Where the White Winds Blow
“Well my old friend. It seems you can’t cut me a break today.”
The grey earth pony peered at the tall, sleek white mountain, his voice smooth and conniving. In the thick, wintery blizzard his fedora and scarf blew haphazardly, shivering more than the colt was himself. The snow was deep and harsh, catching itself in his mane and tail, and from its angle clinging to one side of his body.
“I try many times and still you manage to shrug me off. You must think you’re so funny.” The colt chuckled, before allowing his face to grow aggravated. “Oh, but inanimate objects can’t possess a sense of humour can they? All they can be is really annoying.”
The colt removed his hiking saddlebags from his back, turning his back to the wind as he brushed off the caught snow. Within he plucked out a pair of shoes, affixed to ice picks, as well as his blizzard goggles.
“We go through the same routine every time. I believe... fourteen is our current record of separate attempts.” He smirked in memory, placing his goggles over and around his head. He replaced his saddlebags and faced the mountain again, picks attached to his hooves, lowering his hat over his eyes. “But I was so close last time. Success will be mine this time.” He charged at the mountain and thrust his picks into the icy slope, hearing the satisfying crack. He scaled upwards, swing after swing of his picks, making his way up the unstable mountain.
“Just have to remember your tricks. Where was it?” He began to swing once more, but suddenly he halted, eyeing a specific spot of ice. It didn’t seem any different, but the colt’s eyes narrowed on it hatefully. He drew back his pick and swung again, this time away from the spot.
Minutes passed and he reached an outcropping ledge. It was treacherous, covered in a thin, incomplete layer of ice beneath the snow. If one wasn’t careful, a misstep could lead to a rather crippling fall.
“You’ve been a bane of my attempts.” The stallion sneered, removing his ice picks and returning them to his saddlebags. He hopped forward and landed on a clean patch, no underlying ice. He did it again, and again, never slipping. The path ended, the snow thinning and the ice no longer present. All that remained was a cold dirt path, blocked by a loose boulder.
“And you, of course. You are possibly the worst.” The pale stallion eyed the boulder, trying to see around it to the path ahead. He brought his hoof to his chin in thought.
“Let’s see: trot hastily on the left, veer to the middle, walk slow, keep right, sprint for a moment, sharp left, continue at a trot onto safe ground.”
Once he pushed the boulder of the ledge, it crashed hard onto a lower ridge, sending a shockwave up most of the mountain. Many other large rocks overlooking the path wobbled, and tumbled down toward it.
Trotting, the stallion kept to the left of the path, as the rocks and debris fell beside him. He moved slowly to the middle, gently slowing his pace as a boulder landed to his left. Then he hopped to the right, sprinting now along the path before suddenly stopping and turning left, narrowly avoiding being crushed by a tremendous cluster of rocks. He continued forward at a steady pace, as the chaos behind him died down.
He let out a breath of relief, turning to the now impassable ledge. Not a single shred of emotion ever crossed his clean face. He turned and continued ahead, scaling the mountain and getting ever closer to his destination.
“Keep it together Gray. Remember every pointer. Keep quiet, and do not take from the front.”
The path was long, but it was free of obstacles. Gray allowed himself a time out, walking at a sluggish pace to catch his breath. He was preparing himself for what was coming. He was completely oblivious to the cold, as the wind and snow blew him against the wall. He was shivering clearly, but he trundled forward. The blizzard seemed to dim as he ascended.
The slope reached an end, connecting with the final ledge near the mountain’s summit, home to a massive alcove. Gray approached slowly and cautiously, his eyes darting about the dark interior of the cave. A light trail of black smog etched its way to the peak from the cave, being carried off by the wind.
Gray smiled as he slunk into the cavern, licking his lips for what he knew he would find. Gems; hordes and hordes of diamonds and emeralds and pearls, all mounded into a giant pile. It was beautiful. Everywhere shone magnificently in what little light reached it. Even the pale, colourless pony was ever brighter as he looked upon the fruits of his labour.
A loud huff was heard from the humungous pile. Gray peered at the large red figure laying on top- a sleeping dragon. Getting his bearings, he snuck to the right of the gems, approaching them.
As he picked a single diamond from the pile’s base, he cradled it lovingly and greedily before placing it in his saddlebags. He picked up an emerald, repeating the affection shortly, and placed it away. Gem by gem he took, wasting no time after the fifth or sixth in gathering as many as his bags could handle. They were bulging, their contents just barely unnoticeable.
Gray lay flat, judging the content of his bags and contemplating his escape. As he moved to leave, his eyes were repeatedly dragged back to the still looming pile of treasure. It beckoned him, kept him from leaving. He tried to push past it. He tried.
“Just one more never hurt anypony...”
The greedy stallion crept hastily back to the mound, scanning for any diamonds. He saw one, a little ways from the base, but not too far up to be too risky. He climbed carefully, reaching a hoof for the cyan riches, and yanked it from its spot.
Perhaps he should’ve seen it coming, the irony. Of all the gems that could’ve been the be all and end all of his success, it had to be the one he picked. It was that gem which held up the others; the one wonder string in the knot of many others which, if removed, untangled the entire cluster.
It tumbled, burying the startled colt in a tidal wave of sharp, solid glass, and it hurt. It really hurt. The avalanche ceased only a few seconds later, leaving Gray dazed, battered, and cut open like a frog being dissected in a biology lab. His broken goggles revealed one healthy, one blood-flooded eye, and two legs appeared broken, the others covered in deep wounds.
If the pain he felt was reminiscent of being burned alive, then he would have no trouble becoming accustomed with the fate he was about to befall.
Through blurry vision he saw, to his terror, a large lumbering red mass. It was facing him, glaring with its golden eyes and snarling. It was drawing back, getting a good long intake of breath, ready to turn the greedy thief into crisp pudding.
“So close...” Was all he managed, shutting his good eye and lowering his head dismally. In a bright flash of orange, yellow and red, the dragon enacted the final blow.
Darkness remained for some time in the eyes of Gray. He could feel motion; familiar yet unnatural motion. It wasn’t darkness he saw, but instead light just leaving his eyes and rendering him without an image to process. He was chilled to the bone, as if standing once again in the cold blizzard he spent so long trudging through. Then, and only then, did he open his eyes.
White as far as the eye could see. The blizzard was once again billowing against his side, making him shiver. He saw the tall imposing mountain he had so recently climbed, and the knowledge of his fate only made him feel colder.
He looked at his own body. All traces of injury were missing, replaced with a very clean and healthy appearance. His goggles were missing, though upon further inspection they had returned to his bags, completely undamaged. The gems, however, were not with them.
Gray sighed, tired but more annoyed than anything else. He looked up at the mountain briefly, then turned and placed his saddlebags down. His back was to the wind as he took out his ice picks and goggles.
“Attempt fifteen, I believe we’re on.” He muttered to himself, silently cursing the mountain.
“Remember Gray Clock. Keep quiet, don’t take from the front, and only take from the base.” He turned to the mountain, charging and striking his pick into the icy slope, as he began to ascend once again toward his ultimate goal.