and the juices are bubbling. Allow to cool until the rhubarb is just warm to the touch. (Leave it in the pan it was cooked in!)

Whisk together the eggs, sugar, and vanilla. Whisk in the milk. Whisk in the flour, lemon zest, and salt. (Always sift the flour, otherwise you get clumpies!) This batter can be prepared up to half an hour ahead of time.

Pour the batter over the roasted rhubarb and bake for half an hour to forty minutes- still in that medium-low oven, please. When it’s done, the clafouti should be puffed around the edges and a toothpick or skewer stuck in the middle should come out cleanly. It’s perfect if the middle is still jiggly, and the edges will collapse once the clafouti starts to cool.

The longer it cools, the more set the clafouti becomes. For a loose pudding-like dessert, serve while still warm from the oven. For a firmer custard, allow to cool to room temperature or serve chilled. For fancy occasions, sift a little confectioner’s sugar over the top just before serving.

Leftovers will keep if refrigerated for up to a week. Don’t freeze custard.

Dinner, and the breakfast that followed, was a wonderful affair- the friendship I felt that night was truly magical. It lead the the most clearheaded weeks of that leg of our journey together, the most lighthearted I had been in a good long while; and so what I will end my entry with, Journal, is thoughts about the sea.

It is so colorful- silver and black at dawn, green and burnished orange at noon, darkest blue in the evening, black at night. Sometimes it looks almost red, like fire or a blood orange’s fruit split open and oozing. Sometimes the sea will turn the color of bits lost in the field, uncovered by the tender frog of a foal one summer and spent in a day on trinket-treasure. Right now, Journal, the shadows of clouds are dragging across the sea-water, dark dapple patches of grey, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over velvety waves like beads.

In this time, in this moment- it is the very finest of all the things I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties- to myself, my craft, the foal inside me and the stallion who helped me make it, to the world and my companions… It seems wholly big enough to contain everything anypony could ever need to feel.

Best Love, Meadow

Mid Spring, lightly raining; On we trot to Old Vanhoo-ver-ay, hurrah- hurrah-

Dearest Journal,

Ah, a warm rain- there’s something deeply revitalizing about it, Journal. It damps down the dust of the road, and cleanses the air and the spirit of all things that may foul it. The breeze that comes after is cool and refreshing.

Heron and Hawkeye don’t actually want to spend the whole of their shared vacation time at the beach- so back to the city we all go.
Well, we’ve left the beach well behind us- and, as it’s been six weeks or so of Hawkeye’s fourteen off, and the seals were getting boisterous and preposterous and, to be honest, a bit rape-y, we decided to return to the city. -Carrot and Fern laughed it off, but I’m quite sure that nearly getting molested by amorous seals is nopony’s idea of a good time. If they start having nightmares, I’m certain, of course, that Princess Luna will advise them the way they need to be- I can only hope that they take that advice, if they need it, and that, whoever they share with takes their concerns seriously. There is no such thing as a minor trauma- if it hurt you, it hurt you, and let no one say it did not.

Coming to a decision, I decided I would not buy the runner needed for my vardo’s walk; I would make it, and lay it after a thorough cleaning. As the finishing would be a full month, as well as making all the final renovations and letting the vardo settle after it’s first trip, I would have just enough time to get it done.

Unicorn rugs, whether made in the tribal style or the city style, are all hoof-and-spell knotted. The weaver (or spellweaver) ties the material (be it wool or silk) around the warps of the foundation using one of several different knots. Each rug is made to a design; some designs are copied from intricate plates several thousand years old, repeated faithfully as their carrying surfaces wore out- others are from the weaver, inspired by their surroundings and way of life. To best show this design, a variety of colors are used to form the necessary patterns. After each row of knots is complete, a weft strand is tightly packed between the newly completed row and the one which is about to begin, keeping each knot firmly in place.

Depending on the skill of the weaver, one rug can take between about four weeks at the fastest, to ten years at the most intricate; either way, the eventual owner will gain a unique work of art which is not only practical, but extremely durable and beautiful besides.
The tools and knots used in the weaving of Unicorn rugs are as follows:

Warp and Weft: The warp refers to the vertical strands running up and down a rug. These are vital to the structure of the rug, as the knots are tied to them. The wefts are also placed between them in order to keep the knots in place. The fringe of a rug is the tied loose ends of its warp. The weft is used in order to keep the knots in place. Before and after each row of knots the weft strand is passed through the warp and combed and beaten down, compacting the row of knots and creating a tight structure.
Cotton is used for both warp and weft in most rugs; however, some use wool, and intricate silk rugs often use silk as both foundation and pile.

Pile refers to the material or fiber used in weaving the rug. The main materials of Unicorn rugs are wool, silk, and cotton. Sometimes camel, rabbit, or goat wool is used as well, but this is getting rarer as the art of spellweaving dies out.

Wool is the most common material in weaving Unicorn rugs, mainly because it’s soft, durable, and cheap. Camel and goat wool are undesirable for colorful patterns, as they do not take dye well. The wool shaven from only the shoulders and underbelly of a lamb on it’s first cut is highly prized; this is when wool is at it’s finest, and is often used in conjunction with silk. Wool is best used for all kinds of rugs, be they wall hangings, floor coverings, or bedding.
There are two kinds of natural silk, and one synthetic. Silkworm cocoons are cheapest near mulberry plantations, which are very rare in Equestria, but are fairly common in Neighpon, Golia, and China. Spider silk is a protected thestral artisanal product, and can be very expensive in large amounts. Synthetic silk, made with amber and an adapted pegasus spell, is easiest for the Unicorn weaver to get their hooves on, but can be very finicky. Of all the natural fibers, silk is both very fine and extremely strong. However, as it’s not as thick as wool, it isn’t quite so durable; and, because of it’s fine gauge, it’s often used in the weaving of intricately detailed work. Silk is best as a wall hanging, or the topmost part of a rug-stack bed.
Cotton is generally used in the foundation of rugs. However, spellweavers use it to introduce white details, set spells, and create a contrasting color and texture. Mercerized cotton is particularly good for barriers and blessings.

The material used in making the rug- wool, silk, but never cotton- is treated and dyed prior to the knotting process. There are conflicting views about rug dyes: tradition says to only use vegetable dyes, while alchemical dyes only fade when the magic does, which is almost never.

Both dyes have their merits, and both are best at a certain look. Natural dyes provide a more natural palette; alchemic dyes are brighter, more vivid, and all around more lively than natural counterparts. However- some natural dyes are more vivid than alchemical dyes; some alchemic dyes are more color-fast than natural dyes.
And there are some colors that only come in one type- natural or alchemic, there’s only the one kind that can make a certain color.

Before the actual process of making a rug can commence, the rug must be designed by hoof by a skilled artist. City- or, now that I think about it, Tower might be more appropriate- style rugs are produced from detailed design plates or cartoons: a life-sized paint by numbers showing which color of material to use for each knot. Tribal, or Family, rugs may use this method to create standard designs- indeed, various bloodlines have specific, secret patterns used only by them. There’s even some historical evidence of familial marks, that is, heraldry, finding it’s origin in the family rugs- anyway, although Family rugs can have standard designs, many of them are created from the imagination of the weaver. For this reason, family rugs have more ‘errors’ than their tower counterparts; then again, for some ponies, ‘errors’ are really ‘features’, and among collectors, highly prized.

Most Unicorn rugs are pile-woven, the knots tied by hoof and spell to the warp strings. Two factors are important when discussing knots- knot density, and knot type.
Knot density is the main factor that determines the overall frog of a rug- the way it feels. KPSQ is the measurement of it- the number of knots per square quarter-hoof. This is done by counting the number of knots in a quarter-hoof down the warp and across the weft, then multiplying these figures together.
KPSQ doesn’t really figure into the true value of a rug in Family style; it does in Tower style. In Family style, because it relies on the weaver’s memory and is mostly done by the still nomadic tribes of the Unicorn Mountains… hm, how to say this… Family items are valuable because you made them for your loved ones, because you made it from memory, because you made the dyes with the plants you could find and what you had, because the love and care you wanted to show your family got caught in the threads and wool and is there warm and lovely forevermore. Rugs with high KPSQ take longer to make, and since the Family style came from nomadic origins, it’s more important to finish the work within a season- usually summer, or winter, depending on if the rug is a gift or for the home- than it is to make it, well, intricate or particularly dense.

Tower rugs don’t have the same history. They started as ways of shoring up the cracked walls of the very first Unicorn Towers; thus, being thick and dense was not only desirable, but required. As architecture improved, the density of a Tower rug became a feature- and they eventually moved from being wall hangings to floor coverings. Originating in the old region of Maregolia, which became simply Golia during the Unification, the Tower rug migrated south and west along the old Spidersilk Road, to Equestria. Once there, the intricate silk wall hangings became the preferred floor coverings of stallion mages hoping to attract a mare, or mares getting ready to foal. A good, thick, silk Unicorn rug was, is, and remains, one of the most comfortable beds available to a unicorn- for several reasons, actually.
Mainly, it’s the horn- when we moved away from headrests during our Tribal days, we relearned the reason why we keep our horns from touching the ground too often. It’s all to do with magic, and quite too much to put in a Journal entry this long- suffice to say, Pegasi have magic of the Sky and the Weather; Earth Ponies have magic of the Land and the Growth deep inside it; and Unicorns have magic of Sea and Void. And, of course, Communion keeps them together- we feel it as Harmony. The six innate pony magics only barely get along with each other, and that only due to the prevailing force of Communion.

Some of the classical Elements get along with each other without Harmony- the Sky, the Land, the Sea, even the great Commotion before the Coming of the Two wasn’t enough to separate them. However, Weather, Growth, and Void were absent until the Ascendance of Harmony- ponies literally could not grasp these innate qualities until the levels of communion were high enough.

The types or styles of knots are bloodline specific, favored by one family or another and used in particular ways depending on preference. Different areas- and the two main styles- use slightly different techniques.

The Snaffle, or Asymmetrical knot is used by the Ire, Spice, Torque, Camellia, and Crock families extensively in their rugs. To form this knot, yarn is wrapped around one warp strand and then passed under the neighbouring warp strand and brought back to the surface. With this type of knot, a finer weave can be created.

The Grade, or Symmetrical knot is used by the Torque, the Surprise, and the northern Ires. It’s also very common to find in rugs from Saddle Arabia, Yakistan, the Griffon Empire, and Zebrica. To form this knot, yarn is passed over two neighboring warp strands. Each end of the yarn is then wrapped behind one warp and brought back to the surface in the middle of the two warps.

The Jog knot can be seen in the rugs of Coral-Sand, a branch clan of the Ire. This knot can be either symmetrical or asymmetrical and is usually tied over four warps, making the weaving process faster.

After the rug knotting process is complete, the pile is very long and uneven. The pattern is only vaguely visible from the front side of the rug- from the back, however, it is still fully visible. This is when the rug is checked against the design or cartoon, to ensure accuracy. Different weavers have different standards for the level of ‘mistakes’ they’ll allow to go into their rugs. I actually allow quite a few- so long as they don’t compromise the effect of the spell I’ve woven in, all the mistakes I inevitably make are really features.
Once the weaver is satisfied with their product, the pile is carefully clipped and shaved to the correct height. This shows the design to best effect, and creates the desired texture. The rug is then washed, to ensure coherency in the spell, no color runs later in life, and the removal of excessive dye and debris. Some rugs are so thick or intricate- or filthy, things happen- the process of washing is repeated several times.

Finally, the rug is blocked to ensure no shrinkage has occurred during the wash, and to align all the knots correctly. Once finished, the rug can be used for any number of things.

The tools for a Unicorn Rug are divided into Spells and Hoof Tools. Every Hoof Tool has a Spell counterpart; every Spell, a Hoof Tool. Some things are easier with a Hoof Tool; others, with a Spell.

The first spell every spellweaver has to learn (and here I’m using the definition ‘a series of actions performed correctly’, which is the original definition) is the Count Set spell; this spell keeps track of ever knot tied to the warp in a row, to be checked against what is called a Set List. This list is usually on the plate of a rug- ah, right. The main design, the fully colored and life-sized version, is for actual design work- checking colors, checking fit, layout, and so on. The work design, or plate, is a much smaller document or object, maybe one to four hooves square- and it’s purpose is to keep track of which knots to use, in which colors, in what amount… They look like knitting instructions, with a small palette of colors. They also look something like kitchen floor tiles.

The Count Set spell counts each set of knot-color against the Set List- and you don’t actually need a Count Set spell, just a magnifying glass and patience.

Anyway.

Comb - this tool/spell is used to slide and beat down the weft between rows of knots. This is necessary to secure the knots into place, before a new row can be started.

Hook - this tool/spell is used for two things- separating the warp strands while tying a knot, and then pulling the yarn through the warp strands. The spell can also be used to cut the yarn after each knot is tied.

Spindle - a spell/tool for spinning prepared fiber into thread, then yarn, then rope.

Scissors - a spell/tool used to cut many things- in this case, it’s used to cut the long or uneven pile as the rug is woven.

Plate - used as a reference when weaving, the plate show the weaver what colors to use, and the pattern. Different from the cartoon or full design, as it’s meant to be used directly by the weaver, not as a planning guide.

The Loom - a spell/tool meant for weaving. This is the spell that takes the longest to learn, or the machine that can be most intimidating for new weavers- it’s really very simple. Horizontal Loom is the simplest version of the spell, and the simplest machine. In machine form, they’re mostly used by nomads because they can be dismantled at the time of migration. In spell form, they’re used as the Mastery test for a few specific reasons- firstly, once you start a Loom spell, it can only be completed by finishing the weaving; secondly, the more complicated and large your rug is, the more magical energy you must have to complete the work. I’m a master not just because I can design, and create a beautiful rug- I’m a master because I can weave a fairly complicated series of spells into a rug meant to hang as a tapestry down a hallway.

Most unicorns- even ones with cutie marks related to magic- can’t do that.

Rugs made horizontally are generally small, either because it’s the master’s first try or because it needs to be finished within a season, which is when migration begins for the nomadic ponies. It’s also fairly difficult to weave large rugs on this kind of Loom, as it relies on a bar-system to structure it; in practice, it’s very similar to a frame. The distance between the parallel side bars defines the width of the rug to be woven on the loom, and the distance between the parallel top and bottom bars determines the length.
Weavers tend to lay on, or roll across, their rugs as they’re being woven- especially when using a horizontal loom. This is because of tradition- and also, it’s fun.

Vertical looms are meant for tower-style rugs, and their assembly is more complicated than horizontal looms. There are three kinds- fixed looms, which cannot be moved about a room or from a location; bunyan looms, which require a pony and an assistant to use properly; and the roller beam loom, which is used to make extremely long rugs.

Ah, Journal, sorry for being so pedantic- I’m practicing writing out explanations, so I can see if I’d actually be good at teaching. I think I might have a knack for it, but, well- having a Special Talent doesn’t mean you just get to slack off and not practice it. I might be good at writing out, creating, instructions- that doesn’t mean I’m actually good at teaching someone else how to follow them. You’d think one would follow the other… but, well. That’s generally not the case.

I actually had a talk just to that effect with the girls on our way back to Vanhoover- really, a discussion of what cutie marks even mean.

I told them how I got my cutie mark- and then I told them that, because I had a special talent for writing instructions, I found it very hard to actually get a job anywhere. I didn’t have very many friends- because I got my special talent quite early on, and became very bossy- especially when it wasn’t warranted.

And I told them that my talent only became useful when I’d learned enough to understand the point of instructions- they’re meant to be helpful. Instructions exist so that, when somepony isn’t there to help you directly, you are not left without any help at all.

-Your talent is what you pursue. Your talent is not who you are. You can change your talent, if you really want to. If your talent doesn’t satisfy you, do something else!

I truly wish somepony had told me those words when I was younger.

Fern’s special talent actually has nothing to do with building- it’s to do with design. She got her cutie mark when she realized, all at once, that a bridge was going to collapse within the week- something about the way it rattled when a cart went across it, about how it felt beneath her hooves… She was evasive on the subject of what she did after her revelation, but she told us that only two ponies were killed. And then she was very quiet, and could not look at Carrot at all until Carrot reached out and hugged her.
Fern’s cutie mark is a fern frond between two crossed hammers- but I wonder if it isn’t more like a laurel? I wonder if her special talent is actually noticing the most stable and enduring parts of a design, their form, their function- and how they can fail anyway. Just because something has always been done a certain way doesn’t mean it’s the right way- or even the best way. I wonder if she might not have secondary talents, subservient to her main.

I, for example, am exceedingly good at writing instructions. It’s my main talent. My secondary talents are for following directions, testing directions, filing (so I can find the directions again), creating systems of logic (which is all a spell is, once you add the magic in)...

And as it turns out, Fern is good at more than just Best Design- she’s good at picking proper materials for a use, at finding areas where trouble will brew, at… streamlining. When I asked her if she’d ever built a boat, she said no- and then looked very contemplative, before diving for her sketchbook and scribbling furiously.

Carrot’s special talent also has nothing to do with building- and it’s not really about cooking, either. When I got a good look at her cutie mark, it wasn’t really a food- not really a carrot-juice float, like I thought. It was really an ice cream cup full of little things- nails, screws, tiny gears- in an orange fluid I know to be rust remover, all with a balled up cloth on top and a pair of tweezers standing in for a straw.

Carrot’s special talent is a bit complicated, but once she explained it, it makes perfect sense that there would be many ponies of a similar stripe to her. Basically, she makes things so that other things can be made, or fixed. She’s not necessarily the one who makes a nail or a screw, though she will if it’s of a strange size or not available anymore; she’s the one who makes the tool to make a nail or a screw. She’s the pony you need when you need a new handle on your favorite tool, a new gear for your pocket watch, a piece of artisanal glass that’s meant to be a pair… her actual job title is Machinist, and what she actually does is make and repair machinery. Machinists fix trains. They make sure lights work, and that stoves fire, and that wheels turn. They make the tools that those who make need to do their work- she serviced my sewing machine because, and I quote, it was making a weird clicking noise that sounded like trouble to her.

Apparently, it threw a gear.

As for how she got her special talent- oddly enough, it had nothing to do with making a machine at all. Her story is this: after her parents died, her sister, Saffron Sundae, and her could not be in the same room together without fighting- physically or verbally. It got so bad that Foal Protective Services (FPS) was seriously considering separating them.

As Carrot explains it, the real root of their conflict was a silly fight they’d had before their parents had to leave and do whatever it was they did- a fight so silly they’d both forgotten what was being fought about, only that they’d done it… and the last memory either filly had of their parents was of being punished, and resenting them. Carrot remembers saying ‘Love you; see you later’ as was her custom; and she remembers her older sister, Saffron, not doing so, out of foalish pettiness. Or maybe she just forgot.

And then their parents didn’t come back.

Saffron couldn’t forgive herself for it- not until Carrot fixed… and here she used a word that I’d never heard, ofrenda, but I understood the meaning quick enough. An altar, where those who’ve passed can be remembered and cared for- something like that exists in every culture, I think. Some way of remembering those who’ve gone.
Carrot rebuilt her family’s ofrenda after her sister, Saffron broke it; and she told her sister to forgive herself for being so mad at their parents. That the whole point of being a family is that even when you’re angry- even when you hate each other, you still love each other.

‘The only thing that can’t be fixed is death,’ she said. ‘Fern was not at fault for the bridge collapse; she did everything she could, including blocking the bridge with her own body- but they didn’t listen to her, even though her cutie mark was all but screaming. It’s no one’s fault except maybe the bridge builder’s and the ponies who were supposed to keep it repaired that it collapsed and killed my parents- and-’
And then she choked on her words and shook. Fern was the one to hug Carrot that time.

I think I know what happened, but I can’t be sure unless she says it aloud- and if I’m right, well… it can only do her good to say it plain, like putting a hole in your hoof to let an abscess fester out faster.

I said to both of them- ‘You have to face it. Whatever makes you run from yourself- fear of failure, agony, whatever it is- you have to face up to it. If you don’t, you’ll never know a moment’s rest again- it will keep chasing you, until you fall. And you will fall. It might be frightening; you might not want to feel the way you do, but- it’s okay to think about it. It’s okay to talk about it. Indeed, you have to; you have to face it to let it go.’

Carrot heard me- she didn’t show it then, she was too caught in her remembered terror, but my words reached her.

As it turns out, Journal, Carrot saw her parents die when the bridge collapsed; and she still can’t tell her sister about it. So far as Fern could say, when Carrot began sobbing after saying what she saw in my vardo, that was the only time Carrot had ever cried about it.

When somepony leaves your life, those exits are not made equal. Some are beautiful and poetic and satisfying- acceptable, as much as such a thing can be. Others are abrupt, unforseen, and totally unfair. But mostly? Mostly they’re just unremarkable, unintentional, clumsy- and normal.

A silly fight between sisters; parents laying down the law of the house; a habitual goodbye, and a petty refusal to do it- and a disaster. A broken shelf; a broken heart… and a revelation: it’s not over unless I’ve given up. A broken thing is still a thing- a broken heart can still feel, a broken shelf can be repaired, a mistake can be forgiven.

We didn’t really do anything after Carrot’s tears that day- other than me keeping to the schedule of the trip back to Vanhoover.
Carrot ended up wedged into a warm pile of her best friend, Fern, her teaching-Master, Frank Starbuck, Taffy, Heron, and Hawkeye- on my bed. Ace and Mark took over doing the other necessary things- making lunch, telling me to stop for lunch and have a rest, making dinner… Mark actually baked a carrot-cake for Carrot, and it actually got a laugh out of her, which relieved all of us. When she started to apologize to us for throwing all her problems on us, I gave her what-for.

‘An abscess in your feelings is just as painful and dangerous as an abscess in your hoof. Opening up, letting the nasty part out, and getting the care you need afterwards- those are the steps you need to take, for the sake of your health. Don’t apologize for being injured, Carrot; and you’re not the one who gets to decide if your friends care about you when you are, or even how much. Now shush, and eat your cake; you’ve had a long day, and I’d rather you go to bed than stay up when you’re tired,’ I said, staring at her.
Carrot blinked watery eyes at me, and then nodded. She ate her cake, and washed her face at the water jack- and I heard her pause on the porch, before clattering back down the steps.

‘Miss Meadow?’ She said.

‘Yes, Carrot?’ I said.

‘I think you’re going to be a really good mom.’ She said.

And then she pressed a hug into me, from her neck to mine- quite too fast for me to hug back- and was gone in a flurry of flailing hooves and embarrassment.

I’ve been blushing about it for days, Journal.

Ah, there’s Vanhoover on the horizon- time to stop writing while I walk, and pick it up; I’ll write more later, once we’re all settled again.

Best Love, Meadow

Mid Spring, Raining and Foggy; Vanhoover really is the spitting image of Trottingham

Dearest Journal,

We’re back in Vanhoover, dearest! I’ve just finished moving all my things into my vardo, unpacking, organizing, and putting away- I’ve unrolled my bed carpets, hung dish towels and curtains, put my shoes and my hoofpicks and my horn swivel away in the cupboard- I’ve sold my old cart, and sold quite a lot of honey, and told the bees that I’m headed off to Canterlot for some paperwork- would they please look after the vardo while I’m away?

The bees, after a bit of internal debate, agreed- provided I did not intend to live in Vanhoover.

As I do not, we came to an agreement.

Heron and Hawkeye are getting in all the dates they can’t when Hawkeye is working- neither Taffy nor I see much of them, although they’ve been kind enough to let us continue to use their house. Shanks went on a different sort of holiday, one where he and his… stallion friend, is the term I think, Beck, go on tours of various breweries and distilleries. Apparently, Shanks is something of an alcohol connoisseur. Mark signed on with the Whitebeard Mercenary Company as an accountant; and he made some sort of deal with Ace, some kind of stallion’s agreement.

Frank Starbuck reconnected with his colt-hood sweetheart, Robin Go-Lightly on our way back; and after encouragement from both Fern and Carrot, he extended his holiday to take advantage of Robin’s presence. She’s a traveling historian- along with her work-partner, Lovelace, and her apprentices, collectively called ‘Cat’, one filly whom Fern knows very well, as they are sisters, and ‘Mice’, a collection of ponies of all tribes and ages- she’s been scouring the world for interesting historical artifacts.

When Robin and Starbuck met back up, we gained new travelling companions, and… I got a new friend, I think. More on that later.

Oh, yes- and while all of this was happening, I took a day trip down to the Pie Rock Farm, Journal. I can’t remember if I wrote about the reason I needed to go visit my Pie cousins, but basically- I need proof that I’ve got family in Equestria. It’s a grim and dreary place, not somewhere I really liked being. It takes a very specific kind of pony to enjoy a rock farm, and I’m not one of them- not quite.
My Pie cousins who still live on the farm, however, are. Uncle Iggy and Aunt Quartz were very kind; my cousins? Well. They’ve got their quirks… honestly, Maud was the nicest of them. Remember her, the one who doesn’t like honey?

I did get advice for my crystal terrarium, which had been doing not at all as well as I had hoped- Uncle Iggy repotted it for me, and taught me as much as he could about how to actually keep it fed. Gemstone shards are more like candy or treats- a crystal succulent prefers lava rocks, shale, and an assortment of granite pebbles. Of course, a crystal terrarium is really meant to be cared for by an earth-pony, not a unicorn- then again, I’m going to Ponyville, where my cousin Pinkie Pie lives, so… I’m sure I’ll have help.

Why Ponyville- other than my cousin Pinkie, I mean?

Well.

Equestria is giving away more than a thousand historic castles, farmhouses, and monasteries for free in an effort to breathe new life into its disused public buildings.

Under a new scheme from the Office of State Property, these ancient buildings and domiciles are up for grabs to entrepreneurs who promise to transform them into tourist destinations- and not flashy ones, either. The ancient properties are found along seven historic routes running the length and breadth of the country of Equestria, with some being found in the Crystal Empire, and others in far off Appleoosa (neither of which are technically Equestria proper). It’s hoped that the initiative will create new interests for the hundreds of travelers, hikers, pilgrims, and tourists who use the routes each year.

The only requirement is for an applicant to submit a proposal outlining how they intend to transform their preferred building into a tourist attraction. Specific preference is being given to those under middle age.

About five hundred years ago, there was a monastery-school of unicorn spellweavers near what is now Ponyville, the village surrounding Princess Twilight’s castle. It had massive grounds, and edged right up to the Everfree Forest- indeed, one of the reasons the Everfree doesn’t run right up to the Bucephalus Brook is the presence of the old unicorn spellweaver’s Web-wall, an ancient construction of crystals, plants, and stacked stones.

I think, I think- I think I’m going to start a school, Journal. A school for anyone- anyone who wants to learn to spellweave. I’ve had a business plan for one for a good long time, updated and changed as I learned what was and wasn’t realistic… and I think…
Well, I’ll have to see if it’s even possible, first. But… so far as I can see, there’s no reason any-body- pony, donkey, camel, minotaur, griffin, sphynx, yak, diamond dog- anyone can learn to weave. Can’t use a spell? Use a tool.

I’ve actually traveled all over the world, Journal- mostly to learn about different kinds of weaving, and different traditions of spellweaving. I can make an example of just about anything you could care to think of- from Unicorn Blessing Rugs to Minoan armor-cloth to Adamant Faithful Story-pelts. I want to share that knowledge, if I can.

But first, I need to go to Canterlot and get the deed for the ancient property. Can’t do anything at all without that.

When I told my friends my plan, everyone was startled, but then- the fillies, they seemed very enthusiastic, asking me all sorts of questions- what kinds of classes, could anyone join, what about fees, is it a boarding school- I laughed, and answered as best I could.
My friends got more startled as I outlined more and more of my business plan to the joyful girls- I have a list of classes my students would need to learn, and a list of people and agencies I’d need to contact to get a proper number of teachers for them; of course anyone could join- equine or not, weaving goes across the world as a form of art; fees and boarding would depend on the property I’d get, and how decrepit it actually was, as a bare field is very different from, say, a crumbling tower or a broken castle.

What if it doesn’t work out, Journal? Well- Honey’s very popular in central equestria- I could probably get by as an artisanal honey-producer, and that is a secondary option. There are some dyes and processes that require beeswax; so, the bees were always going to be a part of my school.

And yes, I do have a logo- it’s a fat ball of yarn with a honey wand and a needle stuck into it.

Ace is arranging our transport to Canterlot by train; Taffy has decided to go along with me, as she needs to do something in Canterlot anyway; and Hawkeye is fine with my beehives taking up space in his postcard of a backyard. Lovelace has also invited herself along.
I feel I should make note- Mark Merryweather is a Seapony, and Lovelace is a Changeling.

Mark is the color of cow’s milk, a sort of off-yellow color with patches of orange and black scales- he looks rather like a calico cat my Auntie Zipper used to have, or a koi-fish my Golian pen-friend wrote me about, but that’s not quite right either… he’s got a curious mixture of icthyan and equine features, which together create a whole that is not unpleasing- but is also not to my taste. He’s handsome, I suppose, as far as stallions go- strong front legs, muscular tail, his mane gleams like burnished clay… but it’s not him I want. His prosthesis, a sort of harness for his tail end which cups under his hips- and yes, Journal, Seaponies have hip bones, even if they don’t have back legs- is a sort of leg arrangement. It’s got his cutie mark, a sunflower, stamped on each metal flank, and he wears a pair of special shoes on his front hooves to keep his back hooves moving. As I understand it, there’s a complicated arrangement of spells and, yes, implants, that register how his body is shifting and translates various movements into movements of his prosthetic legs.
He told me, when I asked, that about the only thing he wishes were better on his prosthesis was the sock- because, apparently, he has to wear a special tail sock so that the metal and straps keeping him upright and able to move about on land don’t chafe his scales. I made him a better sock, a spellwoven sock- the spell in the sock, being actually in the fabric and not so ‘leaky’, won’t interfere with the spells on his prosthesis.

He likes it.

Oh, and as for his cutie mark, it’s an anchor with a ribbon tied around it. Something to do with the sea and a memory, I’d say.

Lovelace, as I said, is a changeling- instead of pegasus features, which always put me in mind of a pony who’s coat is always ready for a random weather change, add the features of a moth. She’s dusty, for one thing- always covered in a thin, fine coating of iridescent scales that, when the breeze hits just right, flake off like dust. If she rubs up on something the wrong way, she’ll leave a sparkly streak of dust behind. She has the most luminous eyes I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting- glimmering pools of black, like looking into a purple midnight sky. She’s also, for lack of better descriptors, fuzzy- like one of my bees.

Fuzzy legs, fuzzy chest and withers, curly hair, long thin feelers that, as I understand, are another set of eyes and ears at the same time… Well, she was hesitant to go to Canterlot, as the high mountain city of the Unicorns is a cold place, in more ways than one.

I made her a very fluffy coat- well, a vest, it doesn’t have sleeves. Lovelace laughed to see it, but hasn’t taken it off once on this train ride.
She’s a very sweet mare, with perhaps the loveliest singing voice I’ve ever had the luck to hear. Her job is a historian- but, interestingly enough, the changeling method of keeping history is oral, not written. She sings histories- and her songs are… well, Changelings lived lives of danger and turmoil for a long, long time, and the songs reflect that.

She sang a folksong for us on the ride up to Canterlot; it was beautiful, if a bit bizarre. And frightening.

Look into my eyes and it’s easy to see- one and one makes two, two and one makes three- it was destiny!
Once every honey doesn’t need a song when the sun doth shine and the moon doth glow and the grass doth grow-!

I didn’t understand everything she sang… but then again, I don’t think I really needed to.

Oh, yes, we’re on the train right now. Canterlot station- we’re here! Sorry, Journal- I’ll get back to you soon, we’re about to pull into the station and disembark.

Best Love, Meadow

Author's Note

I don't think Tribute has any curses oh wait there's one but it's not a main lyric. Still, you were warned, and if you've got a problem with curses... maybe just look up the lyrics? You don't have to listen to it.

Second Leg

Canterlot Village, at the Base of Canterlot Mountain; It’s much nicer than I thought it would be, I shouldn’t have skipped visiting so many times…

Dearest Journal,

Canterlot Village is the quintessential small town outside a big city- just far enough to not be worth making a suburb of the city itself, but not so far that ponies who work in the city but can’t afford to live there can’t make the commute. It’s a village of rolling foothills and pretty rowhouses.

A place of blue saddlebags and heavy collars. I can understand why I skipped visiting before; it’s too much like Trottingham.

Trottingham is a small village of maybe eighteen hundred head, and that means… well, consider this. Growing up, green through bridle grade school had an overall enrollment of about one hundred ponies. I have almost no interests in common with the ponies I grew up with- the only thing I really paid attention to was the weather, because it changes what the bees do- and everyone on Trottingham pays attention to the weather. We have to, it’s an island in an uncolonized area- it’s rare to ever see pegasi in Trottingham.
That’s probably why I kept flirting with him, looking back- I like pegasi, I like their wings and the way their eyes are just a little bit bigger than most other ponies. I like that their coats and manes are just slightly greasy to the touch; I like the smell of their feathers, the length of their whiskers, the weird suction-y feeling of their hooves on my sweaty flanks…

There are almost no pegasi on Trottingham. What few there are mostly concern themselves with Militia business, Griffins, fishing, and sports. I like science, and art, history and mathematics; I read poetry and I work very hard every day. For me, growing up… I didn’t really make genuine friends.

I was under the impression that I was just weird, and not really part of the herd- right up until I started correspondence school with my Aunt Ravel’s encouragement. She and Auntie Zipper put me in contact with a number of ponies- I signed myself up for penpals all across the world in an effort to learn different languages, I got several jobs for magazines and printing companies, and once I’d saved up enough, I went off to see the world.

The world is big, and beautiful- more full of wonders than I can describe here but briefly. Did you know, Journal, that Golia is called the Cradle of Equinity? I can believe it- something about that sea of grass, caught between two rivers and so near the sea… I felt quite as if I could see forever, as if I could run forever. My Golian penfriend, Moda, let me stay with her for a month. I’d never felt more welcomed anywhere- not even at my home in Trottingham, which, supposedly, was meant to be the most welcoming place I could be.
Home is where your heart is- but my heart hasn’t been in Trottingham for a good long time, moreso after I met Tristan than before.
I’ve got it on my list- before I’m finished, I’m going to go to Mareseille, and I’m going to see all the beautiful things Tristan told me about in our conversations.

I swear I will.

But- truly, I did think I wasn’t particularly likeable until I started making penfriends.

There are pros and cons to living in a large village. Crime is almost never something to worry about, and you can forget to lock your door- or even leave the keys in the lock on the outside for hours on end. It’s safe for foals to wander around on their own, and everypony looks out for each other. The school is small, and classes are usually about twenty or so, meaning any foal will get a lot of attention. The area tends to be fairly rural; one only needs to walk for a ten or twenty minutes to be surrounded by fields and woodland park.
And if you move to a large village, you’ll always be an incomer to most ponies. I wasn’t actually born in Trottingham; I’m not, as so many took such pains to remind me, actually from Trottingham. I didn’t make any real deep friendships there- well, except for Lami, but she doesn’t exactly count as she’s also marked ‘outsider’. I had to go to Griffinstone Pleasant to do my shopping, which wasn’t much bigger than Trottingham but so much friendlier- and if I wanted decent selection in the shops, I had to go much further west.
Large villages, in some ways, are perfect for what I want- a safe place to raise a foal- but I truly doubt my foal will want to stay in a village. As soon as they become an adult… what will there be for them? Who will be their friend?

...Who will be mine? It’s not enough to have a cousin- I need friends of my own, too. Maybe I should move to Vanhoover, even if it’s so expensive and the weather reminds me of all the worst parts of Trottingham…

Guilds have existed since Roamin’ times, and possibly even earlier- the Roaming Herds were the first surviving instance of a culture of ponies that had a written language; they were preceded by numerous cultures around the world. Linguists have traced folktales, colt and filly stories, myths, legends, and even certain nursing rhymes back much further, back to when ponies had more than one toe-bone in our hooves- that’s several thousand years. The Great Clamour only eradicated about a hundred years or so of history; and there was quite a lot it simply couldn’t touch. Chaos and Order are matters of perspective.

A guild is an association of craftsmen, artisans, or skilled labourers who share a common skill or profession. The guilds that emerged out of Unified Ponyland helped shape the feudal system that was in place at the time by creating a skilled working class which consisted of free ponies with expertise in specialized trades. It’s not easy to do a number of things lots of ponies take for granted- cooking, baking, making candles, rugs, charcoal, parchment, quills and sofas… all of these things and quite a few more require extensive training to make a pony who can even attempt their production. To make a pony who’s good at making these things, you need a pony who’s been well trained to train them- often for five or six generations. (If you want a good archer, you start with the grandsire.)

The guilds, and the unions that grew out of them, give commoners enough clout to thrive in a society where knights, dames, and the nobility hold most of the power. The farmer, the baker, and the candlestick maker of that famous nursing rhyme were undoubtedly all guild members.

A very significant aspect of guilds is the apprenticeship system. A master craftspony- like Frank Starbuck, as an example- agrees to take on a filly or a colt as an apprentice, usually after they’ve gotten their cutie mark. The yearling would live with the master, and the yearling’s parents are expected to pay for their training- not their room and board, but the master’s time, and supplies for the yearling, are supposed to be paid for by the parents. Things have changed quite a bit in recent years- for one, the government now matches parental fees, or even exceeds them in certain circumstances. For another, the master craftspony has to go through foster parent certification, to ensure that they’ll provide proper care and housing to their prospective students. A yearling and a fully grown pony are not the same at all- and though Carrot and Fern were stunningly mature in a lot of ways, they were both still children in a lot more. Finally, and most importantly, the apprentice owns what they produce, and are to be credited for what they work on- meaning, if they win a prize for something they make, they keep the prize money; if they work on a production piece, they are to be paid like any other working pony; and if they make an innovative design, they get most of the royalties for their work.

These funds are kept and managed by the master craftspony, and part of their job is to teach their apprentice how to care for their money. As the apprenticeship lasts for ten years or more, this allows for deep personal bonds to form; and it allows the yearling time and space to grow up, make mistakes, and change in a relatively safe environment that isn’t with their parents.

Once an apprenticeship is over, the apprentice becomes a Journeypony and can now work for a direct wage. That journeypony will then save up their wages to buy or set up a shop of their own, and work to complete their guild’s requirements to become a master craftspony.

I belong to the International Guild of Spellweavers and Clothiers, Journal- they’re combined because so many of the woven spells can be translated into embroidered stitches in clothing, and are useful either way. Oh, yes- international guilds.

Membership in a guild is required in order for a pony to do business in a region- the guild will handle your licensing and various fees, and as they set prices and standards for their member’s products, the quality of a guild-verified producer is guaranteed. Guilds also protect any secrets of their particular trade- in my case, where to get some of the things I use for my creations, certain color mixes, certain spells… Guilds also take on civic duties, such as caring for widows, orphans, and sick members. Guilds became unions during the Rise of the Commons; both guilds and unions will advocate for wage earners and service providers as well as craftsponies and artisans.
After all, you cannot demand a labor or service or product or art from somepony and then degrade them for providing you with it.

A guild will always have an enormous impact on the economy of the territory it covers. Whether that impact is beneficial is a topic of heated debate, even now. Still- it cannot be denied that guilds provide skilled workers in a variety of specialized fields, keep an economy healthy, and allow the working class to prosper.

These organizations can offer experience and resources to anypony willing to meet the requirements to join- and they can be an ally, a training ground, a proving field, a client; a competitor, an adversary, even the ultimate destructor. If the Guild of Fishers hadn’t based themselves in Griffonstone, Trottingham would have an atmosphere that’s friendly to pegasi. But they did; and Trottingham doesn’t.
In my cousin Ace Spade’s case, the Whitebeard Mercenary Company belongs to the Guild of Adventurers; neither bad nor good, and surprisingly in demand.

There’s a few things a guild needs to function properly.

Firstly, it needs a charter- the list of rules and values outlining the guild’s purpose and scope. The local government keeps track of all the guilds so as to keep taxes appropriate and ensure that their constituents are provided for in all needful areas- thus, every guild is required to have a charter on file with the various local, state, national, and international legal scribe files.

There are a few key elements that must be present with any well-written guild charter- and if you’re say, starting a school that teaches a trade, like, oh, spellweaving, taking a look at the necessary properties of a well-written guild charter is probably a good idea.

First, the name of the guild (school) must be listed. There aren’t many requirements for the name, and in most places it can be as creative as the guild would like it to be- but it can’t be anything illegal. No Thieves Guild (though such a thing has, historically, existed); if you put such a name on the charter and send it in, it almost certainly won’t be approved, and you’ll probably end up in jail.

Second, the main location of the guild (school) must be listed. This should be specific down to the city or village level; for example, it’s not good enough to say that your guild is located in the Barony of Blueblood, but it would be acceptable to say that your guild is located in the village of Canterlot (which is not the city of Canterlot), in the Barony of Blueblood. You can probably move your guild (school) later on if you need or want to, but such changes usually have to be approved before they can be actioned.

Third, the purpose of the guild should be listed. This requirement follows the same restrictions the guild name does- nothing illegal allowed. Essentially, when you’re forming a purpose for a guild or a school, you need to think about why you decided to start in the first place. Do you want to help others with your skills? Do you want to go adventuring? Did you want to provide a service? Any of these things can be a legitimate purpose for a guild; and teaching others how to do these things is a legitimate purpose for a school.

Fourth, the guild should have its own set of bylaws. These bylaws conform to the laws of the land in which the guild is chartered. Bylaws specify what requirements there are for membership, as well as what is required to remain in the guild. They may also specify any relevant items specific to the guild- ex. In Ace’s guild, there’s a bylaw about how spoils, treasures, and acquisitions are to be divided among the party.

Fifth, the guild should have provisions for the choosing and removal of guild officers. Guild officers are those below the guildmaster that help in the administration of the guild. Guild officers include assistant guildmasters- a pegasus named Marco Polo (he’s got a winged pineapple as a cutie mark, and there’s something distinctively… peacock-y about his wing-feathers); communication regulators- an earth pony called Ricecake Winterfield; cooks- a unicorn called Thatch, of all things; as well as guild scribes, outfitters (Icy Iron, a beautiful… unicorn. I know they’re a unicorn, and that’s about it), and so on. In most guilds, the officers are chosen either by the guildmaster (he really does have the largest, whitest mustache I’ve ever seen), or by a vote of the members of the guild. Guild officers are removed in much the same way, though of course each guild is free to create its own policy.

-I've lost the thread. Ah well, it will return to me eventually.

My cousin Ace is actually an Officer in his guild/mercenary company… or maybe I’ve completely misunderstood the equish I heard that day, it is not at all like trosh and I have to remember that- Ace Spade is the Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Guild; and, so far as I’m aware, the Second Division is the Accountant’s Division. Ace is in charge of receipts and money- and, actually, just about every member of the Surprise clan is good with numbers. Yes, even Pinkie Pie, now that I consider it practically- she wouldn’t be able to throw as many parties as she does, and have them be as good as they always are, if she wasn’t so good at accounting.

I noticed on our ride up to Canterlot that Ace has a very long mane for a stallion, almost as long as a mares; and that he really has no idea what to do with it. When I was at the wainwrights, getting my vardo, I bought a set of eight two-pronged hair combs off one of the junior apprentices. They’re beechwood, sealed with a mane-safe oil I have in my vardo and carefully inset with the Gems of Harmony: Agate for Honesty; Pink Opal for Kindness; Pietersite for Joy; Red Ruby for Generosity; Sapphire (Blue Ruby) for Loyalty; Yellow Turquoise for Friendship; and Lepidolite for Hope. They’re quite possibly the plainest spelled mane items I’ve ever made- but Ace has a very odd sense of style, and he wouldn’t wear anything fancy in his hair. I know this because I asked him. I also know that the real beauty is in the gems I chose- each one is special in some way, be it cut, clarity, or some other feature I can’t remember the name of.
I also asked him what kind of style he wanted, and he replied ‘buns’. So. I gave him a stacked bun style- I think it will really show off the various highlights in his hair. Ah- so, as near as I can figure, every member of my clan has the same basic coloration- we’re all bays. I’m the most ‘classical’ in appearance- my cousin Pinkie is one of the most ‘exotic’. The basic formula is that our manes and tails are always the same color, and always a color darker in tone than our coats. Ace is no exception.

He’s a unicorn- have I written this down? No, I haven’t- right, he’s a unicorn like me, he was actually born in Canterlot- ah, my guild bylaws prevent me from getting letters of recommendation from any family member who’s also in a guild (farmers aren’t in guilds; they’re in unions- lovely loophole). His mane is extremely bushy, because I think he doesn’t know how to condition it properly- it must collect static like nothing else. I also don’t think he’s gotten a mane cut in a long while- it’s got that ragged edge to it.

Hm. When I asked him, he said that he rarely has the time for an involved mane care regimen- at most, he’s got the time for a wash-condition and brushing. I nodded- and asked if he could add an oil to his combing or brushing.
He hummed, and then said ‘Probably, but- I’d need a mane cut first, I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t want to go to a stranger for it-’
‘That’s reasonable; when are you getting it done?’
‘Ah- probably this afternoon before I report back to my guild. You could come with me?’
‘Mm, I’d like that- I’ll even have your mane pins ready.’
‘Cool beans!’

Ace’s mane is dark red-brown, brighter where the sun has bleached it or where it grows lighter naturally; it’s shiny and wavy, underneath the overgrowth and road-dust. His coat is a dusty sort of terracotta, and his cutie mark is a fireball. Or possibly a comet, I’ve not gotten quite close enough to make a clear distinction.

Hell, it might even be a firework.

You know, I haven’t actually had a mane cut in three years- I’ve always kept it a bit long, to keep my pin collection in circulation, but… I don’t know. Maybe I feel like a little change. Mmn- nope, no change, just a wash and a trim, same as always.
I also let the hooficurist oil my hooves, which gave them a lovely lustre.

Ace looks much better- and the spelled pins do their job very well, he looks like a totally different stallion with them in. I saw at least three mares and a stallion trip over themselves when he walked past. I think he looks quite nice, myself.
Especially with his new glasses! Oh, Journal, when I learned he wasn’t even wearing contact lenses- ooh, the scolding I gave him! Breaking your glasses in a fight is no excuse- that just means you need to get better glasses, and better at dodging! Silly stallion, with a silly stallion’s pride...

Sumus plus quam unum sumus seorsum - We are stronger together than we are apart

Those are the words painted onto the lintel of the Whitebeard Adventurers Guild (or is it a mercenary company? It’s unclear, and I feel really awkward about asking… I’ll just listen and see if someone- but they have a motto?)
As I followed Ace into the guild hall, a hush- wait, hold on. Taffy and Lovelace went sightseeing in Canterlot City; Mark is with me and Ace, because he’s finalizing his Guild contract- okay. As I followed Ace and Mark into the guild hall, a hush fell over the ponies within. It got quiet enough that I could hear Ace and Mark quietly talking-

‘-and this is the hall. Mostly everyone comes through here eventually, and it’s open all hours. The fire pits on either side are always stoked- oh, right, um… there’s a water-garden out back, I’ll make sure you get a key for the back door.’
‘Nice!’
‘Haha, yeah- Namur will probably challenge you to a race, so- heads up, I guess. Ah- I’d need to double check how many Divisions there are, but the ones based in the hall itself indefinitely are First, Second, Fourth, Sixteenth, and Twelfth. That’s Administration, Accounting, Feed, Quartermaster, and Communications. I’m the Commander for the Second- that’s why I hired you, by the way-’
‘I was wondering, but it makes sense now that you’ve told me-’

Meanwhile, across the hall:
‘Is that…?’
‘Can’t be, he never wears glasses just around, says they make him feel like an egghead-’
‘If it’s Ace, I never knew his hair had so much color-’
‘It’s him alright; I’d know that cutie mark anywhere-’

‘So- I’ll be stationed with Miss Meadow?’
‘That was my plan. Knowing her plan, it’ll take at least six months to get everything she wants done; not to mention collect all the files she’ll need to get started, set up various permissions, and so on-’
‘Sure, sure. So- I’m helping her run her business too?’
‘You can if you want to- your job from our side will be keeping track of expenses and products gained, so, if you have enough time to help her out, go for it.’
‘Cool!’

I let them outpace me and walk into the Second Division office by themselves. I’m not joining the guild- I can’t, not and also become a master craftspony- guild bylaw. Ugh.

Journal, I’m tired- there’s a nice couch right in a sunbeam, and I feel like a nap. I’ll write any new developments, don’t worry.

Best love, Meadow

Dearest Journal,

I fell asleep on Tristan Woodsmoke at the Whitebeard Guild of Adventurers and now he knows I’m pregnant and- it’s all a bit- shouty. At the moment.

I’m hiding behind Whitebeard’s desk. Well, under it. It’s a very large desk, very roomy. M-more like a picnic table. The scarf I put around Tristan’s neck- I made it for him, to protect him, and only he can remove it.

So, um. Ace and Mark probably won’t be able to kill him.

I- Oh dear.

I have to go stop Mark from drowning Tristan in the pond out back, have to go-

-Meadow

Third Leg

Whitebeard Adventurer’s Guild; When I write the phrase ‘Silly Stallion’, it’s because I made a Winter-Wrap Up Vow to not call them ‘Stupid Stallions’

Dearest Journal,

So, there are a few things that every spellweaver gets good at over time. The first is, simply speaking, lifting immense amounts of weight. Every rug has to be washed, stretched, washed again, and washed- well, as many times as it takes for the dye process used to stop expelling excess in the wash. Or to take in the appropriate amount of dye.

Wet fabric is about, eh, six times it’s dry weight- that doesn’t matter overmuch when it’s something like a cape or a hanky, but a whole unicorn rug, even rolled up for transport- well, dry, it weighs the same as a fully grown unicorn- often the same as the unicorn that wove it.
I can work eight wet rugs at the same time- all of them rugs I wove myself.

Lifting three adult stallions who are fighting each other in a pond- along with quite a bit of pond water- then separating them out, gently letting go of the water without letting go of the stallion, and resisting the urge to shake, twist, or otherwise do any of the things I would normally do with a rug, is a much simpler affair- though I had somehow hoped that I would not have to do such a thing.

It’s only past the first trimere that a mare begins to feel the cravings associated with pregnancy. My mother craved blackstrap molasses, orange-blossom honey, sour cherries, pickled limes, eggshell meal, and barley when she was pregnant with me, my sister Spangle Surprise, and my brothers- my older brother, Spadille Surprise, and my younger brother, Solitaire Surprise. I had my first real craving a while ago- moules marinieres, after all, is not something a unicorn wants to eat unless they’ve grown up in a mixed family.

Right now, I want onion soup. There’s a misconception most ponies have with onion soup- that the flavor comes from the onions alone. The sweetness, the caramelization, the softness as it hits the tongue- that, indeed, comes from onions. The complexity of flavor, however, comes from the stock. Mostly, it comes from mushrooms. Lots of mushrooms are slimy to the touch, soggy, and a bit lonely- all they need is the thick, creamy soup of joy to become tasty.

I completely ignore the audience I’ve gathered, and I carefully set each stallion equidistant apart, well out of my way as I step in the kitchen, and firmly in the air they hang, still scowling and huffing and snorting their insults at each other.

I set to work. To start with, a roasting pan- and in them, I set out full size potbelly mushrooms, along with… well, basically every kind of mushroom they have in this kitchen that is edible and won’t clash with each other terribly… plus all the ones I like. Add in some kombu, walnuts, ripe tomatoes, malted barley, stale bread rinds, stale cheese rinds… Cut everything into small pieces to increase the surface area, which means more browning and more flavor.

Then, cover everything with a healthy dash of soysauce; crush some dried mushrooms I like the taste of into powder, and just- yeah, a nice semi-wet slurry of flavor right there.

One whole head of peeled crushed garlic- just a little, to really amp up that surface area; a small bushel of onions, fine diced; carrots; celery; fennel; leek; season with salt and pepper- then bake it in a medium oven for about an hour.

Once the grilling is done, everything in the pan needs to simmer for a good four hours- or, if you have a pressure cooker, like this kitchen does, two hours. Don’t use a pressure cooker if you don’t know how!

Scrape all the roasted goodness into the pressure cooker, and then add three liters of water in the roasting pan and then into the pot to get all the little stragglers- oh, and add a trussed bundle of herbs, bay leaves and thyme (and rosemary, it felt right), to boost the flavor. Oh, and a little bit of mustard, for some kick. Just a little salt- correct it after the cooking, if you please…

Bring the pressure cooker up to it’s highest setting, then lower it to nearly the lowest and let it go for two hours.

Then, menace the very startled members of the Whitebeard Adventurer’s Guild into giving you, your friend, and your, um, Tristan, some privacy for a private conversation. I do so love my hairpin collection.

So, Journal, apparently none of my Equestrian cousins know how to properly wrangle their manes. This has lead to some alarming misconceptions, the most pertinent of which is that if a Surprise clan member’s mane is sleek and well behaved, they are in dire emotional distress. This is not true.

Firstly, our manes are always extremely curly- Ace is actually semi-constantly either in or on the edge of an emotional disaster, which is why his mane is wavy while also being so short. I haven’t gotten a mane cut in… let me count it properly… goodness, fifteen years. I thought it was less than that, but that was my tail, not my mane.

I have what’s called Heteronomia, a strange magical disorder where my mane and my tail have completely different curl patterns due to damage to my ley lines before I was born. My mane is as curly as any other member of the Surprise clan; my tail is pin straight, and always has been. I actually carry a picture of me as a foal; new schools, new teachers, and government officials always need more than just my word that yes, my mane and tail are supposed to be like that, really. As for how my ley lines were hurt… Aunt Zipper says my mother was in a very bad accident, and it broke something in her mind; she was sane just long enough to give me the first of her milk, and then she tried to hurt herself very badly, and had to go live in the hospital. I visited her twice a week, every week- right up until she died of heartache, the medical term for what happens when a pony physically, mentally, or emotionally can’t fulfill their special talent.

My mother, Pineapple Surprise, during her moments of clarity, taught me how to care for my mane properly, gave me recipes to bake, taught me songs she would have sung to me as a filly… all sorts of things. Her cutie mark was a boomerang; and the only reason I know how she got it was because, after her death, my Aunt Zipper (Zipper Ripstop, nee Surprise) was finally free to tell me.

As far as I could make out, through my Aunt’s garbled telling (she was so sad, after my mother died), Mother got her cutie mark by creating an entirely new form of logical progression. Circular reasoning is when you begin with where you should have ended, and work around until you come back to your initial conclusion, ignoring everything that doesn’t fit. Mother’s new form of logic is called Spiraluar Reasoning- whereby you come to a new conclusion by starting with a conclusion you want.

It’s actually very useful for bringing disparate pieces of research together, or understanding trends in history. Mother’s in the books as the philosopher who invented this particular method of research. She’s also in the books as the philosopher who went mad after tampering with forces far beyond her control- while heavily pregnant with me. So far as I could ever figure, from reading her confiscated notes, looking over her experiment logs, and the injuries she got immediately after that final, disastrous experiment, Mother was trying to predict Chaos.

Journal, I don’t know what she was thinking, or why that was her answer to whatever was plaguing her- but I do know that her experiment broke her mind. It was that break that made her heartache so profound; and it’s not like my cousin Pinkie’s bipolar disorder either, that’s managed with diet and magi-medication…

I don’t know, Journal. I suppose, for the sake of simplicity, it’s easiest to say it plain- I am always of two minds about everything, everything there ever is. Part of me wishes to react with spontaneity; and part of me wishes to react with routine. For most ponies, that’s normal; for a Surprise, it’s always one, or the other.

But not me.

Ace didn’t know any of that; Tristan did; and Mark is mortified to learn it, mostly because it’s a Seapony thing to not know so many intimate details about another pony without being intimately involved with them.

Ace also didn’t know that the length of a Surprise mane dictates so much of it’s curl- the sheer weight of the hair stretches the curl out, and I haven’t had a serious mane cut in fifteen years, and I actually sleep with curlers in my tail- yes, really. Tristan posits that I’d be adorable no matter what my mane and tail looked like- I rebut with the simple fact that I absolutely hate being stared at like an exhibit at the science museum, and, inevitably, that’s what happens when I have a shortcut mane and tail.

‘You’d still be cute, though,’
‘...hmph.’

To finish the broth, vent the steam from the pressure cooker- either using your magic, or wearing heat-safe mitts- before sieving the broth of all the solid pieces, first through a fine metal mesh strainer, then again through a fine cheesecloth.

Then you need to set aside the broth, and prepare the onions. How much diced onion do you need? It’s like making creamed spinach- if you look at it and think to yourself, ‘fuck, that’s way too much’, you’ve got just about enough for a small group. As for actual amount… eh, five or six kilos should do it. Using the same pot I made the broth in, I caramelized the onions, right until translucence and a bit of browning; sprinkled in a bit of salt to get even more moisture out, and then pressure cooked on low for twenty to thirty minutes. Once it’s done, maybe a little sugar and baking soda- like, a teaspoon each- to speed up the caramelization. Stir and cook until it looks deep brown, like a particularly chunky-onion caramel- like the candy, that’s why it’s called caramelization. Then, deglaze the pan with white wine and brandy- one for brightness, the other for deep, intense flavor. Four spice mix (pepper, cloves, nutmeg, ginger), and they only have fresh of each so use much less, fresh spices are strong. A pinch of flour to thicken it- any would work, I’m partial to rice; and then, add the stock.

Pressure cook it for fifteen to thirty minutes.

To finish- dish it out in a large ramekin, top with slices of a nice baguette, and then cover the bread with grated cheese- any good melt-n-crisper will do, but I’m using white cheddar because there’s lots of it. Put it in the oven- any temperature is fine, so long as it’s not cold- until it’s nicely charred.

While that’s going, set out bowls and spoons for the guys and myself, because I can’t actually eat all the soup I just made- oh, yes, and actually set them down, Ace is turning a bit pasty, whoops…

Serve with a careful admonishment to not eat too quickly, you’ll burn your tongue.

The tables in this part of the kitchen are metal, and polished to a mirror finish- and I find I have some sort of internal distortion of time, looking into the metal mirror, reflecting back my own face and the darkness of the ceiling above me… because, well, when I look at myself in the mirror below me, what I see is my own breath misting across the surface, and then... my mother's face, staring back at me. I see my mother’s face, reflected back at me; a strange, young, bright version of her, unmarred by life’s pains and disappointments.

And then, as the heat of the soup in my bowl presses against my frog, the vision ends. I see myself again, my worries and my concerns writ plain on my narrow nosed face, my brow furrowed with rapidly fading anger. Ace only acted out of love; I cannot fault him for that.

I'll write again later, Journal. I've got a long conversation ahead of me, and I don't want to be distracted.

Best Love,
Meadow

Whitebeard Adventurer's Guild; No Wonder Ace Has Anxiety
Dearest Journal,

I have to write this down before I forget the phrasing. I'll explain the circumstances after I've recorded the scene I just witnessed.

ACE
D'you know what Accounting is about? The motto of the Second Division is 'No mistakes, down to the last bit.' Do you know why that is, Maple Sweet? Keeping an accurate record of how much comes in, and how much gets spent- that's what accounting is. That is our job. Ponies who half-hoof their numbers never do it once: the mistakes pile up, and it hurts the company, and it hurts the company’s ponies. How long are you going to keep half-hoofing your own numbers, Maple? If you keep giving out more than you’re getting back in return, eventually, there’ll be nothing left. D’you get it?

MAPLE SWEET
...I think so. Y-you’re much kinder than anyone realizes, a-aren’t you?

ACE
Hmph. Think what you want.

MAPLE SWEET
...Commander! I want to help too!

ACE
Is that right? Good! We’re stronger together than we are apart- that’s why we’re here!

MAPLE SWEET
Right!

I think I wrote before that Ace is the Commander of the Second Division of the Whitebeard Mercenaries; this means, in any other company, he'd be Director Ace, of Accounting. His job is important- his underlings are important. If his division doesn't do their job correctly, ponies won't be able to get paid for their work, or get their share of spoils.

Which reminds me!

The Guild Charter must list the internal structure of the guild. Whitebeard's guild structure is as follows- First, Administrative; Second, Accounting; Third, Quartermaster; Fourth, Rations; Fifth, Guards; Sixth, Masons; Seventh, Animal Care; Eighth, Aquatics; Ninth... I honestly stopped listening at this point, Ace is a little... hero-worshippy of the Whitebeard Mercenaries. I've decided to refer to them as a Mercenary Company, for the sake of my own sanity. I do so despise being of two minds about anything- it feels... wrong.

Ah, there's the thread.

Sixth, the charter must list the internal structure of the guild. Most guilds are broken down into guildmaster, guild officers, journeymen, and apprentices. However, there is much room for creativity here, and in fact a great deal of guilds are broken down simply into guildmaster and guild members. The decision as to what structure to use must is best made by each individual guild.

Seventh, the charter must include a process for amendment of the charter. Typically, this process involves a majority vote of the members of the guild, but some guilds do it differently. In some guilds, the guildmaster can unilaterally modify the guild charter. If a charter is modified after it has been approved, the modification should be brought to the attention of the Duke or legal scribe for re-approval.

The eighth thing that should be attached to the charter is a list of the charter members of the guild. In other words, the original people who are bringing the guild into being should be listed here.

After all that has been completed, the guild charter is finished, and needs to be ratified and approved. Ratification requires that the guild charter be submitted to a vote of the guild members. If they ratify the charter, then the charter must be taken to the local nobility. For example, if I was trying to get a guild started in the town of Exeter in Therendry, I would have to take my guild charter to the Lord of Exeter in order to have him approve it. Once that is done, the last step that needs to be taken is the charter needs to be submitted to the Duke or legal scribe for approval. Once it has the Diarchy seal of approval, the charter is an official document and the guild is an official guild.

It is recommended that several copies of the guild charter be scribed, so that the local nobility can keep one on file, the Diarchy can keep one on file, and the guild itself can have one on file. They're very important to maintain the internal coherency of a guild- through history, I mean. However you decide to design your guild, if you do- and I do, my Guild has no chapter in Equestria... It needs to have the following things.

A charter, which is essentially a list of rules or values outlining the guild's purpose and mission.

However you decide to design a guild, make sure it contains at least the following:

A charter
An emblem or sigil, like the one for the Whitebeard Mercenaries, that represents the guild and what it stands for. It's like a brand, honestly.
A list of requirements for admission or initiation.

Less essential are the following:

A guildhall or base of operations; a place for every-being to return to, come adventure's end.
A code of ethics. This can address the overall behavior of a member, business practices, product quality, or all three.
A method of gauging your guild's reputation and standing in the various communities.
An educational system for apprentices, or a school founded by the guild as either a civic service, or to create a steady stream of new recruits, or to further research and development- or in my case, survival- of the guild craft.

Oh, yes- and Ace is easily embarrassed by genuine affection given to him freely. Obviously, it's now my duty as his cousin to embarrass him as often as I possibly can.

Forever.

This I Swear!

Foreeveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

...So my Cousin, Pinkie Pie, is one of the most... Surprising of Surprises I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. She taught me her recipe for Rhubarb and Raspberry Froggies, which are so much simpler than an actual coffyn, goodness gracious. -Let's start at the beginning of this.

Hee hee! Sorry coz, I'll be taking over for a bit- you write so stuffily, I don't think you'll be able to really get the gist of the recipe. Or if you do, you'll go off on so many tangents you'll completely forget you're writing a receipt at all! I saw that soup receipt- for shame, Meadow!

Rhubarb and Raspberry Froggies are a kind of hoof pye, and not in the traditional Trottingham way- these are meant to be about the size of a ponies' frog, not carried as a fresh baked lunchbox! Sweet, tart, and flakey is what you want; and I always find that a nice spring harvest of the rhu and rasp are better than at other times of year. You can substitute orange for lemon, lime, grapefruit, or another sort of citrus- but be sure it's actually citrus. Fingerlime will get you the right flavor profiles, but not the zest.

You'll need about a fiftieth of a bushel of rhubarb if you're just baking for yourself- hm, about a pound? 3/4 of a pound of good raspberries- be sure to get the small ones, not the big ones, the big ones have no flavor and are barely pretty enough for decoration; 3/4 of a cup of granulated sugar, and if white is too expensive you can use honey sugar or brown, so long as it's granulated; a Tablespoon of granulated sugar; a Tablespoon of grated orange zest, and I've gotten the best economy from using the rinds of Juicer Oranges- they aren't pretty, but they are orange, and it's more for the smell anyway; 1/2 a Teaspoon of grated orange zest; 1/4 a Cup- that is, a drinking cup, like for water- of orange juice (freshly squeezed is best and don't mind the pulp); a Tablespoon of orange juice; two (2) chilled pye pastes, rolled to an appropriate thickness; one large Egg, and I use chicken although you could substitute with two of Pigeon, or four of Quail, or one of Duck- though if you do use a Duck Egg, you'll need to add egg white to balance the fat content; oh, right, and a cup of confectioner's sugar.

Special Equipment- None that I can think of, although perhaps a saucier wouldn't go amiss...

To start: reduce the rhubarb, raspberries, 3/4 cup of granulated sugar, Tablespoon of orange zest, and 1/4 cup of juice, in a middling-sized saucier, until the rhubarb has vanished and the mix is thick. It'll take perhaps half an hour on a gently hot stove; and you'll have about two cups of filling at the end.

Turn the egg into an egg wash; in a small bowl, whisk together confectioners' sugar, 1/2 Teaspoon of orange zest, and 1 Tablespoon of orange juice. Set the egg wash and the orange icing aside for later, preferably covered and somewhere cool- the cool box is alright for this.

Make a middling-hot oven; and line two baking sheets with parchment paper, not waxed paper. Roll one pye paste to about 1/16 of a hoof, and use the guard-rail method if your rolling skills are not up to that yet. If you can't make your own pye paste, storebought is just fine- sometimes, I just don't want to go to the effort if I'm making them for me, I just want the Froggy. You'll need sixteen 4x2 1/2 inch rectangles, rerolling and cutting scraps as needed. Arrange eight of your rectangles on a prepared baking sheet; and using a fork, dock the remaining eight rectangles.

Spoon a heaping Tablespoon of mix over each rectangle on the sheet, leaving a 1/2 inch border around the edges. Use the eggwash to brush the border, and then sandwich the filling with the docked pye paste and crimp the edges- with a fork or crimper- to seal. Repeat with remaining pye paste and rhubarb mix.

Let the uncooked hoof pyes cool for ten minutes, preferably in a cold box.

Finally: Brush the tops of the hand pies with your remaining egg wash and sprinkle with your reserved Tablespoon of granulated sugar. Bake, until golden brown- take care not to let them burn. Transfer your froggies to a wire rack to cool, as they will burn on the pan. Drizzle the froggies with orange icing before serving.

Honestly, Coz- you've gotta get better at getting to the point! You getting a contract with Whitebeard to make a tapestry of events, meeting my friends, meeting me- all of that's less important than you and Tristan! Come on, I'm dying for details, here-

THANK YOU, PINKIE PYE, FOR THAT LOVELY RECIPT. I'M SURE I'LL ENJOY YOUR RHUBARB RASPBERRY FROGS DURING THE LATER SPRING SEASON.

Grumpy and Certainly NOT Ready to Talk About It and if you push me on this Coz I may never speak to you again,
Meadow

Author's Note

Oh man, writer's block and a lack of direction for your story will absolutely gut your motivation. I realize now that I don't actually have a specific direction for this story to go- so, uh, any suggestions from the people who read this would be very helpful. :pinkiesad2: