A Rose by Any Other Name Would Look Just as Strange

The orphanage’s backyard was, in many ways, equally as idyllic as the building itself. Gothic styled picket fencing enclosed the moderately sized yard, revealing small glimpses of the surrounding forest through the gaps in the wood. The wood itself was stained a dark shade of tawny, and was noticeably worn from weather and age. Overgrown patches of ivy snaked around the wooden posts in creeping clusters, and wild ferns and flowers dotted the otherwise disinteresting lawn. A sturdy maple tree lumbered over a portion of the yard, a swing tied tightly around one of it’s outstretched branches. Rosebug’s attention was drawn, however, by one single facet of the backyard, the garden. The garden was, at the moment, completely barren, being nothing more than a sectioned off patch of upturned dirt. Rosebug was excited nonetheless, her mind abuzz with notions of all the different kinds of flowers and flora she could plant there.

Though Rosebug was wholly alone with her thoughts, she wasn’t alone in the backyard - not at all - as both Trinket and Grimoire were outside with her. Grimoire, being that it was currently midday, was soundly asleep beneath the broad leaves of the maple tree, a hard-cover book clasped tightly between his hooves. Rosebug was admittedly less sure of what Trinket was doing, as she had seen him traipsing around the yard collecting up small items with seemingly no greater purpose to his actions. Trotting over to the corner of the yard he was currently sat in, she finally caught sight of what he had been up to. In the space where the edge of the orphanage met the fence, a small divet overflowed with collected rainwater. Floating on the puddle’s surface were the various item Rosebug had seen Trinket collect. Leaves, both broad and slender, blades of grass, twigs, clumps of bark, and seeds were among the items Rosebug could make out, not even accounting for the heavier items that had already sunk into the murky shallows. Trinket himself was starring intently at the strange concoction that laid before him, barley acknowledging Rosebug’s presence.

“What are you doing?” Rosebug asked, taking a seat besides him.

“I’m making a potion!” Trinket responded enthusiastically.

Rosebug tilted her head in confusion, casting a sideways glance at the mud swirled puddle. Trinket, easily picking up on her confusion, clarified.

“Zebras are known for making potions,” Trinket explained, “I don’t know how to make any real ones, but I’m really good at making pretend ones!”

Rosebug chuckled good-naturedly at the foal’s antics, before following Trinket’s gaze back to the all important puddle.

“It’s still missing something, but I’m not sure what,” Trinket added after a beat of silence.

“I can help you look,” Rosebug replied nonchalantly, staring at her warped reflection on the puddle's rippled surface.

“Really!” Trinket got to his hooves in an instant, casting Rosebug an almost cartoonishly wide smile.

“Of course,” Rosebug assured, getting to her hooves as well.

Though neither of them were particularly sure what they were looking for, Rosebug at least had an idea of what she wasn’t. Glossing over the assortment of half buried twigs and dust coated pebbles, Rosebug focused first on the variety of plants that grew amongst the abundant amount of undergrowth. As she admired a particularly interesting cluster of ferns, Rosebug felt the unmistakable, well worn dread of a stare being levied at her back. Turning hesitantly on her hooves, she found Trinket staring almost past her, a contemplative look adorning his features.

“What’s the matter?” Rosebug asked reluctantly, noticeably snapping the foal from his thoughts.

“Your wings look different.” Trinket answered simply.

Rosebug had anticipated a variety of answers, that wasn’t even near one of them. Craning her heck to see, Rosebug realized he was indeed right. Her normally thin, crisp wings seemed noticeably less flimsy, and glinted heavily in the afternoon sun. Fluttering them pensively, she found they even seemed to better support her weigh as she flew

“That’s. . . weird,” Rosebug muttered to herself.

“Is it a changeling thing?” Trinket asked, tilting his head curiously.

Rosebug rubbed the back of her neck uncertainly. “I don’t really know.”

Her admission didn’t seem to concern the foal, as after a few beats of uncertain silence both hybrids returned wordlessly to their aimless searching. Shaking of the last of her lingering concern and confusion, Rosebug’s attention was starkly grabbed by a blue petaled flower tucked amongst the accumulated weeds. Grasping the flower’s delicate stem between her teeth, she trotted over to Trinket, who was pawing determinedly at a rock half-way buried in a clump of dirt.

“Is this what you were looking for?” She asked, her voice muffled around the flower in her maw.

Almost instantly, the foal’s eyes lit up, an excited smile returning to his face.

“That’s perfect!” He yelped delightedly.

Standing now just above the murky pool, Rosebug let the flower gently fall to the water's surface.

“What now?” Rosebug asked, swiveling to better look at Trinket.

“Now we need to stir it.” He replied, “But I don’t have anything to stir with. . .”

The foal’s downtrodden statement was swiftly canceled out when a decently sized stick clattered to the ground beside’s them. Turing to see where the stick had came from, they found Grimoire, slouched against the maple tree’s trunk, casting them a sideways smirk.

“Thanks!” Trinket replied, grabbing up the stick in an instant.

“You’re welcome,” Grimoire replied drowsily, once again curling himself up amongst the soft grass.

Stick grasped firmly in his maw, Trinket thoroughly whisked the contents of the puddle, doing admittedly little more than jostling the water’s contents and bleeding of some of the petal’s color. Trinket however, seemed totally satisfied, dropping the stick in a nook of grass nearby and smiling contentedly.

“What do we do know?” Rosebug asked, settling in among the now dampened grass.

Trinket didn’t respond, instead he simply shrugged as he wiped a few muddied splotches from his pristine coat. Quirking a sly smirk, Rosebug dipped her hoof into the puddle, before flicking a few drops of water at the unsuspecting foal besides her. Staggering and sputtering slightly, the foal’s surprised expression quickly morphed into a matching, mischievous grin. In one abrupt motion, Trinket stomped both fore-hooves into the puddle, drenching both Rosebug and himself. The two held each other’s gaze for an awkward moment before they both began hysterically laughing.

Grimoire raised his head groggily, roused by the sudden increase in noise. Staggering to his hooves, he trudged over to the only other occupied part of the yard, and was all but baffled by what he found. Both Trinket and Rosebug were thoroughly drenched, dotted with leaves or dirt clumps that stuck to them strangely. Finally recovering from their shared laughing fit, they cast each other a quick, playful glance. Almost in unison, they flung the reaming traces of water at Grimoire, who was now fully awake and just as thoroughly wet as they were. Despite his initial look of reproaching displeasure, his demeanor quickly softened, and he too began giggling along a few moments later.

Chocolate Cheer had spent a tranquil, uneventful afternoon preparing lunch for the three foals under her care, making sure to cast the occasional glance out the nearby window to the backyard they were playing in. Having since finished with her lunch preparation, she popped her head out the backdoor to call them inside. It took her a long moment to find them, until she finally spotted the three huddled closely in a corner, laughing uproariously. Upon closer inspection, she could plainly tell they were all absolutely soaked, a thin layer of grim evenly coating Trinket and Grimoire’s fur and Rosebug’s chitin.

“What happened to you three?” Cheer asked, her voice simultaneously chiding and curious.

Trinket and Grimoire traded guilty and embarrassed glances, and Rosebug clawed nervously at the dirt with the tip of her hoof. Cheer’s expression softened as Rosebug finally worked up the nerve to respond.

“It’s a long story. . .”