#also I know a lot more about pitcher plants than I did before writing this post | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ask-de-writer · 5 years ago

Text

HICCUPS! : MLP Fan Fiction : A Grumpy Goat >tail<

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Return to The Annals of Grumpy Goat

HICCUPS!

A Grumpy Goat >tail<

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Cover art by @wind-the-mama-cat

16440 words

Writing begun 11/30/18

//////////////

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

Characters:

Grumpy Goat and usual cast

Thomas/and/or/Dashie Writer – remote controlled T82

Wind, the Mama Cat

Victor Mordenheim - Mad Doctor

Krystal Dragoness “KD” Wingless dragon - artist

Fume Hood Unicorn, a bit small-Forensic Chemist

Jinni and Sassy vampire and succubus

~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

It was being a quiet day out on the ledge in front of my cave. We were sitting on a bench, out in the sun, rereading Daring Do and the Secret of the Appleoosa Cave. The stout iron sheeting that blocked the entrance to my cave was warm behind us.

The lovely Coalsmoke, a pony of perfect glossy black except for her cutie mark, was leaning over where my shoulder would be, if I still had a body, or for that matter was even technically alive. She was admiring one of the illustrations in the book.

“I especially like these illustrations signed KD, Grumpy. They capture the mood and action really well.”

Sitting on my other side was the finely polished skeleton of an alicorn. He was the Litch King, Lord of the Dead, the being responsible for my present condition and now one of my few true friends.

He agreed, “Look at how well the artist has made the cave entrance look menacing. Whoever did this is very good.”

We were distracted from our pleasant reading by a flare of flame down on the trail leading up to my cave. Looking down the way, I was more or less expecting it to be the torches of another anti goat mob or, more specifically anti Grumpy Goat mob.

Due to my business, I am less than popular with some ponies. I have a thriving practice in Non Equine Magic. Mostly, it does not appear to do anything. Somehow, the desired, contracted for and paid in advance results just seem to happen by perfectly natural, if often bizarre means. Most of the time, those results are the advantage over, injury, death or ruin of some pony, paid for as mentioned, IN ADVANCE, by some other pony.

This time, it was not a mob. There was a wingless blue dragon toiling up the stony path to my cave. The next time that she flared, we could hear it. It sounded like she was suffering from a case of hiccups! Possibly not the best ailment for a dragon to have, since she was burping a smallish fire blast with each hiccup!

When she gained the ledge, she considerately turned her head out away from us. Good thing, too! She had two hiccups in quick succession!

She offered, “My name is Krystal Dragoness, KD for short. I've come to you about these hiccups. They are like to ruin me. I am at my wit's end. See, I am an artist. I draw and paint. I get going on a piece and these hiccups start up! One of them is sure to hit my work, and, well, paper, paints, canvas and frames are all pretty flammable! I've even burned up brushes!

“Can you help me to end these hiccups?”

I nodded, making my skull, apparently floating on nothing, with its everburning candle between the horns, glowing snake like eyes and fangs bob. “I could do that, yes. It would not cure the basic problem, though. Hiccups usually have a natural cause from tummy and lungs not coordinating right. If I fix this case, it could easily happen again.

“Let's dig into how this started and whether there is some underlaying cause that we can fix.”

Somewhat disappointed, Krystal nodded. “That makes sense. My first case of the hiccups like this happened at my one dragon show in the Sunrise Gallery in Manehatten. You know how those things are, lots of nobs that you need to chat with and lots of small snacks and drinks. The show itself was a pretty important one.

“I landed a contract to illustrate the next Daring Do book. There was some serious competition for that contract, let me tell you. It nearly went to Drawin Pitcher. She wasn't too happy about me getting to do the art for another Daring Do book. This one will be my fourth.

“I had only just signed the contract when the hiccups started. The first one nearly incinerated my new contract! I was able to get out of the gallery safely when they began. I was lucky that I didn't hurt anypony or any of my art.”

She absently pulled a sparkly topped muffin out of a bag and began munching it. Looking up, a bit embarrassed, she pointed out, “I really can't share dragon muffins with you. They are topped with crushed gems and have gold or silver dust in the muffin part. I'm afraid that they are pretty toxic to non dragons.”

Coalsmoke asked curiously, “Where did you get them? No place in Ponyville makes them at all. Sometimes the kitchen in Princess Twilight's castle makes up some for Spike but they never sell them.”

Krystal knit her brows in puzzlement. “I get them out of this bag. I always like have them when I am a little tense, like when I am concentrating on my art. Nibbling helps me to focus.”

Just then, she let out another small belch of fire.

Whistling softly, I thought carefully about what I had heard. “Tell me, Krystal, at the art show, did you have muffins like these?”

“Well, yes. Any well equipped bakery can make them. They just have to clean up carefully afterwards. They always serve them if I am going to be showing any of my works.”

I nodded and looked over at the lovely Coalsmoke, who is always a treat for the ol' eyeballs and asked, “And where have you bought them since that art show in Manehatten?”

She paused, thinking. “I haven't had to. This bag always has some in it.”

The eyes that I don't really have widened just a bit. “It always has some of those muffins in it for you? When did you get that bag?”

She scratched behind the spines along the back of her jaw as she sorted it out. “I first noticed it just after I left the gallery at the show where I got those first hiccups. It's always there when I am tense.”

I glamored my invisible spirit body to look like the handsome tan, black and brown goat that I was before the tiny mistake that killed me and destroyed my original body. Holding out a hoof, I said, “Just give me the bag, please. I am going to try something simple with it.”

Nodding affably, Krystal handed me the bag. I took it inside my cave and shut the iron door. That door and my cave front were designed by a good firm of military engineers to withstand an Equestrian standard military battering ram.

It only takes one anti-goat mob burning your house, your library, years of study, hopes for a degree and dreams of well paying work to make one take a few simple precautions. Add the mob trying to stone your burned and battered body to death to drive home the lesson in how how to hate most ponies. That trivial incident also motivated my simple and sensible precautions against a repeat of the problem. Like living in a cave. With a military fortress grade steel and iron entrance.

I turned about from sealing the door and asked Krystal if she was still feeling tense. Digging into the bag for a muffin, she replied, “Yes, a little. Why?”

The Litch King pointed with a foreleg of bone. “That is why. He just shut that bag inside his cave and it looks like you have it back.”

He turned his skeletal head to me and stated, “Grumpy, if you can, we NEED to help KD. Her illustrations really make a Daring Do book! Plus, we know now that a new one is in the works! We can't let anything interfere with THAT!”

I shrugged and opened the door. I was not even surprised that the bag was not there inside my cave any longer. Krystal munched her muffin and shortly hiccuped another tongue of flame.

I pointed out, “That bag was behind six centimeters of forged iron. In spite of that, it homed in on you without seeming effort. Moments after you nibbled that muffin, you hiccuped another flame. I suspect that there is a direct connection. To be sure, we need to go back down into Ponyville. I know someone in the forensic chemistry lab at the police department. In the meantime, try not to nibble another muffin and let us see if that helps to control or stop the problem.”

On the trail back down to Ponyville, Coalsmoke and I tried to simply hold the bag instead of letting Krystal carry it. This wise measure proved impossible. The bag kept sneakily returning to her claws. After what happened up on the ledge in front of my cave, that was pretty much what was expected.

I have to admit that I was pleased by the simple fact that Krystal did keep her claws out of the bag. We got down the trail and into Ponyville without incident as a result.

Instead of my usual turning towards the town hall and the Hall of Records, to record a new contract, I trotted right on, with a right turn, headed towards the Ponyville Waste Treatment Plant and Falmire Marsh, which is fenced and actually the final stage of the waste water treatment, before it goes into the river.

Coalsmoke was most interested in why we were going where we were going. Soon enough, we came to a modest stone building close by to the treatment plant. The sign said,

Ponyville Police Department

Forensics Laboratory

Chemistry, Physical Evidence Analysis,

Forensic Autopsy

As I pushed open the front door, I explained, “I know most of the staff here. Sometimes they will consult with me, when a case is being a pain.”

Coalsmoke chuckled, “How often is one of their nasty cases the result of one of your contracts, Grumpy?”

A smallish unicorn looked up from where he was working at a desk, apparently compiling a report. “Not really all that often, Miss Coalsmoke. Even when it is, there is no actual evidence that can link the contract to the results. Grumpy is often a big help in sorting out how something that we are investigating happened. We pay him a proper consultation fee, of course.”

I introduced, “Coalsmoke, KD, I would like you to meet Fume Hood, one of the best forensic chemists in the whole kingdom. We are lucky to have him here in Ponyville.”

KD offered, “You have some unusual friends, Grumpy.”

I chortled, “If they aren't unusual in some way, the aren't worth having as friends.”

Turning my attention to Fume Hood, I explained what our situation was in a few words and ended with, “Think that you could do us a rough analysis of one of KD's dragon muffins?”

He thought for a moment, tapping quietly on his desk top before nodding, “You say that the flame is mostly pale blue? Nearly transparent but pretty hot?”

KD shook her head in agreement. “Right. That is, unless I eat something with salt in it. Then the flame is yellow. Is that significant?”

Fume Hood said, “It MAY be. I would like to see both your normal flame and one from your hiccups. Please step over there. Dragon flame can be pretty handy for some chemistry tests, so we have a small indoor flame range.”

KD stepped over to the flame range's head rest. Fume Hood lowered the room lights and suggested, “Whenever you are ready, Miss KD. Just give us a small shot of your regular flame.”

KD's fire blast was impressively different from a hiccup flame. It was a bright yellow with some red to the center and flame tips that went to a bluish hue.

Fume Hood almost danced pleasure at seeing it! Perfect! Normal dragon fire. Now, let's see what we get with one of those muffins. Go ahead and take one from the bag and eat it.”

He was watching the bag very closely as KD extracted the muffin. “Fascinating. There is only one muffin in the bag until you take it out. Then a new muffin forms almost immediately afterwards.”

KD contentedly munched her muffin. Within moments, she stuck her head into the flame range headrest and belched a nearly pure, pale blue flame.

Fume Hood smiled in chemistly joy. “Timing and color nail it! You were right, Grumpy. There is a direct connection between the muffins and KD's hiccups of flame. The only reason that she flames at all with them is that, being a dragon, she has a natural ignition spark every time she exhales or belches. Whatever this vapor she is belching is, it is highly flammable.”

KD's shoulders slumped. “Does that mean that I can't have Dragon Muffins anymore?”

Fume Hood chuckled as he replied, “I suspect that you can have all that you want. Just not these, from this bag.”

He went to pull one out. Looking perplexed, he tried again. “Humm . . . I can't seem get that muffin out of the bag. KD, will you get it please? I need to analyze it.”

Without any problem, KD extracted the muffin. Fume Hood took it and sliced it in half. One half he put into a beaker with a lye solution. It began to dissolve at once. Soon there was only some slightly coarse granules mixed with loose sparkly fragments of gemstones in the bottom of the beaker.

Fume Hood filtered out the solid residue and rinsed it with water. Stirring it with a glass rod, he explained, “The lye took away everything but the gems in the topping and the metal dusts in the body of the muffin. Now, lets see what happens next . . .”

He dripped some acid onto the residue. “Gems, gold, and silver won't dissolve in this mild acid.”

In spite of that, something was happening! It bubbled and fumed something fierce! Happily touching it off with a sparking wand used to light his lab burners, Fume Hood pointed dramatically!

“There! You see? Pale blue flame! See the white residue? Zinc oxide. Your muffins are adulterated with zinc! It reacts with your stomach acids to make hydrogen and that is what, along with a bit of moisture and such that it picks up as you burp is what makes your so called hiccups! Just don't eat any muffins from that bag and you should be fine.”

He turned to me and snickered, “OK, Grumpy. We are even now.”

I turned to the perplexed KD and Coalsmoke. “They needed an autopsy done last year. The cadaver was over a week old, in August. I glamored up a form with no sense of smell and did it for them. Death was from blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Clubbed, to be crude about it.”

KD brightened up and commented, “If they get that sort of thing to deal with, it is no wonder that this place is beside the waste treatment plant!”

I agreed, “Right! Now all that we need to do is sort out how you got a bag that can do what this one does.”

KD put a finger to her cheek as she thought. “I do know where I got it. It was at that Manehatten art show that I told you about. The Dragon Treats that they serve at those things are always kept separate from the pony treats by putting them in bags. Somepony gave me this bag with a muffin in it, just before I signed that Daring Do contract.”

Fume Hood tapped me on my nonexistent shoulder and pointed to the bottom of the bag. There was a small trade mark in the form of a silhouette. There was a small bit of advertising too.

KD read, “Redline Party Supplies – For a party to remember for the rest of your life – If you survive!” She also pointed out, “That silhouette looks like a laughing wolf's head.”

Fume Hood agreed, “It does look like that, doesn't it? I know of someone who uses a silhouette like that on their business cards. Here.” He hoofed over a card.

The card read:

Doctor Mordenheim,

General Surgery and Prosthesis.

Everfree Edge Clinic

Practice inspected and approved by Princess Luna

I was delighted! “I know where that is! It was a small old castle that was supposedly built by a -” I made my voice low and shivery while making Hoof Quotes, “- 'Mad Doctor' long before Ponyville was established. It was in ruins when the Apples came and founded the town.”

Coalsmoke smiled and said, “Right, Grumpy. I know where it is too. I send my workers there for general health workups and surgery when it is needed. Doctor Mordenheim really is very good. It is not far from here, either. Let's go see if he can shed any light on this business.”

We left, taking the Falmire Causeway that crossed the marsh, going out towards the southeast side of the Everfree forest. We paused by a street vendor's cart to watch the antics of her trained alligator.

Have to admit that Pinkie has done a great job of training Gummy! I mean, he is two and a half meters of fun! Rumor has it that she has broken him to saddle, but she was not offering rides today.

“Gator Chow, gator chow! / The gators below are hungry now! / Feed the gators down below / It is really quite a show!”

A chuckling Coalsmoke hoofed over coins and got a big bag filled with large chunks. It said “Certified Gator Chow” on the label. She shared the chunks around and we spent a few happy minutes tossing them to the many alligators gathered hopefully under the bridge.

There were splashes and chomping a-plenty as the gators lunged about for each new chunk of the chow. We heard a munching from behind us.

KD, swallowing, asked Pinkie, “Where can I get some more of this stuff? It is pretty good!”

At our stares, she retorted, “What? Dragon here, remember? I don't eat grass!”

We left Pinkie to her vending and went on across. It was not long before we saw the sign pointing to the forest beyond. It said, Everfree Edge Clinic, General Medicine and Prosthetics.

Only a little way up the designated path of yellow cobbles, we came to a small but well restored castle. I had to give this Doctor Mordenheim credit for showmanship. This was one classy clinic. The sign over an open door read Welcome to Everfree Edge Clinic.

Coalsmoke rang a bell labeled Ring for Service that sat on a beautiful mahogany desk in the lobby/waiting room.

We did not even get to try out the assorted seating and laying cushions. A large, near horse sized zebra with an eye patch came out of the back. His professional smile turned to a genuine one as he laid eye on Coalsmoke.

“My dear Coalsmoke! What may I do for you, or is it for one of your friends?”

Suddenly stopping like he'd hit one of his stone castle walls, he gave me a careful and most knowing look. “I do fear that the goat is beyond any help of mine.”

Coalsmoke smirked just a little as she replied, “You are correct. This is Grumpy Goat, my long standing friend, of whom I am sure that you have heard. We are not here for him.

“This is Krystal Dragoness. She prefers to be called KD. Our problem is sort of related to her, but it is not medical.”

Resting his chin on one forehoof, as he sat behind the desk, Doctor Mordenheim inquired, “If the problem is not medical, then what is it?”

I held out a hoof, “KD, may I have the bag please?”

I showed him the bottom. “Somepony named Redline is using your cutie mark on his things. It has some interesting properties.”

Mordenheim put his face in his hooves. “I know. I see that KD has it. She can't lose it either. Whatever is in it, seems like an endless supply. I made it, years ago. How it got here to this world, I have no idea.”

He was sort of surprised when we all simply found seating and Coalsmoke asked casually, “So, how did you get here? More to the point, when you arrived, did you meet an elderly blue unicorn with a white mane, tail, and beard?”

Mordenheim looked blank. “What? No, I never met anypony like that.”

He got a seriously uncomfortable expression as he elaborated, “I would really prefer not to go into why I wound up here. Princess Luna knows in detail. Suffice it to say that the events led me to wandering in the Everfree Forest. I have no idea at all how it happened, since the Everfree is not all that big, but I was in there for over a week. Perhaps more, I am not at all sure. What I am sure of is that the path that I was on did not seem to double back on itself or any thing like that. Between sun breaks in the forest canopy and the scenery, I am sure that I was not going in circles.

“I happened on the ruin of this old castle. I might have simply passed it by but it had a small cobbled road leading to it from outside of the forest. I followed that road and it led me to Ponyville.” He shook his head in wonder, “It was a very different Ponyville than the one that I left. By good fortune, I met Caramel Treat, Fangrin and Reverend Smallflower. The rest all came from meeting them.”

I pointed out, “Fascinating as that is, it completely dodges the question of that bag and its neverending supply of adulterated Dragon Muffins.”

One of Doctor Mordenheim's ears cocked up in fascination. “Adulterated? How?”

Coalsmoke filled in, “With lots of zinc metal dust, that's how.”

Doctor Mordenheim winced, “Ouch! That would make mountains of hydrogen gas! That could cause a serious problem for a dragon!”

KD confirmed, “It sure does! The hiccups that it causes have been near the ruin of my art.”

Suddenly you could see things clicking together in Doctor Mordenheim's mind! “KD? Art? Did you do the covers and illustrations for Daring Do and the Secret of the Apploosa Cave? The Adventure of the Singing Sands? The Nippony Diamond?”

KD nodded, clearly pleased. “All three! Why?”

Acting like a foal as he was going to his book shelf, Mordenheim snagged all three books and returned to his desk. “I love your art, KD, would you please autograph these for me?”

With an impishly evil grin, displaying her big dragon chompers, KD replied, “Sure!” She was reaching into the bag. “Just as soon as I snack on this muffin! Or, you make this bag harmless!”

Grinning right back, and revealing a set of fangs that would not have been out of place in a tiger shark, Mordenheim replied, hoof over heart, “You wound me! I was going to do that anyway. You did not need blackmail me. It did make it more fun, though!”

KD chuckled as she said, “I would not really have done it, Doc. It was just too much fun to pass up the chance. So, tell us, why did you make a bag like this?”

Reassured that we did not hold his apparent past against him, he sat back comfortably and half smiled at the memory. “Revenge. Count Sourbottom was being a problem, objecting to some of my experi . . . projects. He had a whole herd of foals of all ages. One of the youngsters had a birthday party coming up. I set up one of these for each of them! Loaded them with the finest, sweetest candies that I could locate. It was a near perfect revenge.”

Always interested in more ways to get back at ponykind for their mistreatment of me in the past, I asked, “How was giving his foals candy any sort of revenge?”

Suddenly, Coalsmoke put a hoof to her lips to suppress giggles. “Don't you see it, Grumpy? He couldn't take them away for discipline because the bags will go right back to the foals. Worse, the endless supply of sweets could cause all sorts of health and mouth problems that the Count would have to pay for!”

Mordenheim nodded happy agreement. “Last that I heard, Count Sourbottom was headed for bankruptcy on dental bills alone!”

Going more serious, he offered, “KD, we may be able to save the gem topping of your muffins if we are lucky. Would you like that?”

KD replied seriously, “That would be great, if we can do it. I really like their flavor, especially the crushed rubies. How can we do it?”

Doctor Mordenheim picked up the bag and headed for the outside door. Over his shoulder, he invited, “Come outside for a simple little experiment. We can save the gems themselves for sure. Question is whether we can save the topping that they are in or not.”

He pointed down the yellow cobble road leading to his door. “Now, my dear, take a muffin out of the bag but don't eat it.”

Mystified, she hoofed over the muffin. “I understand why I have to get it out, but why not eat it? What are we going to do with it?”

With total assurance, Doctor Mordenheim replied, “You are going to eat it but in parts. Here, let me scrape off the topping.” Carefully he removed the topping, taking none of the muffin itself. “Just eat the topping. I will hold the muffin for now.”

With obvious relish, KD did. Licking it off her claws, she asked, “What now? I like this test!”

“We wait a bit to see if you get gas. If you don't, the zinc is only in the muffin part.”

KD cocked her head, brow wrinkled in concentration. “I don't feel any gas coming on. That usually happens pretty quick when it does.”

“I see. To finish the test, eat the rest of the muffin now.”

She did. And was soon hiccuping blasts of flame.

Nodding in confirmation, he said, “Just in the muffin then. We can definitely save the topping for you. Would you like just this topping or would you prefer it on something?”

“As it happens, I do have something that it might go good on.”

Back inside, she produced a bag. We all saw Mordenheim's nose dilate as he caught the scent. His ears shot forward in interest. Drool leaked out of the corner of his mouth!

“What is that lovely smelling stuff, KD?”

“Gator Chow. I got it from Pinkie Pie over on the bridge. She told me that it is made from smoked and flaked meat pressed into bite sized chunks.”

Both Coalsmoke and I were rolling on the floor, laughing! Getting myself somewhat under control, I commented, “Those teeth of yours are real, aren't they, Doc?”

“Yes, they are. Is it a problem?”

Coalsmoke, composing herself comfortably on a large cushion, replied, “Not for us. It was just unexpected. Looks like Pinkie is going to have to stock in more Gator Chow, is all.

“This explains why Caramel has mentioned you eating there a lot but I haven't seen you, and I eat there too. You eat in the back, in her carnivore plaza.”

“Right. Now, KD, those Gator Chow chunks are just about muffin sized. That is about as big as the bag can handle. It is time to disarm the bag from those bad muffins.”

He got a large, heavy book from the shelf. Instead of consulting it, he held it at the ready.

“Now, KD, take the muffin out and move your paws away from the bag swiftly.”

As she did, he slammed the book down on top of the bag! He held it down for around a whole minute. Relaxing, he pronounced, the spell is reset. It can now be reloaded and set to anyone. Just a sec.”

He went into the back and returned with salad tongs and a spreading knife. Selecting one of KD's chow chunks, he carefully and neatly spread the gem topping onto it. Taking the tongs, he used them to insert the topped chow chunk into the bag.

“Now, KD, just reach into the bag and take out the snack. That will reset the bag to you with a safe treat. You also now know how to change treats any time that you want.”

Saying, “Thanks, Doc!” KD fished out the treat and nibbled it down with gusto!

I was watching the whole thing with narrowed eyes that I don't really have. Thinking it over, I pointed out, “KD, whoever set you up was at the show in Manehatten. The way it works, that spell didn't lock onto you until you took out that first muffin.

“It may be time for a contract or a bit of detective work in Manehatten. Perhaps both.”

Thoughtfully she suggested, “There is another big art show in Manehatten in a few days. I do have a studio there with some finished pieces that I could enter if I could get there in time. That would give us the cover that we need for detective work if we can arrive in time.”

I suggested, “If time is a problem, I could try setting up a portal between here and the Manehatten fairgrounds. It has been a while since I studied that but it is really pretty simple magic.”

We all trooped outside and I began the really pretty basic preparations for opening a portal spell. I did add a whole lot of “stage dressing” rituals, circles and other misdirection. I always do. Better showmanship and it hides what makes it work from prying eyes, even if they are watching.

A glowing circle appeared in the air, just in front of us and barely touching the ground. Suddenly it began to grow, becoming a huge oval. Something enormous, making a steady pulsing roar and clanking like metal was coming toward us!

First, pretty high up, came a sort of short crossways tube with a hole in it on the side facing us. The thing continued to advance. That funny bit was attached to a long metal tube! Down lower, some big metal plates appeared and then between them an enormous bridge of metal. Huge wheels of steel supported endless linked plates of more steel!

As the contraption came on out, it was revealed to be a gigantic machine of some sort! It had sloped sides up to a heavy device on top that the long tube came out of. That had sloped sides too, as if this thing were made to bounce catapult shots off of it! There were some serious dents and obvious repairs that made it seem that those slopes were strictly functional!

Sticking her head up out of a hatch in the top was a pony who looked for all the world like Rainbow Dash! Reinforcing that idea was a brown pegasus with a black mane and tail clinging to the rear of the machine and calling out loudly enough to be heard over the machine's roar!

“Dashie! Stop! You going to smash through garden wall again! You crush Jade's herb garden again! You so grounded!”

Dashie retorted, “I not hit wall, dad! Big blue hole show up. I drive through that! Besides, last time I drive through Jade's herb garden, I fix it better than before. She ask me to squash it again!”

“And one more thing! Dashie, you make me good hot tea or you so grounded you need dig up for thousand year to see daylight!”

Innocently she shot back, “If I that grounded, I make you nice tea that De Writer send for me to get you! It his idea to get it with remote control T82 Main Battle Tank! If I NOT grounded, I MIGHT be able to find you nice green tea that he never touch!”

The brown pegasus sat hard. “De Writer ask you to use Remote Control T82 IN CANTERLOT for that tea? You not so grounded as I thought.”

The one identified as Dashie noticed us from her vantage point, high up in the top part of the T82. She picked up a small boxy thing with buttons and levers and pushed one of the buttons. The T82's loud grumbling fell quiet.

“Um, Dad, we come through portal, I think. You not teach me that magic yet. There ponies here and a dragon. Come around T82 and you see. There small castle here too.”

The brown pegasus stepped around the metal monster and courteously introduced, “I Thomas the Writer. Miscreant who drive T82 through your portal my daughter Dashie Writer. T82 is educational toy give her by De Writer.”

Mordenheim looked up at the behemoth of steel and remarked, “Where you are from has different ideas about educational toys than any place I have ever been.”

Dashie replied, “It crazy where we from too, but what you expect from powerful wizard like De Writer? Something safe? He good to have on your side when trouble come, though.”

She turned about and exclaimed, “The portal gone!”

It was true. Standing where it had been was a familiar cat otter hybrid with red hair. She was wearing a well worn cloak of dark green and light seeming chain mail. Mithril by the look of it. Her left arm was a prosthesis, a mechanical arm of metal that moved in an utterly natural way. Under the cloak was the scabbard of a large sword. In her mechanical hand was a parchment that looked like a map of some sort.

She tucked away the map in a pouch at her waist and looked about, her gaze missing nothing. Smiling, she waived! “Hi, Grumpy! It's me, Wind! We met at Ponyville Fair, remember? I am part of Marchhare's band of Rom. I was going to meet them at Haymarket fair, up north, but this out of control portal got in the way. I took the liberty of closing it.”

Thomas gave Wind a strangely puzzled look. “This world with Marchhare in it?”

She shrugged, “I wouldn't be going to meet him and his band if it wasn't! Why?”

Speaking to Dashie, Thomas said, “This important lesson, Dashie. How many worlds in multiverse?”

She replied, “Infinite. Everyone and thing have infinite copies, each a little different.” Raising her eyebrows in thought, she added, “This a trick question, isn't it, Dad?”

“Sort of. You very quick. Every rule have exception, right?”

Putting hoof to chin, she thought and then went wide eyed with realization! “Every rule have exception, even that rule!”

Thomas lifted his wings in pleasure. “Right! This ONLY world in whole multiverse that have Marchhare! That is secret to navigation when go between worlds.”

Dashie blinked. “What happen when he dies?”

“Nothing, Dashie. Marchhare already dead. Not die twice.”

We were all listening in amazement. It was newcomer Wind who said, “That is sort of a relief. That there is only one of my foster dad, I mean. I have met some of myself and it was not the best of experiences!”

She put her jaw in her metal hand and examined the whole situation carefully. Turning to me she asked, “Did you cast the portal, Grumpy?”

Scraping the grass where I was standing with one nonexistent forehoof and looking down, I muttered, “Afraid so. Portals are not really my specialty. I guess that I really messed this one up.”

Wind stepped over and lifted my glamor's head to look me in the eye. “I am an expert with portals. That one was really well done. It would have worked perfectly if you had not cast it here. The Everfree's Hidden Ways are what messed you up.

“Now, where were you trying to go?”

KD interjected, “We were aiming for the fairgrounds at Manehatten by the Sea.”

Wind nodded in a very take charge sort of way. “I see. That is about 6 or 7 hundred kilometers from here.”

Leaning casually up against the iron monster called T82, Wind asked, “Does this thing have personnel and cargo railings and how fast is it, uh, Dashie?”

Dashie brightened up as she replied, “It sure does have safety railings! I use them when I give Mia and Becky rides. It can go as far as you want. Out in the open, it can hit 100 kilometers an hour! How did you know about that?”

Wind gave a delicate shudder, “I have adventured on a few worlds where similar machines were used. I saw the passenger railings on some of them.”

Wind smiled ingratiatingly at Thomas. “Would you be willing to let Dashie take us all on an Adventure to Manehatten by the Sea? It will get these nice beings where they need to go and be fun for us all. From there, I can easily send you both back home.”

Dashie had hopped out of the top of the T82 and began releasing catches and lifting up metal railings. They clicked as they locked into place. When she was done, she lowered a set of steep metal stairs to climb up onto the back of her “educational toy.”

Thomas watched with a skeptical lift to his right eyebrow. “I not say we go, Dashie.”

She looked him straight back in the eye as she retorted, in front of us all, “Right. All that you have to do is tell our hosts that you won't do something simple and fun to help them.”

“That blackmail, Dashie!”

“Right. Between you and our De Writer, I learn from the best!”

He chuckled, “OK. We do it.”

Wind swung easily up the boarding stair and called, “All aboard for the Manehatten Express!”

KD swarmed up, found the engine vents, and curled up with a “Dibs on the warm spot!”

Coalsmoke gently pushed me toward the enormous device with, “I would love to go too, Grumpy, but I have serious business to talk over with Victor. The Princesses want to set up a program for helping wounded veterans of their armies.”

Dashie started the T82 and made a big turn. Wind guiding her, we set out for Adventure! And Manehatten.

Technically, we took Doctor Mordenheim's path down to the Falmire cutoff and turned south towards the junction with Royal Road 315. For some reason, the busy traffic of Ponyville's industrial district gave way before us, even when it had the right of way! Couldn't imagine why! Surely it had nothing to do with fifty or more tonnes of steel monstrosity charging along at a “mere” twenty kilometers per hour.

We reached the Royal Road toll booth without incident. Almost had an incident there. The poor booth keepers were going nuts trying to sort out the proper toll.

Pages were fluttering back and forth in their toll manuals, “It ain't a cart or wagon from any section! Darn thing is made out of iron like a fool locomotive on the railroad!”

“I know, Jeb! Can't even classify it by team size or set up! It runs itself!”

Wind was sitting on the edge of the turret, which Dashie had taught us was the name for that upper part with the long pipe sticking out of it, and giggling at the small uproar.

“When Marchhare hears about this, he will split his harness, he will laugh so hard!”

One of the toll collectors looked up at her and got a beatific smile. “You are Wind, from Marchhare's band of Rom, right? I saw you at our fair a couple of times.”

She nodded acknowledgment, “Yes, Sir. I am.”

He turned to his buddy and pushed the manuals shut. “Just write Rom from Marchhare's band, toll free by Crowns Law.”

Jeb did write, though he was still trying to protest. His superior shut him down with, “Jeb, like enough you are right. Still, it solves OUR problem.” He tripped the gate mechanism and the flimsy red and white painted wooden bar lifted up out of our way.

We pulled onto the Royal Road. Besides less traffic, it was wider and better maintained than the Ponyville road we had come from. Dashie began to open up the speed once we had clear road ahead of us. I must say, I was impressed. Dashie was not kidding about hitting a hundred kilometers an hour!

The T82 was fast and high enough that we had to duck shade tree branches! A delighted KD had her sketchbook out and was rapidly drawing things from her high perspective!

Chortling, she explained, “Even as roughs, some of these will adapt to pictures for my book contract! This is great!”

Wind steered us into one of the many waysides, making Dashie slow down and drive gently as we parked for the evening. With assurance, she showed us where the free water and firewood were.

With a fond smile, Wind recalled, “I have camped here before, while traveling with Dad's band. There is a small stream over in the bushes that we can get fresh fish and crawdads out of for a nice dinner.”

KD had out an easel and was busily drawing with colors. She was doing the T82 framed by a sunset of riotous clouds and glowing light.

She asked politely, “Wind, would you be so good as to pose there, just below the turret? I want your metal arm just casually holding something and your sword out in your right hand, ready but not on a guard.”

Wind did pose. It really did not take KD long at all to capture the feeling of the scene. The way that Wind was posing, it looked for all the world like she OWNED the metal monster behind her!

Done posing, Wind stretched and began doing limbering up exercises. With an expression of delight, and without even thinking about it, Wind began to dance and sing in a language strange to all of us. I did recognize it from my times at the Ponyville fair, serving mainly as security for Caramel Treat's excellent food booth. The language was Gyptian, the sort of private and held secret, nearly melodious tongue of the Rom. I did recognize the dance.

She was treating us to the Shehan Ja Rom, their story of how the Rom came to be. I gather that it is the oldest dance and song of the Rom. As her dance and song finished, I remembered that the Rom did not clap for applause. I leaned my head back and gave the loud trill that the Rom use.

Wind looked sort of startled as the others followed suit. Embarrassed, she mumbled, “Sorry. It was just the joy of being on the road again.”

It was KD who said it, “Don't be sorry. It was lovely. Is there an Equestrian translation?”

I put in, “I know that there is. That was the famous Shehan Ja Rom. The Rom traditionally dance and sing it in an Equestrian version to open fairs. What I am curious about is how Wind, who is nothing like any horse or pony, came to be a Rom and of Marchhare's band at that.”

Wind sat near the fire and absently began to assemble vegetable skewers for Dashie, Thomas and I. “I made a little mistake while adventuring. I survived it, obviously. Mama Dragon fixed me up and sent me here, to this Equestria to finish healing and recuperate. De Writer met me and steered me to Marchhare's band.

“Good thing, too. One of my wounds developed a small inflammation that could have killed me. Black Lotus, Marchhare and Hoof Dancer, his wife at the time, healed me. Mama Dragon was wise in sending me to them for a month. I had more than physical wounds to heal. I joined them and learned to read, write and speak Gyptian. Having a real caring and extended family provided the rest of the healing that I needed. Now, I have my Freedom and I can come and go as I wish, but my Rom family is always there for me.”

I could tell that there was a lot left out but Wind cut her tale off without harming her tail by asking, “Grumpy, will you tend these skewers for me while I go catch some fish, crawdads and a bunny or two for dinner to share with KD?”

I realized at once that besides being an adventurer, Wind was quite diplomatic. She had just reminded the lot of us that KD had not eaten all day, except for snacks, and that both she and Wind were carnivores. Possibly hungry carnivores.

Dashie took off too, calling, “Wind! Wait up! I want see how you hunt and fish without fancy gear.”

Wind looked back, nodded and then beckoned with a finger curl. As soon as Dashie was up to her, Wind slid into the brush without a sound. Dashie, trying to follow was pretty quiet.

Coming to the creek bank, Wind laid flat and wriggled forward on her stomach. Carefully parting the small thin wands of the bank willows, she slid her right arm into the water, reaching back, under the cut bank. Her face screwed up with concentration, she eased her hand up, feeling for a fish. Smiling, she slid her hand further up and grabbed!

Rolling back and lifting, Wind flipped the good sized trout out onto the bank! She caught the flopping creature and bent its head back to break its neck. She snipped off a thin bank willow strand with her knife and laced it through the fish's gills and out the mouth. Loosely knotting the ends, she hung the fish up and repeated the trick three more times!

Dashie was watching with awe. “I never even hear of fishing that way! How you do it?”

Wind picked up her willow loop with fish and replied, “It takes practice to tickle trout but it is not really hard. You need to be careful and gentle. When you feel the fish with your fingers, you need to work your way up until you feel the pectoral fins, those just behind the gills. Snap your fingers into the gills and lift it out quickly.

“Now for a nice brace of bunnies and dinner will ready to cook.”

Dashie, keeping her voice down, asked, “I see warren right over there. How you catch them? Some kind of trap?”

Wind, following Dashie's pointing hoof, shook her head. “I could, and if we were going to be here longer, I would set some snares. Since it is only dinner and breakfast, I will just pounce them. It is easier and quicker.”

Dashie watched Wind ghost her way through the brush toward the warren. Choosing her place, she waited, a bunched spring of living huntress. Nothing moved except for the tip of her tail twitching slightly. It was only a few minutes before a bunny hopped lazily toward one of the main holes of the warren. Wind's pounce included a fast chop with her metal hand! The bunny only twitched once before going still.

Wind quietly picked a different spot and soon had a second bunny!

Bearing her prey, Wind and Dashie returned to camp. On their way, Wind asked, “Why did you want to see how I got fish and bunnies? Most ponies really don't want to see that.”

Face flaming a little with embarrassment, Dashie replied, “I am sort of, like half dragon. I turn into one if I need to or want to. Thing is, I not very good at getting meat to eat! I have to turn back to a pony and graze up dinner! There are times that really inconvenient!”

Wind chuckled. “I can see that! We have one more stop before Manehatten by the Sea. I will take you out hunting there too, OK?”

Back at camp, Wind considerately went to the other side of the T82 to clean and prepare her catch. A lightly drooling KD went to help! They both returned to the camp, licking their lips and smiling. They were finishing up with some of KD's endless supply of Gator Chow. Wind had carefully cleaned off the gem topping from hers and used it to enhance KD's snack.

As we were settling about the fire, Dashie asked, “Um, Wind, did Rom hold you prisoner some way? You say you have your freedom.”

Wind chuckled at the misunderstanding. “No, Dashie. The Rom Freedom is a thing that they wear. Here, I have mine in my bag.”

She reached into her bag at her waist and her arm seemed to go in further than was possible. She saw us staring and snorted her amusement. “It is called a bag of holding. It is sort of like Marchhare's caravan. It is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Here it it is!”

Stopping her rummaging, she pulled out a sort of headstall thing of richly tooled and dyed leather with rings and buckles that looked to be gold. She strapped it on.

“This is a Freedom of the Rom. They grant them only to beings that they have fully accepted as one of their own.”

“Why is call a Freedom?” Dashie wondered.

Wind lifted her chin with pride. “The original cast off slaves that were the first Rom wore a headstall with a bit and lead ring. They had them all their lives and were not comfortable without something on their heads. They re made them into the Freedom by taking away anything by which they could be made to serve another. No bit or lead ring has ruled any Rom from that day to this.” Very carefully, Wind removed her Freedom and put it away.

KD had curled into an amazingly hard to see coil of dragon to sleep until dawn. The rest of us were spreading blankets to sleep under the stars.

A wagon full of road repair tools and an accompanying work gang of ponies pulled into the rest area. A couple of them strode arrogantly to our camp and demanded, “We are hungry! What ever food you got, hoof it over now! You don't, we gonna take sledgehammers to that there tin thingy!”

I gently prodded the almost sleeping dragon in our midst. KD had been paying attention! Her head rose up, eyes alight. A curl of flame showing at each nostril and outlining her barely opened jaws completed the picture!

She serenely asked, “What? More dinner? I'm not sure that I could hold another whole pony. Mind if we just sort of pack along the leftovers for lunch?”

Dashie had lifted a fully draconic head. In the late evening's light we could not make out her color but we could easily make out the totally paling ponies!

“What! They got TWO DRAGONS!”

Dashie corrected, “No. Two HUNGRY dragons!”

Dashie was giggling at the frantic retreat of the two jerks! Got to admit to some chuckles of my own. KD's sides were heaving as she re coiled herself.

Dashie got up onto all fours. In the dying firelight, she could be seen to be a light blue color. She flexed her wings a couple of times and strolled over to where the road crew ponies were carelessly re packing to leave. In terror but not so terrified that they were willing to have to pay for abandoned gear!

One thoughtlessly yelled, “Road camp privacy! Stay away, that is kingdom law!”

Wind, who was almost unnoticed at Dashie's right front leg, calmly pointed out, “You have just admitted that you knew that you were breaking kingdom law when you tried to hijack our dinner. In your haste to correct your error, you dropped your sledgehammers. Here!”

Wind revealed a hidden strength by casually giving the heavy hammers an underhand toss. Both hammers overshot the wagon and hit the turf on the other side of it.

That got the attention of the road crew ponies! One noticed, “How come you only got one arm?”

Smiling angelically, which showed off her fangs nicely, Wind reached up with her metal left arm and scritched at the base of Dashie's left dragon horn as she replied, “What, this?” Campfire light glinting from her metal arm, she said casually, “Kitten here, and I got to roughhousing last week! She was a little too enthusiastic, that's all.”

Dashie, catching on to the game, bent her head around and gave Wind a lick at the shoulder and said contritely, “I said that I was sorry! We just need to find a Phoenix potion so that you can regrow it. Again.”

They strolled back to our camp, Wind taking the time to re hang her cloak to sort of hide her metal arm. Thomas, Dashie, now turned back to a pegasus, and I nibbled up Wind's excellent fruit and vegetable skewers.

Wind toasted the last of the bunnies and trout over KD's flame and shared that extra bit dinner with her. Dashie “sneaked” over and turned back to a dragon to beg a few bites. Grinning, they let her have some.

Sleeping out in the open, I did not have my usual nightmares of a Celestian Church mob burning my home, studies, and, failing to trap me in the house, attempting to stone me to death. Perhaps my feelings of safety came of sleeping beside a big blue dragon? One that liked me? Very likely.

It could not last. For one thing, dawn comes far too soon for a cave dwelling goat like me. The other was a light blue bundle of enthusiasm with rainbow mane and tail! Dashie was bounding into camp! She was waiving a forked stick with three big fat trout on it! It was laced through their gills and out their mouths, with the forked branch acting as a stop to keep them from sliding off.

“I did it, Wind! I tickle trout just like you show me how!”

Wind looked up from laying the morning cook fire. Her grin showed her usually hidden fangs as she replied, “Just like I showed you? Not sure how to point this out diplomatically but you don't have any fingers to do it with.”

Totally disingenuous, Dashie replied, “I just use my magic like you show with hand. It not hard. Real trick was find where fish hide. You show me that. They too quick to catch if just grab. Gentle tickle is trick.”

Both KD and I were listening with rapt attention. It was clear that Thomas and Dashie's Equestria was very different from this one. As they talked, that became more and more apparent.

“Does your magic come from being a weredragon?”

“Only a little. Most I learn from Dad. He one of two most powerful beings in our Equestria. Be honest, I think De Writer worst. Super strong magic and wicked sense of humor. And bored. He three thousand years old. Raise Princesses.”

“I see. Do other pegassi use magic where you come from?”

“Not really. Dad figure out that there more magic in world than Earth, Pegassi, and Unicorn. It come from his mom, Aurora, the Demon Queen.”

We all looked askance at the innocent appearing brown pegasus. This was getting more and more interesting all the time.

Wind just nodded, took the fish and efficiently set about preparing them. She also pulled some fresh looking apples and peaches out of the bag at her waist. She expertly split them into proper chunks and dropped them into a pot. She added a little fresh water and, reaching into her bag of holding, pulled out a box with many drawers and bottles, a jar with a sealed top and a small flour bag.

I was sort of amazed, watching the sheer skill with which Wind organized breakfast. She even had water on heating in a biggish pot. She added some from the sealed bottle. The camp filled with the heavenly aroma of Rom black tea!

Satisfied with the progress of the fruits in the pot, she added sugar, cinnamon from one of the drawers of the box and stirred in the flour to thicken it.

It smelled heavenly, not like regular flour at all. Wind closed the bag and returned box, bag and jar to her bag of holding. She saw my calculating look as I watched it all happening.

Wrinkling her nose in amusement, she explained, “Ka'chek flour. A Rom without it? Unheard of!”

Breakfast lived up to the lovely scents, and then some.

Wind, KD and Dashie went to the other side of the T82 to fix and eat the trout. Coming back, Dashie and KD were finishing up gem topped Gator Chows and Wind was nibbling at one with the topping removed.

While they were eating, the rest of us cleaned up all the cookware and put out the fire. We especially cleaned out the fruit stew pot! Nearly came to blows over who got to lick it out! Good sense prevailed and we took turns licking parts of it. Then, we washed it. We did have one thing unwashed.

We saved Wind the last mug of Rom black tea. Smiling at our courtesy, Wind drained it and saw to proper washing of the mug. She then caused us all a small croggle of the mind by causally putting all of the clean cookware and dishes into her bag of holding!

We all piled onto the remote controlled T82 and Dashie got us on the road again!

I noticed that Wind was wearing her Freedom and had put on a harness. It was as richly tooled and dyed as her freedom. They were clearly a matched set.

While KD was busy with her art, making fast sketches of the lands that we were passing through, I made bold to ask, “Why the Rom outfit? This is not exactly a caravan.”

Wind giggled at some joke that I did not understand as she replied, “Actually, it is. You just have to understand what caravan means. It is a loan word from the desert Kingdoms that was already in use by the time that the first Rom came here. In their language of Gyptian, it means something slightly different from how it is used in Equestrian.

“It is just that there is a road section toll gate coming up in a little. Me being dressed this way should get us through the gate for free.”

Nodding acceptance for her reason, I turned my attention to Thomas, who was trying hard to act like an adult pegasus, rather than a colt having the time of his life.

I guessed, “You have not ridden on Dashie's T82 before, have you Thomas?”

With a twinkle in his eye, he admitted, “Never before this. I think that she get to play with it more but need daddy supervision!”

I was chuckling at that when we all felt the iron monster slowing down. Wind, pointing ahead, made clear exactly why. There was the toll booth with its light weight red and white bar across the road. There was a substantial cabin in back of it for use of the toll collectors when off duty and out here, kilometers from any town. A sign said, WELCOME TO THE MANEHATTEN ROYAL ROAD SECTION.

Wind hopped off the top of the huge left tread guard of the T82 and greeted the toll takers, “Hi! What do you think of my new act? Just doing a shake down run to IRON out any problems! We are promised entertainment for the big art show.”

The utterly bemused light yellow toll collector turned to his lavender buddy and shook his head. Pushing the toll manual shut he said, “Rom. No accounting for 'em. Just write Rom, toll free by Crowns Law.”

He tripped the mechanism and the toll gate rose up out of our way.

As the mechanical behemoth passed through the gate, Wind trotted after and swung up the steel boarding stair and resumed her place on top of the turret, next to Dashie.

We had passed two of the Waysides when Wind guided Dashie into one that seemed empty. It was nowhere near noon, yet.

“Thanks, Dashie! There is a friend here that I want to talk to. It would have been rude to just go by and not say Hi.”

With that, she bounced off the turret, grabbed what we had learned was called the Main Gun, and swung, letting go and landing lightly. She sprinted over to the edge of the woods.

Sitting suddenly, she quietly reached out and laid a sparkling pebble among many others in that spot. She said, “Hanar Na Kili.” We could not make out the rest. It was all in Gyptian. It contained pauses as if she was listening to what another was saying. The conversation was soon over.

Wind got up, smiling serenely, and returned to us. Dashie had turned to a dragon so that she and KD could share a couple of KD's gator chows.

Wind suggested, “We could get going, now. The Loved Dead are always with us. Hanar and I had a nice chat.”

It was slowly percolating through the brain that I don't really have, just how different Rom are. And I have known them, shared food with them and talked with them for years. They have even been guests in my cave. I have heard that expression, the Loved Dead are always with us hundreds of times. I have heard about Laying the Stones goodness only knows how many times. This was the first time that I had seen it.

Seeing how Wind treated it, both casually and with absolute assurance, as if the horse in that grave that the Rom call a Gateway to the Lake of Paradise, or Lake for short, was really there, made it hit me like a gut punch.

I knew, like everybeing in Equestria that the ONE THING THAT YOU DO NOT DO is desecrate any Wayside burial. Ponies who die more than two days travel from their homes are entitled to a Wayside burial. It is a Royal Benefice. The graves are marked and tended as part of Wayside maintenance.

All Rom who die get a Wayside burial, that they call a Lake or going to the Lake. They lay small, inexpensive, but pretty pebbles on them to mark them.

Desecration of a Rom Lake will bring the Princesses in person to investigate. The criminals WILL get caught. Penalties are HARSH. They range from twenty years at hard labor on the Royal Roads up to life. The worst offenders, who have actually exhumed Rom remains get a punishment worse than simple death.

They get life in the Twins Mine, digging mercury ore. The fumes destroy the mind and wrack the body. After the first few such grave robberies, centuries ago, no pony in their right mind will risk that.

Wind looked so quietly happy that I had to wonder whether there was any truth to the Rom belief in the Lake of Paradise.

Dashie finished her snack and changed back to a pegasus. We all piled back onto the T82 educational toy and hit the road again. It was not long before we came to a bridge across a stream.

It was a nice, well built and solid bridge. It was clear that it was not made to take the sheer mass of the T82.

Dashie, following Wind's suggestions and pointing, reversed the T82 for about fifty or sixty meters. There, she eased off the road and headed toward the stream. She stopped short, while Wind scouted ahead, dropping down the stream bank and checking the bottom to be sure that it would hold up the tank.

Returning, she suggested to the others, “I think that you should get off and use the bridge on foot. This will be a wild ride!”

KD pointed to the line of ten to fifteen centimeter diameter trees that lined both sides of the stream skeptically. “Um, not to cast doubt or anything, but how do you plan to get this thing past those?”

Wind replied quietly, “I have seen machines like this, doing what they were designed to do. I don't think that it will be a difficult problem.”

KD and Thomas both looked into Wind's eyes and saw reflected experiences that they did not want to share. Neither did I. Thomas just said, “T82 break trees in orchard before this. I take Wind's advice.”

Nodding, KD followed him, saying, “Let me get to the center of the bridge and get my sketchbook out! I don't want to miss this!”

Figuring that the center of the bridge would have the best view of the proceedings. I joined them.

That was when I noticed something completely uncanny. As big and heavy as the T82 was, there was no sign of its driving across the grass and brush to get to the stream. Looking back, I saw that the road was in perfect condition, too.

I pointed it out to the one here who might know something about it. Thomas snickered happily, “Yes, know already. You not say anything to Dashie but she very good with magic of rock and stone. Also with magic of plants. She fix what educational toy do as it happen most time.”

Just then, it started. The T82 let out a loud roar and charged the treeline! There was a splintering set of crashing sounds as it struck the innocent vegetation! The trees did not stand a chance! They swayed, cracked and buckled, falling down into the stream as the “toy” crunched over them, tipping down steeply as it plunged into the stream! With a huge splash, followed by the churning up of rock, gravels and white water, the machine charged the opposite bank!

As it hit, I began to appreciate the ingenuity of the linked steel belts that the T82 ran on. There was a slope at the front before the treads hit the ground. Now, that slope let the machine claw its way up the bank, tilting back steeply as its momentum and driving tracks forced it up, pushing the trees aside and down while it topped the bank!

Dashie drove her “toy” up to the road's edge and parked it. She bailed out and took wing to the other side of the stream. Landing in the water, she transformed into her dragon self!

She called, “Dad! KD! Will you help please!?”

She was lifting the fallen trees back into their places, on the stumps that they had broken off from. While she was at it, I could see her magic going into the stems and branches, binding together cracks and breaks.

KD loped down and joined her. “What can I do, Dashie? I don't know anything about this kind of magic.”

“Just hold trunk up while I fix break and roots.”

Thomas strolled down and waded into the stream. He started repairing cracks and breaks in the wood of the fallen trees to speed things along.

Wind and I sat on the bridge rail and watched them work. She commented, “Ah, hard work! I can sit and watch it for simply hours!”

It really did not take all that long for the party to restore all the trees and larger brush, leaving almost no sign that the massive T82 had charged through there.

KD said it for all of us, as we climbed back aboard the T82, “I never even heard of magic like that before!”

As she was settling into the turret and picking up the remote control, Dashie shrugged. “All world each a little different. Some thing go from world to world, some not. Magic dad teach me, it work.”

Not too much later, we pulled into a Wayside to fix lunch. Some heavy freight dray ponies were already camped there, so Dashie parked us at a site well away from them, to give them camp privacy.

They stomped over to us just as Wind was setting a large pot of water to heat.

“Whatever you gots to eat gotta be better than our road ration oats! Hoof it over! We even got you a bag of oats to make it a fair trade!”

Dashie quelled Wind before she could say anything. She gestured for KD to stay hidden behind the T82. Pretending to quail some, she replied, “We just stop for ordinary tea before go on. Got special box tea need to be deliver.”

Thomas, sounding indignant, demanded, “No! Dashie, that tea special! Got to go to Castle . . .”

“They meaner than us, Dad! I give them one packet. Only make them a couple of gallon.”

She ducked down into the T82's interior and returned with a modest package wrapped in gold colored foil.

She made a point of securing the oats before giving them the package. “We going be in much trouble for this. Oats is least you can do.”

As they retreated, I noticed that Thomas had a diabolical grin. Dashie, on the other hoof, simply hopped up on the T82 and tripped something on her control box.

The turret turned and the main gun lowered some. It pointed the big main gun directly at the drover's camp.

All that Thomas would say was, “It De Writer tea. Never know what happen. Best be safe!”

Wind's ears perked up! Almost too casually, she asked, “Is that thing loaded?”

Dashie sort of shrank a bit as she replied, “Yes. Have five case ammo. Two explosive, three solid shot. Five round in each case. De Writer give them to me when I get tea. Dad not like me have it.”

“OOPS! No time talk now! They getting water boiling!”

KD sidled up to Wind, “You seem to know a lot about this thing. Just how dangerous is it?”

Wind put an arm over KD's neck as she replied, “That depends on which kind of round Dashie has in the gun. A solid shot will rip a crater about two or three meters across. The flying dirt and stone from the fire place will make a deadly spray.

“If it is an explosive round, it will blast a hole about five or six meters across. It will scatter fragments of the shell and any loose stone or dirt too.

“Yes, the T82 could wreck any ordinary fortress in Equestria.”

KD was chortling, “I hope that the tea is worth a shot! Not only would I like to see that, I did not like those ponies at all.”

Thomas overheard and replied, “They not get hurt. De Writer not crazy. Have spell on T82 it not hurt any pony or intelligent being. Can do much property damage. That educational part of toy. Dashie get to fix up damage. Study hard her magics since she get it from De Writer!”

The wayside ponies added the tea to the water boiling in their big kettle.

As they did, Thomas asked urgently, “What De Writer say about brew tea?”

Dashie's brow wrinkled, “He say make in ceramic pot only a little at a time. It good for cold morning!”

Just then the flames began in the drover's big kettle of boiling water! They burst up in a great gout of blue and yellow fire! We could feel the heat from where we were! The sides of the big iron pot glowed red, then yellow! They began to melt!

In only seconds, the sides gave way and the tea gushed out, drowning the campfire, not that it was much help! The wood instantly went to ash! The tea soaked into the bottom of the fire place and the flames slowly subsided.

The heat had driven the drovers away from camp and wagon. The whole side of the wagon that had been facing the tea was charred. There were small wisps of smoke arising from it here and there.

Thomas was sitting on his rump laughing. “Now know why fix in ceramic pot and only little at a time! Definitely good for cold morning!”

While the drovers were frantically hitching up and hauling out of there, Thomas was thoughtfully heating water in an iron pot. He called up, “Dashie! Packet tea. Small measure. Ceramic pot I know you got in there!”

She popped up out of the hatch and gave Thomas the things that he had asked for. KD, who could breathe fire, quietly backed up.

Dashie saw it and reasured her, “With De Writer tea, follow direction important. We see what NOT do.”

Thomas added boiling water to the small, indeed tiny, measure of tea in the pot. Flame poured out the spout and leaked around the lid. It soon died. Thomas poured a small cup and smelled it.

“Have good nose.” He sipped. Eyes wide, he exclaimed, “This one of De Writer's best teas yet! Try some, Dashie!”

She promptly poured a cup for herself. “It good dad! Thanks!”

Wind added vegetables to her pot of boiling water and soon the savory scent of vegetable stew filled the camp area.

While it was cooking, she took Dashie and they entered the woods. It was not long before they returned with a couple of squirrels and a few bunnies. This time, it was Dashie, turned dragon, who toasted the carnivore lunch.

After everything was cleaned up and put away, Dashie strolled over to the camp that the drovers had used. While we watched, she actually pushed a few heat broken stones of the fireplace back to position. Somehow, they stuck. What really got me though was her casually picking up the hardened iron from the melted pot and the original fire grilles and sort of pushed, pulled and squeezed on them to make a good, substantial grill for supporting cook pots. It went into its place. She carefully scouted the camp, leaving bright green grass where it had been fire browned.

A grinning KD got several quick sketches!

Wind reminded us all, “The Manehatten fairgrounds turn off is only about another hour down the road. Shall we be gone?”

It did not actually take us an hour to get there. We all disembarked from the T82 and did stretches.

Among the assorted goodbyes, I heard Wind ask KD, “I am not on a schedule. Mind if I tag along to see your art show?”

I personally, after wishing Thomas and Dashie well, inquired, “Would it be possible for me to get some of that De Writer tea?”

He practically pounced on me! “How much you want? He send a crate of it! Got lots!”

“I could use several packages. Say, five?”

“Dashie! Get Grumpy five packets De Writer tea!”

Her voice muffled by being inside her machine, she retorted, “FIVE? What he want to do? Melt T82?”

As I took the packages of potentially deadly tea, Thomas pointed out, “You know Grumpy do magic. Pony here seem mostly think only unicorn do magic. Grumpy use much ritual and misdirection to keep them from catch on. I bet tea become part of that.”

My already high respect for Thomas went up another big notch. I nodded, “Right, Thomas. Also, once the fire burns off, it makes a really good tea. Right up there with Rom black.”

Wind told the group, “Well, I promised to send you back from here. Is it time to go?”

Though Dashie looked a little downcast, Thomas nodded, “It been fun here, but yes. It time to go home.”

Wind reached into her bag of holding and fished out a thing that looked like a map. She traced out what looked like a route on it with a delicate touch of one claw.

The pale blue oval of a portal big enough to drive a T82 main battle tank through appeared. Thomas climbed the passenger steps, up onto the back of the iron monster and our friends drove through. The portal silently vanished.

I turned to KD. “Which way to the Art Show?”

She nibbled a gator chow treat and pointed. “My studio first! Then off to the show!”

KD snickered, “You two are little! Hop on my back and we will make better time!”

As Wind boosted me up and then leaped up herself, she said, “I could get used to this. Traveling places without having to walk, I mean. First, the T82! That was fun! Now I get to ride dragonback again!”

I looked back, trying not to miss the sight of Manehatten's famously tall buildings. Many of them were over five levels tall! Some, in the downtown area looked to be way taller!

I commented, “Again? You have ridden dragons before?”

“Just one, Grumpy. My daughter Aurixa.”

That gave me real pause. I ventured, “Adopted?”

Sort of. I found her egg out in the wilderness not that far from Mama Dragon's cottage. I was there when Aurixa hatched. She imprinted on me as her mother.

“When she grew up some, we used to play together a lot, including riding her. I love flying on dragonback!

“Anyway, she grew up to where she was too big for that. Last I saw her, Aurixa was bigger than a house. I need to go home to Mama Dragon's and visit her. I miss them.”

We came to a nice two level house in the outskirts of town. The only odd thing about it from the outside was that the door was bigger than usual. KD got out a key and let us in.

The inside WAS unusual! The whole second level floor had been knocked out, leaving a sort of rim around the single large room. It was just the right height to serve as shelves for KD! There were a few scorch marks on the walls, souvenirs of her hiccups!

There were paintings and drawings in profusion! All was neatly organized. Drawings were in X-frames and paintings were racked or stood against the walls.

KD selected a number of drawings, including some from her sketchbooks filled up on the trip here. Truly professional, she framed the drawings and sketches behind glass. She had frames at the ready for her paintings. It took her about an hour and a half for her to be ready.

She put on a harness designed to carry framed work and suggested, “Load me up! The Manehatten Art Show is only about a kilometer from here!

We trudged through some pretty fancy streets and up a hill to a small estate. I giggled when I saw the iron scroll work lettering over the gate.

Wind nudged me and whispered, “Pretty up front about it, aren't they, Grumpy?”

The letters said, “Snob Hill Estate.” Under it was a banner proclaiming, “Snob Hill Art Festival! Opening soon!”

The pony watching the gate seemed both pleased and surprised to see KD. “Krystal! I was told that you would not be able to make this show! Let me announce you to the committee!”

She held him gently back. “Please don't, Edward. I am most curious as to who is saying that I would not come to this show.”

He sort of scraped the pave with a forehoof and looked down as he said, “I am not supposed to gossip about our patrons.”

KD grinned as she flipped him a silver bit. “You said nothing!”

Expertly fielding the coin, he said, “Of course it could not possibly be Drawin Pitcher spreading rumors about you.”

KD grinned, with many teeth, as she replied, “Of course not. Why would a fine artist like Drawin say anything negative about me?

“Oh, Edward, these fine beings are guests of mine.”

We went on in, following KD. She went straight for the main entrance to Snob Hall.

Even before we entered, we heard, “You know, I am really sorry to say that KD not only won't be making this show, it looks like she will have to give up the Daring Do contract.”

As she was about to charge in and confront the speaker, I gave her leg a tug. “Not quite yet, KD. Now, it is contract time. I suspect that this one can be really simple and oral, witnessed by Wind, here.”

I don't think that I have ever seen as many teeth as showed in KD's grin. “What sort of contract do you have in mind, Grumpy? I don't have a hundred gold on me.”

I pointed inside, “I overheard that. I will take one golden bit, ownership of that painting of Wind by the T82, and an autographed copy of the new book when it comes out. Thanks to the one bit, the magic will work.

“You can still enter the painting in the show as an original, on loan from the owner.

My refund terms will be one gold, one silver plus return to your ownership of the other items.

“What will happen is that not only the one who sabotaged you, but any accomplices will reveal their parts in such a way that they will receive the maximum of embarrassment. Attempts to extricate themselves will only dig them deeper.”

KD nodded slowly. “That sound pretty good. Can we include some career help for her, IF AND ONLY IF, she stays on the straight and narrow?”

I nodded, sucking in the cheeks that I don't really have. “I will include that. But only if it will still embarrass her.”

KD's tail wagged in delight, threatening several ornamental plantings! “Done! Here is the bit!.”

There was a brief flash of yellow in the sunlight. I put it in my saddlebag. “Wind, did you witness the contract and it's terms?”

If Wind's feral grin was not answer enough, her, “I did. You have a contract,” was.

KD breezed in through the big ornate doors. Cheerfully she called out, “Sorry to be late but I see that I am still in time for entering my latest works!”

The yellow mare with the green mane and tail that exclaimed, “It's KD! We have to get her out of here!” had to be Drawin Pitcher!

That was confirmed in mere seconds. KD said amiably, “I don't know what you are on about, Drawin! Oh, I see that you have some neat things up already! Let me get a closer look!”

As the blue dragon approached the hanging works, she absently pulled one of her crushed gem topped snacks from the bag. She was holding it so that all that could be seen was the topping. She started to munch it down as she got up close to the drawings and paintings of her rival.

Drawin Pitcher frantically charged KD and pushed her head aside, away from her art. “Please! Don't incinerate my art!”

KD turned her snout to aim directly at Drawin and asked in a mild voice, “Whatever to you mean, Pitcher? Why would I incinerate anypony's art?”

Drawin dodged behind a portly pony who was watching the scene unfold with interest. His cutie mark was a stack of books. He turned to her and, greatly puzzled, asked, “Why are you afraid of KD, Drawin? She has participated in many shows around the kingdom and never any incident like you seem to fear.

“True, last show she got a minor case of hiccups but controlled them and caused no harm at all. Why are you afraid now?”

There was a mumbled reply.

“What? That made no sense at all! What do you mean, it's the muffins?”

KD offered, “You were in industrial chemistry before you became a publisher, right, Mister Hazard?”

“I was.”

“Read this. It will explain most of the problem with the dragon muffins from this bag.” She fished in one of her bags and gave him a folded paper. “It is the Ponyville Police Department's Forensic Chemistry Laboratory report on the dragon muffins from this bag.”

His eyebrows rose sharply at what he read. “Zinc metal? That much in each muffin? No wonder you were having fire blast hiccups! Obviously, that little bag can't have held many of them. Why is she afraid of you now?”

For an answer, KD took a treat out of the bag and gave the bag to Mister Hazard. As she munched the treat, she pointed out, “I just emptied the bag. Notice how it has another treat in it now?” She pointed to a large painting on one wall, “Is that a Clyden Dale?” As he looked, she held up the bag. It had returned.

“See, Mister Hazard, the bag is enchanted by a form of non Equine magic. It always has another treat and it always comes back to me. That is why Drawin is afraid of me. She expects me to erupt in flame at any moment. It won't happen though.”

A despairing Drawin Pitcher hung her head. “It has to. Once the bag is set, you can't change it.”

KD grinned. “Want to bet, Ms. Pitcher? Thanks to Grumpy, here, we not only sorted out your little scheme to end my art career, we met a Zebra (not Zecora, Ponyville has TWO zebras now) who was familiar with the spell. He showed us how to re set it. These treats are harmless. Really tasty, too.”

Mister Hazard suggested, “Now that is taken care of, let's get your things entered and hung. We were saving you a panel for your work. Thanks to Ms. Pitcher, we almost put your panel away. That is it, over there.”

KD smiled properly for a collection of important ponies and began setting her selections out along the bottom of the display panel. As an aside to us, she commented, “The Show's Committee will have the final call about what is hung and what is not.”

She looked about and zeroed in on Drawin Pitcher. “Drawin, if you will do it, I have a little actual paying work for you!”

The yellow mare looked up from where she was about to fill out some papers at the art show's main desk. “What can you possibly want from me, KD? After everypony finding out about my trick, I was going to withdraw from the show.”

KD agreed, “It was a pretty dirty trick, Drawin. Only the ponies here right now know about it, though. That does not change the fact that your work is first rate. Stay in the show. We can cover this up really easily. My pieces will need labels. As far as I know, you are the best calligrapher in Manehatten.

“Any pony claiming bad blood between us will have to explain how YOUR distinctive calligraphy is on my labels.”

“Why are you trying to help me, after what I did?”

KD sat and scratched at her jaw spines with her big left hind claws before answering, “Critical thinking, Drawin. There are two parts to you. One is more than a bit mean and underhoofed. The other makes works like the ones over there on the wall. That last part is too valuable to lose. The first part should be lost, if you can.

“I am trying to save that valuable second part.”

Sourly the green maned yellow mare said, “I see. Actually, thanks. I need sales from this show or money from somewhere else or I could lose my studio.”

Laying a big claw gently over the withers of Drawin, KD said, “I do understand. Before I got established, I was there more than once. Here is my list of titles. What will you charge me?”

“After this? I may need money but I don't need it that badly. I will get right on these.”

“Fair enough, Drawin. When you finish these up, go talk to Mister Hazard. He has a commission, no committees or the like. I had to let it go, due to time constraints. It might be just right for you.”

Watching in fascination, wondering where the embarrassment would come from, I felt a really sort of creepy sensation. I was not sure, but it seemed to involve the two strange ponies standing outside the door.

I saw Drawn Pitcher hard at work, her pen producing truly excellent calligraphic labels for KD's art.

I hated to interrupt, but there could be a life or more in the balance. I really did not care one way or the other about the yellow mare's life, but KD DID. That tipped the scales, as it were.

I strolled over to her. “May I interrupt you briefly, Ms. Pitcher?”

She looked up with a glare, paused and made an obvious effort to compose herself. “Um, you are the goat that KD brought here, aren't you?”

“Correct. My card.”

I proffered my business card. It was embossed stock with raised lettering in black and gold gilt. It said:

GRUMPETER “GRUMPY” GOAT

Licensed Practitioner of Non Equine Magic

All work by publicly registered contracts.

Refund of 110% if contract terms are not met.

A ROYALLY CHARTERED BUSINESS

“Impressive. How can a goat even have a Royally Chartered business?”

I sort of sucked in my nonexistent cheeks a little and retorted, “By being VERY good at what I do. I wanted to ask you about how you got that bag. I know that it was not made on this world. Either you summoned it, or you summoned a being that brought you the bag.

“Since you knew how to load it and trick KD into taking it, my money is on the second choice.”

She sort of hung her head and absently scraped at the floor with a hind hoof as she replied, “You are right. I did summon something. It was like a cloud of ugly dark smoke with eyes floating in it. I told it what I wanted to do. I mean make KD so that she would lose the contract, but not be actually hurt.

“It brought me the bag and told me how to set it.”

I nodded as parts started falling into place. “I see. Two more questions. Which book did you use and did your summoning go right on the first try?”

“Umm, I was afraid to try the Necronomipony. It has such a dangerous reputation. I used the Black Pullet as printed by Non Equine University Press.

“And no. I had to try twice for the summons to work. Is that important?”

Urgently, I asked, “Did you clean everything up after the failed try, or did you re use the same pentacles?”

“I re used them. Getting everything right was a LOT of work.”

I chuckled. “I do know about that! Non Equine magic is way harder than just waiving a wand around!

“Thing is, I believe that your first summoning may have worked. That is why I was checking on what you did.”

“What! Nothing happened. That is why I tried a second time.”

“I do understand, Drawin. I was just clearing something up. I will let you get back to your lettering. Beautiful work, by the way.”

Now sure of what happened, I sauntered over to the door. I gave the ponies waiting there my best, fang filled grin. “I see that you noticed that until the show opens tomorrow, that this is a private residence. Vamponies here in Equestria need to be invited into homes. The succubus should be able to enter without a problem. That means that she is tied to you, ma'am.”

I covered up my glamored in fangs as I bowed to them. “My name is Grumpeter Goat. Grumpy for short. As you have likely already noticed, I am dead. Not a zombie or anything like that, but totally deceased. Let us retire over to that bench under the shade tree in the garden while we talk. If that talk goes well, I will invite you in myself.”

The vampony nodded. “That makes sense, sort of. My name is Jinni and this is Sassy to her friends. Not sure what sort of power real names have here, but for now, I am not taking the chance. Getting out of the sun is a good idea.”

As we seated ourselves comfortably out in the garden, Sassy ventured, “What do you want to talk about? I don't think that we have done anything wrong.”

I raised a hoof in agreement. “Not yet, you haven't. You have already noticed that this world runs on slightly different rules than where you came from. I saw you try to enter through that open door. I am sure that nopony saw it. That is a rule that is different from your home. You can freely enter any public space, the door of a store, for instance. Private homes, not without an invitation.

“Daylight leaves you no stronger than an ordinary pony. Night will let you be about twenty times that strong. It will increase your ability to control your prey as well.

Jinni nodded slowly, “We have noticed some of that. Why are you trying to help us?”

I curled a lip and my eyes slitted. “I don't like most ponies very much, at all.

“Now, you need to understand some basic rules. This world is well aware of vamponies. They have tried and true methods of hunting down and destroying supernatural beings. So, the best way to manage, is to not draw attention to yourselves by leaving a trail of dead, dying and wounded ponies behind. Use your talents at prey control to take only small amounts at any one time.

“Let them think that they had a pleasant interlude with you, except for Sassy, there. They will feel like they had a fun INTERLEWD with her.”

They both had the courtesy to wince at my pun.

Jinni offered, “We came here because we sort of felt drawn to this place. We aren't sure why. Do you know that, Grumpy?”

“As a matter of fact, Jinni, I do. You were summoned here by a spell strong enough to warp you both into ponies. I don't know what you looked like before and don't care. Your natures have been preserved. There is a connection between summoner and summoned and that is what brought you here. The pony that summoned you is inside that place. She was trying to cut a rival out of a lucrative book illustration contract. She has failed.”

Sassy paused to think carefully. “What should we do and why would you let us into that house?”

I grinned again. Gave them a great show of phony fangs. “As I pointed out, the path of safety lies in moderation. If you agree to it, I can let you in to play fanpony to our guilty party. You know, autographs and the whole nine yards. Her name is Drawin Pitcher. She is yellow with a green mane and tail. Because she summoned you, SHE can't keep you out of HER home or any private space of hers.

“She can do one thing for you that will make the rest worthwhile, unless you REALLY LIKE being ponies with unusual diets. She has the spell book and knows the spell that will send you back where you came from.”

Both responded at once, “WE DON'T!” Jinni added with a smile that showed her fangs, “It IS fun for a nice visit. Say, a week or two. Shall we go in?”

“I shall precede you, ladies, and introduce you to the nice young mare who invited you to this world.” Reaching the door, I stepped in and bowed, “Jinni and Sassy, would you please come in? The artist that you are looking for is over at that desk.”

Jinni's eyes were glued to KD. “That is a dragon!”

“No kidding. That is KD, the artist who Drawin was trying to muscle out of the contract.”

That got them both to focus. They squealed fairly quietly as they descended on Drawin Pitcher! “It's really her! Oh, Ms. Pitcher! It is so great to actually meet you!”

At first, she tried futilely to fend off the duo. I noticed that her really good calligraphy was now labeling all of KD's works, hanging on both sides of her panel. I realized that the two were interfering with Drawin Pitcher's signing something for Mr. Hazard of Haphazard House Publishing.

We found out what it was very quickly. Jinni squealed in delight, “Your first book of art! They will be the luckiest foals in the kingdom that get to color your drawings! Can I get a copy with your autograph on it?”

Drawin Pitcher looked like she was ready to sink through the floor with her face aflame.

I cheerfully leaned up against KD and questioned, “What do you think of Drawin's cheering section. They will be fanponying her for the next few weeks!”

KD watched with amusement. She offered, “You really did not get much for all of your trouble, Grumpy. If you wanted to, you could make a killing off the painting of Wind by the T82. Not only do the critics think that it is a great piece of fantasy realism, Wind has agreed to stay for the show and pose by the painting so ponies can see her genuine metal arm and sword. The show has not opened yet and there have been three bids. The last one was for over a thousand gold bits.”

I agreed, “Monetarily, this contract was a bust. At least I did not have to give out a refund. I am going to keep the picture. It is a better treasure to me than gold.”

KD chuckled, “Are you feeling all right? I thought that I just heard you say that something was worth more than gold!

“Drawin will be both taken care of by that contract and embarrassed to death. It is an open ended one to draw foal's coloring books. The money is really pretty good but even with her good work doing well at shows, she will always be remembered as the mare that draws those foal's books.

“Our contract is fulfilled, Grumpy. You will get the autographed Daring Do book when it is ready for distribution but before it hits the stores.”

~THE END~

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

Return to The Annals of Grumpy Goat

#HICCUPS!#MLP Fan Fiction #The Annals of Grumpy Goat #Written by De Writer

16 notes · View notes

dontstopbereaving · 6 years ago

Text

I don’t have a story

The podcast I co-host got sponsored by a new-wave bra company that champions body positivity and body diversity, and as part of our advertising agreement I had to order a bra from them. I was very interested and excited in this, because bra shopping has more or less been a non-question for me. Blessed with what would probably be a 36AA if such a bra was ever manufactured — I am wide and flat and should have been a swimmer, probably — the adolescent horror and thrill of suddenly having boobs to manage and shop for has never really been on the table. I remember so vividly, the summer between my freshman and sophomore year, staying with an old friend from middle school and hanging out in her bedroom. She was lying on her bed and reading a magazine and said, apropos of nothing, "ugh, don't you hate it when your boobs slide down to your armpits when you're reading?" I nodded, having no idea what she was talking about.

Anyway, this bra company didn't carry a 36AA, but after taking a quiz about what $68 expertly engineered bra would be perfect for me, I ordered whatever they recommended. It arrived wrapped in delicate pink tissue paper, and I took it out and held it up and felt my heart sink. I knew from looking at it that it would look ridiculous on me; trying it on confirmed that. They had a number to call where you could talk to a "fit specialist" and of course I did that, and some nice girl in the Bay Area told me that if that bra didn't fit me, they had a selection of leisurewear bralettes.

But I don't want a bralette, dammit! I am not a tween, and though they aren't much to write home about I do have breasts that must be managed. This company's advertising seems to trumpet the arrival of a "bra for every woman," and even within their progressive spectrum of what that means, I fell on the outside of it. The whole process carried a lot more gravity than I expected.

The bra arrived in the heat of the Brett Kavanaugh confirmation firestorm, which had me on edge and moody all week for both the obvious reasons and reasons that I was more confused about articulating, or whether or not I should. The prospect of an attempted rapist and alcoholic being given a post in the highest court in the land is the most harrowing and torturous chapter of the MeToo world we now live in, and the stories from my friend and peers and people I don't know but follow on Twitter started being dropped almost hourly. Most women I know have been raped or sexually assaulted in their lives. The most visible and audible woman's experience right now is that of the victim; those with platforms and followings are being encouraged to share their story in solidarity, in order to shore up the most prominent, contested ones, to create a narrative that yes, this does happen, it happens all the time.

I don't have a rape story, and I don't have an assault story. In the past year, wondering why I don't has led me down a weird guilt spiral that inevitably ends with the re-realization that there's no reason that I don't. There's nothing I did right. It just didn't happen to me. This is disconcerting to me, in the context of a life where I have always felt left out of the things that supposedly comprise the experience of being a woman. It's not just the bra thing, though that's a useful metaphor. I've always felt left out of femininity, I've always had more male friends than female friends, going back to early childhood. Girls tormented me as a child, and as an adolescent, and as an adult; on the whole I have felt the emotional violence of other women more acutely than that of men. And yet, I know the latter exists.

Sometimes it feels like sharing one's own story of assault is the only powerful tool a woman can have against a patriarchy in its violent death throes, which often leaves me feeling useless in our social media-driven dialogue. The stories of sexual violence coming from women both famous and not, while harrowing, has also, to this outsider at least, appeared as a kind of global bonding experience. Which is really important for those who have been victims. But I want there to be a language for women to be advocates for each other that goes beyond "me, too" in its most literal sense. Because I cannot honestly say "me, too," and yet, nearly any woman I've ever been close with enough has told me about that time in college, or that date that went bad, or that time in eighth grade. I believe them, and I believe women I've never met before, not because it's happened to me, too, but because I know how the world works and I believe them.

I want to tell one story that is not a rape story, but it is a Hollywood story, and it's a story about a powerful Hollywood man. This story might not end the way you think it will!

When I was in college, a male classmate of mine wanted to cast a famous actor, let's call him Gary, in his thesis film. His dad had some connections, and I had gamely signed on to be my friend's AD, which meant when he went to a swanky event with the purpose of being introduced to this guy and hopefully turning it into a collaboration, he asked me to come along. I was excited, we were very young and to land this actor for a student film would be a coup; it felt like a bank heist. On the way over we were giddy and silly, "what if Gary says yes? What if he wants to do a feature?" etc etc. It was fun to at least be party to a young white man's Hollywood dreams on the cusp of coming true.

We went to the venue with his father. I expected that at some point my friend's dad would introduce us to Gary, and then let us take the lead and talk about this film my friend wanted to make. But my friend's dad didn't seem to know how to go about it. Maybe he didn't really know Gary at all. Who knows. My friend had also frozen up, and I remember sitting at the bar, my gaze going from this father and son, over to Gary in the corner of the room, who looked all too approachable. "You guys are too scared?" I asked incredulously. "Why don't you go over and charm him with your feminine wiles," my friend said. It was a joke, but of course it wasn't, and I felt like I had a lot to prove, so I went over and introduced myself to Gary.

I don't remember much about our conversation, I remember his eyes on me, and I remember feeling giddy and high with the power of his attention. I should maybe emphasize — Gary is extremely famous. You all know who he is and you probably love him. He has a pretty stellar reputation. I didn't have a particular thing for him, but after that conversation I remember feeling like I understood what real stardom was about. I had "dated" a minor TV star very briefly before that but this was on another level. Still, I was very mission-oriented, and made sure the conversation came back to praising my friend's script, and how awesome the film was going to be. I told him he had to see the film he had worked on with his dad, that had played at Berlin — Berlin! — so he could appreciate their genius. Gary seemed amenable to this. I had some little note cards from a Japanese stationary store in Little Tokyo on me, and I wrote my phone number down on one of them and gave it to Gary, who seemed beyond charmed. Then I went back to my friend and his dad, buzzing, but cynical enough to shrug. "I'm sure he'll never get in touch, but we'll see!"

We left shortly after. I remember wondering if this had been the plan all along, to throw me at Gary like in order to have an audacious, talked-about thesis film. I probably felt more flattered at the time than anything else to be considered worthy bait.

I remember where I was when Gary called my little Motorola flip phone — in my cubicle at the camera shop I worked at, probably reading Jezebel. I remember the surreality of his voice — that voice! — coming through the speaker. "This is Gary," he said. Duh, I thought. He wanted to know if I wanted to see a movie with him, maybe get dinner after. Ever the professional, I asked if we would talk about my friend's film. He seemed uninterested. I also, it should be mentioned, had a boyfriend at the time, and though I was starstruck I was not starstruck enough to just go to dinner and a movie with Gary with no pretense of artistic ambition on the table. I refused politely, but said that if he ever wanted to watch the film, I would get him a copy.

My friend, obviously, was tickled beyond belief by all this. This had become a secret extracurricular, a spy mission we would whisper about in between classes. My friend was adamant that we get Gary a screener of my friend's father's film, and soon I had negotiated an arrangement, with the stipulation that I now wonder about the legitimacy of, that I could not just leave it with him. I had to watch it with him, at his house, and take the DVD with me.

I remember driving up the winding hills to Gary's house, playing M.I.A.'s Kala extremely loudly to pump myself up. I remember being buzzed in at the gate and walking up a staircase through tropical plants and water features until I arrived at Gary's modernist, castle-like home perched in the hills. I remember how empty his home was, how sad it seemed. He asked if I wanted anything to drink, and I said, water, and he opened up his impressive Sub-Zero which contained a Brita pitcher and a lone tray of grocery store sushi.

We went to the living room, me clutching the little plastic DVD case like it was the one legitimizing thing in the whole room. I was there to help my friend, I was there to help my friend. I gave it to Gary, and he put it in the DVD player — shockingly, the DVD player in the living room didn't work. We would have to go to the one in his bedroom.

I don't remember if I could see right through this at the time, certainly by the next day I could. Gary put in the DVD in his bedroom entertainment system and then laid back on his California King bed, his lanky legs crossed over the fur throw. He held out one arm, beckoning me, and I pretended not to notice. There was a small ottoman at the foot of the bed, and I sat on it, hunched forward throughout the entirety of my friend's dad's stupid awful sophomoric Berlinale-approved movie, sipping on my water, being so good and professional and helpful.

Gary eventually turned down the opportunity to be in my friend's UCLA undergrad thesis film, no fucking shit. I never heard from him again. I wonder if what would have happened if I would have joined him on the bed, and if my friend would have had Gary — THE Gary, in his thesis film, and if it would have set him off on an exciting idiosyncratic career as a young auteur. How great that would have been for my friend.

I got a lot of mileage out of that story for many years — the time I went to Gary's house and he tried to get me to watch a movie with him in his bed. I played it up for laughs. I was certain that I looked like the cool person in that story.

A few things I appreciate a decade after the Gary incident:

Gary never tried anything with me. I sat on that ottoman, and there I stayed. I took the DVD with me when I left, he kissed my cheek, and that was that. Gary, in my experience at least, was a good guy in a Hollywood full of bad ones, and I was lucky.

My friend 100% tried to offer me up as bait to get Gary to be in his UCLA undergraduate thesis film, and so did his adult father, and this was funny to them.

Yes, I was good and drank water and sat on the ottoman, but Gary is a big person, and if he wanted to change that he could have. It wouldn't have mattered what I did right

Whenever I see Gary in a film — or in person, which has happened a few times because of my job — I get incredibly anxious and crazy feeling, despite the fact that he was good and really didn't do anything wrong — because I remember being in that weird empty luxurious house, and now I can look back and realize how young and dumb I was and how one of my young dumb male peers decided to use that to his advantage.

The MeToo movement has me reinterrogating events like this and others, where I was powerless but the worst didn't befall me. Why, why, why? It's a stupid question. Is there something about me that just doesn't attract violent men, socially or romantically? Is it my AA tits? My general left-behindness in all things popularly understood to be a part of the "female experience?" I've been so stupid, so many times, and experienced plenty of degrading shit that still doesn't fall into the category of assault and isn't something worth airing because it doesn't torture me; I don't have PTSD, it hasn't meaningfully disrupted my life. (My own brain does that on its own.) This is not the moment for non-stories like mine.

But I absolutely believe that there was nothing particularly game-changing that kept any of that from happening to me. And I understand the dynamics of a scene like that — where you're alone in a guy's house way up in the hills and he's the one with all the power, when you're alone with a guy in his car and he won't unlock the door to let you out, when you black out and find out a guy you thought was your friend was throwing himself on you in your absence. Any of those guys could have been rapists, and they weren't. Nothing about me or my actions would have changed that.

I have felt pent up with all of this for a year, as soon as it became apparent that the dominant dialogue among women would be sharing stories of trauma and violence. Because I don't have a tale of horror to peel off and lay before the reading public, but I have just a regular-ass life experience that absolutely corroborates all those tales of horror. It is not much — and I hope it stays that way. But I thought I'd share it.

209 notes · View notes

frejahertziswritingthistime · 6 years ago

Text

By Dawn and blood chapter 4

A/N: I really, really love writing this story! It’s beginning to take form, and I’m pretty sure we’ll end up with about 20 chapters, so strap in – it’s going to be a wild ride! Hope you guys love this as much as I do, and that you’ll stick with it – I know I will! This chapter will be from Dean’s perspective, just an FYI.

Remember, feedback feeds the writer, and if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know in an ask!

Previous chapters: chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3

MY MASTERLIST

BY DAWN AND BLOOD MASTERLIST

Buy me a coffee – help me pay for my wedding!

Pairings: Viking!Reader x Dean

Warnings: Language, sexual tension

Chapter 4: help to those, who ask

The darkness of the cottage was insane. Dean didn’t mind the dark, but he had never experienced this level of darkness – maybe it was the lack of streetlights, but no matter what, it felt weird. He was staring up at the rafters, holding the ceiling, listening to Sam snore like a bear in the other bed.

A lot was weird these days. One, he was transported to the damn early ages, Viking-era, by a fucking witch. Two, he had met his damn dream girl. Who was – theoretically – several thousand years older than him, and he was beginning to question if the witch meant bad or good, when she sent them here.

Y/N. her name was always at the tip of his tongue. She was fucking fierce, that was what she was. He groaned and sat up, ignoring the stings and throbbing from his shoulder, and grabbed a tunic to throw over himself and walked out of the door.

He walked aimlessly around the small town, while thinking – it was quiet around him. From what he remembered from school, which, granted, wasn’t a lot, the Vikings were proud, dirty and barbaric. Like him. They had weird traditions and believed in some crazy things, so he was currently searching for the one thing, he had found the craziest: a seer.

He wandered around, and had almost given up, when a soft, raspy voice sounded. “Those who ask, shall receive.” He turned quickly, dagger out, ready to cut a neck, when he saw her – old, frail and covered in black shrouds, motioning him to her. He walked slowly to her. “Are you the seer?” she nodded. He followed her inside a small area, carved in a stone and surrounded by dead plants. She sat down, and Dean did as well, looking around; it was a small area, cold and damp – like a grotto, almost.

“I cannot help, unless you seek, wanderer.” She said. Dean frowned. “I, uh… I don’t even know what to ask, honestly.” She grunted. “You do.” Dean stared at her for a while, and then sighed deeply. “Am… Am I ever going home?” she drew a deep breath and leaned back, the shrouds on her face shifting a little. “Home…? That all falls on you, wanderer. Where is your home?” Dean sighed. “I’m not sure anymore.” The seer leaned forwards, grabbing his hand. “I see many swords with you.” Dean rolled his eyes. What the hell would that give him? He had no fucking clue, what she was talking about, much less what he was supposed to understand about it. “The witch, that sent us here. How’ll we get back?” “I cannot tell what we will. Your brother will find a way.” Dean was getting frustrated and yanked his hand back from the seer. “You will do great things. Someone certain of who you are, and what you can become, will be next to you, in a city of marble and stone. I cannot nor will I say more.” She held her hand out, palm up. Dean frowned. “What do you want me to do...?” a snarl sounded from behind the shroud. “Lick. It.” Dean gulped, but leaned forward, his tongue darting out and quickly licking the palm of the seer, before running out of her space – he rinsed his tongue with water and spit on the ground.

“Gross.” A soft laughter sounded behind him. “It is always fun to visit the seer.” Y/n stood behind him, leaned against an old tree, and smiled at him. “Why should I lick her hand? That is the weirdest sense of payment I’ve ever seen.” She grinned at him and grabbed his arm, leading him towards the square.

“It is tradition. She takes from you, as you take from her. Or maybe she is simply a very lonely woman.” She laughed when Dean gagged. “Fuck me, well, I’m not going back again.” She smiled and pointed to a gazebo with furs slung over the railings. “Come. I want to know who you are and where you came from, Dean málm-hridg.” He smiled and felt his cheeks heating up. He also felt seriously underdressed – the itchy tunic and leather pants were nothing in comparison to her; she was wearing a leather corset, that… amplified… Her bust, and Dean had to try his hardest to stop from staring, a light blue, loose shirt and a pair of pants – her axe hung proudly from her belt, and her hair was braided to the side – he hadn’t noticed before today, but it wasn’t just one braid – it was several smaller braids, combined to one. As they sat down, he pointed to her hair.

“What’s with the braids? I’ve never seen you with loose hair.” She shrugged and grabbed a pitcher of mead, poured it into two goblets and handed him one, before leaning back on the bench and stared at the fire in front of her. “Another tradition. A woman’s hair is what shows her status. Braided, she is a fighter, loosely braided, she’s an unmarried fighter, many braids…” she smirked and winked at him. “she’s killed many. Another braid is a kill.” She drank deeply, and Dean followed. He hadn’t tasted mead before, but he could drink it forever – it was like warm honey and strong alcohol mixed into a perfect symphony. “If a woman’s hair is up, she is married. Braided and up? A fighter and very much spoken for. We rarely let karlmaór see us with loose hair. It sends… a message.” He frowned. “Karlmajor?” she smiled softly: “Karlmaór. Men. Average men.” He nodded distractedly. “What… You say average men. Do you have names for other men?” she winked at him, and his heart jumped a little; she was beautiful and probably cunning as hell, but he didn’t mind it – honestly, he sort of welcomed it. She was different from anything he had seen before.

“Well… We have names for men like you, Dean.” His name sounded like fucking candy in her mouth – so soft, smooth but with some sort of dialect behind it. He could listen to his name from her mouth forever. “Yeah?” she nodded and moved a little closer to him. Her mouth was perfect, and in the firelight, she shone like a fucking goddess. “We call men like you orrostumaór. Man of battle, a warrior.” He cocked an eyebrow at her and leaned forwards as well – their knees were touching, and he felt like his leg had caught fire. “I saw you on the field, Dean. You fight with no fear. We call warriors like you berserkers – simply no fear of death, only a taste for the battle and a waiting wish for Valhalla.” He nodded and drew a deep breath. She smelled like lavender.

“I don’t know much about Valhalla. Or your gods, I guess.” She cocked her head curiously to the side – her braid swung delicately from her neck. “How about this. You tell me something about you and your homestead, and I will tell you about our Gods.” He nodded and smirked. “I guess that’s a fair deal.” She poured him another drink; he already felt a little fuzzy from the previous drink, but it was fine. He was fine. “Where do you come from?” he shrugged. “Nowhere and everywhere. We don’t really have a home. When I was a kid, we lived in a place called Kansas, but it’s been a long time gone.” She drank. Her hand was so close to his arm, and he almost felt her twitch to constrain herself from reaching out and touching him. “You are a flakka. A wanderer.” He grinned. “I guess it’s what I am.”

He moved his arm half an inch closer to her and could feel the heat of er fingertips. “What is Valhalla?” she smiled at his question and moved impossible close to him without touching more than a knee with hers.

“Valhalla is the sacred hall, where the Gods meet their warriors, when they fall in battle. The warriors are called einherjerne and Valhalla… Valhalla is made of gold. It has 540 gates, and all of them will open when Ragnarok arrives. The einherjerne fight every day, killing each other in the great hall and are revived by Valkyries to continue the next day. It is glorious and a dream for any warrior to enter the golden, great hall and gaze upon Odin.” Dean hadn’t noticed until now, that her voice had lowered to a whisper and she was close – her lips were tickling his earlobe, and it took all he had to stop himself from attacking her and just taking her then and there.

“Sounds... Gold.” He whispered. She threw he head back and laughed, breaking their close proximity – her laugh was like the sound of waves hitting the shoreline, and Dean had never heard anything like it; he would listen to it forever. “So, Dean…” she said after catching her breath. She looked at him, her wide eyes glimmering with something, he could recognize; curiosity and mischief. “Who are you?” she gulped the last of her goblet, and set it down, looking expectantly at him. He sighed and leaned back.

“oof, that’s a question.” He drew a deep breath and smelled the sweet, subtle lavender from her. “I guess… I… I have no idea. I’ve been a fighter all my life, lost just about everyone around me. I’m…” he looked at her. He felt somewhat strange, telling her these things – he felt calm around her, calm in this place, and it both confused him and made him feel happy. “I’m me, I guess. Not really here or there, and… Fucking hell, I’m really shitty at this. I’m a…. Fighter, loser, all of that.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I cannot believe you to lose. You are a great fighter, Dean. And, from what I can feel… You are also a great man. You must teach me your swears and prayers. They sound fun.” He grinned widely and felt a blush creep up on his cheeks. “Thank you, I guess. And don’t worry, you’ll learn soon enough!” She nodded and stood up with a smile, reaching for his hand. “You are a great man, who need sleep.” He grabbed her hand and stood up – her hand was oddly warm. They walked in comfortable silence to the cottage, and she stopped, turned to him and placed her hands on his shoulders.

“I pity all the women, who refused your proposal. I can promise you, they are clearly missing something in their life.” Se smiled softly. “I believe that is only for my gain.” She whispered. He didn’t have the time to think further of it, because she stood on her toes and kissed his cheek softly.

“Sleep well, málm-hridg.”

Dean looked at her retreating back, the axe-head shining brightly in the moonlight, and as he saw her leave, he smiled to himself; the nickname she gave him felt like a caress and he wished she’d keep calling him that. At the same moment as she disappeared in the night, he realized one thing – he might never leave this place.

And he did not mind one bit.

LIKE THIS? LET ME KNOW!

TAGLIST:

@trustnobodyshootfirst @hobby27 @akshi8278 @wingedcatninja @supernatural-idjit-95 @polina-93 @dean-winchesters-bacon @andkatiethings @flamencodiva @anathewierdo @purplecatterpiller

FOREVERLIST:

@supernaturalmagicfolk @redeyedvixen @al1y @roonyxx @heyitscam99 @sherlockstolemyname @tayyfvck @starletzombie @linki-locks11 @pisces-cutie @luciferspreciousbabygirl @vickyfarley @meganywinchester @drakelover78

33 notes · View notes

bookishreviewsblog · 6 years ago

Text

Karen McManus: One of Us Is Lying (One of U Is Lying #1) | Lara

The Breakfast Club meets Pretty Little Liars, One of Us Is Lying is the story of what happens when five strangers walk into detention and only four walk out alive. Everyone is a suspect, and everyone has something to hide. Pay close attention and you might solve this. On Monday afternoon, five students at Bayview High walk into detention. Bronwyn, the brain, is Yale-bound and never breaks a rule. Addy, the beauty, is the picture-perfect homecoming princess. Nate, the criminal, is already on probation for dealing. Cooper, the athlete, is the all-star baseball pitcher. And Simon, the outcast, is the creator of Bayview High's notorious gossip app. Only, Simon never makes it out of that classroom. Before the end of detention, Simon's dead. And according to investigators, his death wasn't an accident. On Monday, he died. But on Tuesday, he'd planned to post juicy reveals about all four of his high-profile classmates, which makes all four of the suspects in his murder. Or are they the perfect patsies for a killer who's still on the loose? Everyone has secrets, right? What really matters is how far you would go to protect them.

“Things'll get worse before they get better.”

Okay, it’s time to talk about how this book completely blew up my two remaining brain cells and left me drooling and aggressively shipping Nate and Bronwyn. I love it so much when I don’t expect much from the book but then it proves me wrong and makes me feel like an asshole I am for doubting its wonderful existence :,) I always love a book that moves me and I feel like every good book should tend to do so for its reader. One of Us Is Lying did that to me. Not only did it cause waves, no, TSUNAMIS, of emotion but also a sense of fulfillment and nostalgia after I finished it. The struggle of keeping a secret is real, especially if you have to keep it from your loved ones. But how can you keep your secrets safe if your life is constantly monitored for a set-up murder? This book did damn interesting and intriguing that I don’t even know where to start. At first, I kind of thought it will be one of those classic amateur detective mystery novels, but right after the things got in motion, I knew there was something else going on there xd. McManus definitely knows how to attract her audience with a promising story idea and even better realization, and writing that makes it impossible to stay out of this high-school drama and mystery swirl. Amazing plot, cool characters, and murder investigation make it similar to Pretty Little Liars (only this is actually mind blowing and not debilitating, sorry PLL) So, Bayview High is almost as any other high-school, except there, any mistake you make could ruin you. Namely, Simon Kelleher is a weird kid with no friends and eternal wish to belong who started an app called About That where he posts gossip and spills secret about everything he finds out – and he finds out a lot. One Monday, five students enter detention from which Simon doesn’t come out alive. What initially seemed like an accident, turned out to be a well-planned murder. A few days after that a post appears on a Tumblr blog, written in name of Simon’s murderer, causing a series of questions for police, and all students who are blamed for his death. How does a person writing a blog know all those things? Who planted the phones to Nate, Cooper, Bronwyn, and Addy so they ended up in detention? And most importantly, who left peanut oil in the cup Simon was going to drink from and caused the allergic reaction that killed him? The problem is, most of the kids in school really, really hated Simon. This book doesn’t cover just unraveling a crime, but also a process of four teenagers, all obviously different and everyone with something to hide, getting together and trying to find what is missing in among the suspicious circumstances of Simon’s death. I always love reading about American high schools and the way things work there, but this one hit me pretty hard, especially because it covered different types of students from different classes and with various “positions” in high school life. Not only their fellow students, but the whole media community has come upon them for something they might have or might have not done, and turned their lives into a stressful nightmare for public entertainment. It’s funny how a single mistake can dictate how the rest of your life might go. The story is told from the perspective of four characters, and every single one of them is amazing. I don’t feel like McManus went into depths of each character, but that didn’t stop her from developing them not only for the purpose of the plot but also as four lovable characters. Bronwyn is ambitious and adorable grade A student, trying hard to live up to her parents’ expectations and doing everything to protect her sister. Nate’s a local criminal and drug dealer with a soft spot for Bronwyn. His father is drunk and useless and his mother with bipolar disorder left him when he was fourteen, so he kind of learned how to take care of himself. “I want to kiss her more than I want air.” uwu Cooper’s a perfect son and a perfect jock with his perfect girlfriend and perfect friends, but when his big secret comes out, his world becomes way more harder to live in. And there’s Addy, but I didn’t like her as much and hove literally nothing to write about her xd “Unless one of us is lying. Which is always a possibility.”

#books #book reviews #karen mcmanus #one of us is lying #contemporary #mystery #crime #young adult

2 notes · View notes

kriskebob-blog · 6 years ago

Text

Day 4: Rainy Saturdays are for cooking (and Netflix)

Hi all. As I write this, it’s the winding down of a gorgeous (and HOT) sunny Sunday here in CT but when I woke up yesterday, I actually thought it still had to be 6am or earlier because it was so dark in our room. Turns out it was actually 8:30am and just pouring buckets outside. Good day to stay inside and cook some comfort food items.

My second breakfast recipe from Dr. G’s cookbook was definitely simpler than the burrito bake: French toast with a berry drizzle. I also wanted to make a fruit compote for an extra topping. The cookbook’s recipe is titled as a pear compote, but pears are out of season right now, and honestly why would you put a few sad-looking Bartletts in your grocery basket when there are farmstand peaches just up the road? To my delight, when I flipped open the cookbook on Saturday morning I read a line I hadn’t noticed before: you could vary it up by using apples, peaches, or plums in place of the pears. Perfect!

Sam was still sleeping (he tends to be a bit more of a late riser compared to me on most days). I enjoyed the solitude for a bit and diced up four peaches as I listened to the rain. The compote was honestly super easy to throw together once the peaches were chopped. I threw them in a pot with some water, blended lemon, raisins, date sugar, vanilla extract, and some spices. I left that to simmer while I prepped the plant-based version of a dipping mixture for the toast. And in case you’re wondering, no, I did NOT find salt-free bread at the grocery store. I found the whole wheat bread that had the lowest amount of sugar/sodium and least amount of funky-sounding ingredients on the label and called it a day. (As an aside, Sam had thought he’d be required to give up toast completely during these two weeks and was really excited when he came home on Friday and saw a loaf of bread sitting on the counter, it was kind of cute.)

I had to make my own almond milk for the French toast dipping mixture. Dr. G. doesn’t approve of store-brought almond milk, too many chemicals or whatever. Not a whole food! Luckily, I already had almond butter from my first grocery shopping extravaganza of the week. All you had to do by Dr. G’s standard was blend a couple tablespoons of almond butter with some water and ta-da, you’ve got almond milk that’s apparently less likely to kill you. For the French toast, Dr. G. instructed that I needed to mix some ground flaxseed with a bit of warm water and then add it in with the almond milk. More date sugar, vanilla extract, a bit of turmeric and cinnamon, and boom.

Sam was awake by now and I immediately put him on toasting duty. He’s become the defacto breakfast-cooking king in our household over the past 5 years, which is odd really when he’s less the morning person of the two of us. But he genuinely enjoys whipping up eggs, bacon, French toast, etc. on the weekends, and I’ve certainly never been about to stop him. He got out our griddle and began dipping the bread while I set about making the “berry drizzle.” Dr. G advised I use this as a condiment for the French toast in place of maple syrup. It has two ingredients: 1 cup of fresh or frozen berries and a couple of tablespoons of date syrup.

The date syrup became yet another case of my assuming I’d be able to throw together a Dr. G. sauce or condiment quickly in my blender, only to discover I actually needed to soak a key ingredient in hot water for an hour or more. Oops. Oh well. I’d use a tablespoon of agave nectar in its place and that would just have to do.

Here’s the berry drizzle in a super cute pitcher our family friend Kelly gave us as an engagement gift years ago:

Adorable, right? Ignore whatever that spot is on our table. Anywho, I can report that Sam didn’t love toasting the bread on our griddle without using any oil spray. The slices did stick a little but we salvaged most of it. The peach compote had reduced nicely by then and we were in business.

It was super delicious. The peach compote is definitely what made the dish, although the berry drizzle was tasty as well. Both were made with local and in-season fruit so it’s pretty hard to go wrong there.

Sam and I settled in for a lazy morning of Netflix (we’re watching Stranger Things - second watch for me, first time for Sam!). By 11 I had to admit to myself that I really needed to get my ass to the gym, even though it was still miserable outside. I moaned and groaned at Sam (he had gone the night before and wouldn’t be accompanying me) but eventually got my ass into gear. I was curious: I’ve been eating plant-based for, you know, a whole two and a half days now. Would I have more energy at the gym? Would I just be able to sense the power of a thousand vegetables coursing through my veins on the treadmill?

The answer: NOPE. I actually felt a bit more winded than usual which, of course, set off an anxiety thought spiral in my brain. Damn it. Maybe this diet isn’t actually good for me. Am I not getting enough protein? People always harass vegans about their protein, maybe it’s a legitimate concern!

I made it through my workout perfectly fine, though, just a little more tired than usual. I trudged home and showered, and then Sam and I had leftover spinach-mushroom burritos and salad for lunch. The weather still sucked and we didn’t have any plans, so we watched some more Netflix but eventually split up to do our own things. I wanted to read more of Dr. G’s How Not to Die book. It was a huge book, after all, and the clock was ticking on my library loan. I settled in but was having some trouble focusing. I just felt tired. Again I had the thought that maybe this diet wasn’t actually for me. That I wasn’t getting enough or x or y since making this switch a few days ago. I stood up and eyed our pantry shelves. I grabbed a handful of sunflower seeds and ate them, but that didn’t feel quite satisfying (go figure). I noticed the giant container of unsalted roasted almonds I’d bought the day before and decided to take the plunge and open them up. I’m used to eating nuts from those giant mixed nuts containers you get at the grocery store, the ones where even the “33% LESS sodium!!!” version is still salty as hell. So I wasn’t sure what to expect exactly when I tried these unsalted almonds, but I was pleasantly surprised to realize that I actually like the taste of almonds when it’s not completely masked by salt. I grabbed a handful and then went to the fridge and got a handful of blueberries. They tasted amazing together. I happily settled back into my chair and felt myself perking up like a wilted plant that had been watered. By the time Sam came upstairs maybe half an hour later, the clouds had lifted outside and in my brain. We went for a walk. I suddenly felt more energetic than I’d felt all day. Maybe it had just been the dreary weather bringing me down.

We returned home and decided that for the first time, we would try the Monster expansion pack of our beloved Harry Potter tabletop game. It took a long time just to set it up and try to figure out all of the new rules. We then decided to get dinner prepped because it would need some simmering time on the stove: it was gumbo night, y’all! I was excited because I love the flavor profile of Cajun/Creole cuisine. It was pretty easy to prep. Some chopped onion, bell pepper, celery, and garlic went into our Dutch oven with one cup of the homemade veggie broth I’d made the other day. I quickly thawed out the frozen okra in a separate small saucepot and eventually that went into the Dutch oven too with some diced tomatoes (BPA-free, thank you very much~), diced zucchini, and lots of delicious seasoning. We then added quite a bit of broth - everything that was left of the batch I’d made. It was a really nice, thick broth since I had pulverized all of the veggies the water had steeped in. We brought everything to a boil, threw in a can of red kidney beans (not BPA-free, alas), and simmered the gumbo for about half an hour. When it was done, we served it over brown rice, per Dr. G’s suggestion.

Here’s a little pot action before we added in all of the broth and the beans:

And here’s the finished product:

The verdict?? SO GOOD! I loved it and actually got seconds. Sam liked it too; I don’t think he loved it quite as much as I did but then I’ve always been a bigger lover of Cajun food. Dr. G. claims his recipe makes four 1.25 cup servings, but it honestly made WAY more than that for us. I feel like his math was off... like, he accounted for the 6 cups of broth but not the fact that there were a ton of veggies and beans added in to the pot as well?? Not to mention the brown rice. But I’m not complaining, because I love the way it turned out, and it’ll be lunch for the next couple of days now. Oh, and I did salt the veggies a little bit when they were first steaming in the Dutch oven, and our Cajun-free seasoning was definitely NOT salt-free (salt is actually the first ingredient, lawl ¯\_(ツ)_/¯), so I’m sure that helped a bit.

I think that’s really all there is to report! Other than the fact that we went back to our Harry Potter game after dinner and failed miserably. The creatures/villains completely murdered us on round 1. Oh well. Another day maybe...

Cheers to what I think might be my shortest blog post yet. See you tomorrow!

Gadget rec of the day: an electric griddle! We use it almost every weekend. Definitely had to wipe a trace coating of bacon grease from it today though... It’s a lifesaver for us especially since we have such a lousy stove.

Music rec of the day: (Nothing But) Flowers by the Talking Heads

#food #foodblog #foodblogging #veganfood #plantbased #wholefoods #eatingplants

1 note · View note

the-jade-cross · 4 years ago

Text

Burning Water - Chapter VI

Chapter 6

“So… I hope we didn’t miscommunicate,” Maya stuttered as she stared at the door that was the only thing separating her from the brothel of Kings Landing.

The woman, Zarina, smiled at the rather flustered and horrified girl. “Don’t worry. I promised that you would not feel uncomfortable working here. There is a parlor on the second floor. That is where the guests go to eat before or after their stay. No inappropriate behavior is allowed in there. Other than that, you will help with the washing, hanging the sheets to air and collecting the sheets. However, you will only have to remove sheets after the customers have departed. I have been working here doing those same duties here for five years and I have only run into someone having sex once and it was because they were so quiet, I didn’t think anyone was in the room.”

Maya let out a shaky breath, trying to calm her pent-up nerves. “Okay… erm… how will… the guests…”

“They will know you are off limits by a veil or a mask,” Zarina explained. “I only take my veil off when I am either out or there are no guests around. If they see you wearing a mask or a veil or if the lower half of your face is concealed, that means you are off limits. There are a few men who will try to pay handsomely to get their way. It happened once to me but when the man saw my scar, he took it back. You can make up a story… like you have no lips or something and they will leave you alone.”

“Anything else I have to do in order to get this job?” Maya inquired. “Credentials or something?”

Zarina chuckled, “No. Though, it would be nice to know why you came to Kings Landing. Helps to make bonds and build trust.”

Maya pursed her lips, “I… was almost raped back home… my brothers and father found it fit to send me somewhere where I wasn’t known… at least until I grew up and possibly… found a husband or became less… desirable. I am not sure what he meant by that.”

Zarina smiled at the innocent girl. Sixteen years old and she didn’t realize that she would make any man blush at her luscious curves, gorgeous eyes and perfect hair.

“Well, until you see it fit to leave or return home, this will be your new home,” Zarina told her. “I sleep up on the roof at night. It is never too cold at night and it smells less than indoors. Come, I’ll show you.”

Zarina led the girl up the stairs and Maya found with joy that they only ran into a prostitute once or twice, but they were dressed enough that Maya didn’t feel uncomfortable. She was thankful the men had the decency to have their pants on while the girls had only undergarments on, if that.

Once they reached the roof, Maya saw that it was flat with potted plants lining the small roof. There were a couple of hammocks to one side, a pile of pillows in a corner and across from the stairs at the other side of the roof were a few mattresses on the floor.

“All the prostitutes are either working at night or have their own homes so it will just be you and me up here,” Zarina explained. “I like to spread out though and Miss Veer, she runs the place, she likes to change the bedding and mattresses every month… they are used quite roughly so I bring them up here.”

Maya spied a bed that was a little set off from the others and dropped her bag on the red sheets.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Zarina told her with a smile, “I will head downstairs to grab some food. I will be right back.”

Maya sat down on the bed and pulled out her bag’s contents. She slipped her notebook that she used to sketch, write dancing plans and moves or just to write letters. This she slipped under the mattress between the floor and the mattress before pulling out her clothes and setting them in a small basket at the end of the bed.

The hatch to the stairs opened and Zarina stepped back up, carrying a tray with a pitcher of water, some bread, ham and cheese.

“Hungry?” she asked as she sat down at a small crate that she had transformed into a table.

Maya came over and sat cross-legged across from her.

“I didn’t think you drank wine, so I brought some water instead,” Zarina explained, pouring her a glass. “I also brought you these.”

Maya looked up, a bite of ham still in her mouth when she saw what Zarina was holding up. A simple green dress that was much more revealing than the simple dress she wore but a lot more modest than the things the prostitutes were wearing. Similar to what Zarina was wearing.

“I am sorry that it doesn’t cover more but Miss Veer insists. She doesn’t want to ‘scar off’ customers with vulgar dressed women. I think she misunderstands the term ‘vulgar’. Anyway. I also brought you this.”

She reached into her pocket and drew out a golden chain mask which she slipped onto her head to show Maya how it worked, “It will cover your forehead and your lower face. You can see perfectly fine and it is not uncomfortable. However, if you tell the customers that you have a scar or something, they will believe you since it covers enough. It will also help hide your pretty features and that way; less people will become interested in you.”

She took the mask off and held it out to Maya who looked at it before trying to pull it on, but it kept slipping. “Maybe I should do my hair up…”

Zarina nodded before scooting closer, “May I?”

Maya nodded and Zarina set about braiding Maya’s hair into an updo before helping her pull the mask on. Zarina sat back to give her a good look and she smiled, nodding.

“It suits you. Now the dress.”

Maya, knowing that there was no other way to avoid it, stood up and allowed Zarina to help her slip into the dress. As she looked down at herself, she realized that her mother was probably screaming from her grave, but she knew that if she wanted to hide her true self, no one would expect to find Mayaka Tyrell in a brothel in the middle of Kings Landing. This was the safest place to hide. For now.

“So, I do not believe you gave me your name,” Zarina observed.

Maya pursed her lips, thinking of what name to give but realized that everyone but her closest friends and siblings knew her as Maya. Everyone else thought she was just Mayaka.

“Maya. My name is Maya.”

************

A FEW WEEKS LATER

"Up and then to the left," Maya whispered as she swung her leg around, moving her arms in the opposite direction, trying to get the spin jump just the right way.

She tried but stumbled when she landed, huffing. "again," she told herself as she did the movement again.

"Maya! Have you seen the new soap Miss Veer..." A voice called as the hatch opened.

Maya spun around but forgot that she was in midair and she went falling to the ground, head first.

"Maya!" Zarina screamed but her cry died on her lips when the water from the pitcher on the crate shot out from the jar, flew through the air and wrapped around Maya's body like a big bubble, cushioning her fall so that the girl just stumbled onto her backside, the water soaking into the floor below her.

"Wha..." Zarina began but Maya scrambled to her feet and held up her hands.

"Zar, please, don't tell anyone about this...." she started but Zarina's eyes just kept getting wider.

"You're her.... the girl everyone was talking about a few months ago!" she whispered. "The water manipulator... the water dancer..."

Maya hung her head and Zarina's face split into a huge grin, "I was wondering why your name sounded familiar... Mayaka Tyrell. I would have never have guessed to find you here."

Maya shrugged, "Well you did kinda bring me here."

Zarina chuckled before rushing over but then her eyes fell on the wet puddle. Maya quickly began to move her hands and the water evaporated from the floor before she returned it to the jar.

"I promise I wont tell anyone," Zarina told her as the two sat down on one of the beds, crosslegged across from each other. "But Maya, you have to be careful. Not only are you still trying to do this but... men are beginning to notice you. Some of the guests have been asking about you... even some of the male prostitutes!"

Maya's head snapped up but Zarina rubbed her shoulder, "I wont let any of them have you but... the place that you thought would be safe to hide you... might not be as safe as we once thought."

******

Zarina hummed in contentment as she walked down the alleyway toward the brothel. She had gone to town to pick up some food and a little bit of fabric. Maya hated having to leave the brothel, even though that sounded totally perverted but the girl was afraid that someone would recognize her by accident so Zarina would do her shopping for her. The two women had gotten their monthly wage the night before and Maya had asked Zarina to buy a simple bolt of strong dark blue fabric for the dress that Zarina had given Maya two years ago when the girl first arrived was wearing out and tearing in places, so Maya wanted to make a new one and had given her money to Zarina to use.

It was early morning, and the sun was barely up, giving the whole of Kings Landing a dark reddish hue. Few people were up this early except those who worked for a living like the blacksmiths and bakers.

When the woman stepped into the brothel, it was silent. The guests were probably sleeping in the guest room section of the building near the back or they had left, and the prostitutes weren’t yet in. Barely any customers came in the morning so they never had to come in till later but Zarina was always up before dawn doing the shopping she couldn’t do during the day while Maya did her morning rounds, doing laundry and preparing beds.

Zarina stopped in the pantry to drop off the extra food before heading up to the roof. Maya was not there so she set the bolt of fabric on her mattress before heading downstairs to see if she could find Maya to help her with the sheets. She searched every room that was not occupied by a paying overnight guest but there was no sign of the girl.

Beginning to worry and fearing that Maya had stepped outside for an emergency, Zarina hurried to look outside when she heard a muffled voice coming from the linen room. The room was only opened to get fresh linen to replace soiled ones so Zarina crept toward it cautiously, hoping dearly that she wouldn’t open it to find two of the prostitutes having on the side sex in the closet. She quickly threw it open and her heart relaxed when she did not find anyone in there between someone’s legs but then her heart plummeted to her soles when she saw who was in there…. Maya!

The girl lay on the corner of the closet, her knees brought up close to her chest with her ankles tied, wrists bound above her head and attached to a nail in the wall. Linen was spewed on the ground, having been knocked down and there was a gag in Maya’s mouth.

Zarina took in the sight of the girl in an instant and she felt anger boil in her throat. Tears were streaming from Maya’s gorgeous blue eyes that were wide with fears and puffy from constant sobbing. She was trembling in the bonds, bruises littering her bare arms and her skirt was ripped… oh…

“Maya!” Zarina cried, dropping to her knees to unbind the girl and Maya tore off the gag. “What happened!?”

“I don’t know…” Maya admitted as Zarina helped her sit up straight and outside the linen closet. “I…. I was changing the bedding…. And… one of the male workers… he came up and asked if I needed help…I said he could help…. Everything seemed okay… but the next thing I know… everything went black and then I woke up in here two hours ago.” Maya choked out as she tried to still her panting and sobs.

Zarina sighed. Perhaps the man just wanted to steal something, so he knocked Maya out. She prayed dearly that was the case until she saw something that made her blood boil… blood…seeping from between Maya’s legs.

“Maya,” Zarina whispered, cupping the sobbing girl’s face to look her in the eyes. “Do you feel any pain?”

Maya frowned before Zarina stood up and motioned for her to do the same. Taking Zarina’s hand, Maya got to her feet but immediately cried out in pain and doubled over, clutching her lower abdomen close to her thighs.

“Ow… oh ow… why does that hurt!” She cried, tears streaming anew from her eyes. “I have never felt this pain….”

Zarina sighed, feeling tears prick her own eyes when she realized what had happened. “Maya sweetie, we need to get you to the roof and then I need to get a hold of Miss Veer. Do you remember who it was who did this to you?”

Maya nodded weakly as she allowed Zarina to help her up the stairs to the roof. “Olyver’s brother… Octovio.”

Zarina found herself growling in anger as she supported the sore and bruised Maya up the stairs. When they reached the roof, Zarina helped the girl lay down on her mattress and Zarina began to gently remove Maya’s outer clothes. When Maya was in nothing but her undergarments, Zarina saw the extent of the damage. Hand bruises on the girl’s waist. Thankfully the man hadn’t removed her chest wrap which remained intact but her underwear was torn in half and soaked with blood and smelt of semen.

“The bastard,” Zarina hissed as she gently removed the soiled garments from the weeping girl. “He will rot in hell for this.”

After grabbing a damp cloth and helping the girl clean up before redressing her in her nightgown and covering her with the blanket, Maya turned to look at Zarina, tears trickling onto her pillow. “Zar… he… did he… he did didn’t he?” she whispered, lip trembling.

Zarina wished she didn’t have to say this but the look in Maya’s eyes… broken hope… destroyed trust and horrified innocence… she couldn’t lie to her. Slowly she nodded and Maya whimpered, turning to hide her face under the blankets.

The girl gently shushed Maya before stroking her hair. “You stay here. I am going down to find Miss Veer. I will be right back.”

Maya didn’t realize Zarina had left until she heard the trap door open and two sets of footsteps hurry over. Peeking out of the covers, she saw the stern Miss Veer standing with Zarina, a serious look on her face but worry in her eyes.

“May I see you child?” she asked gently as she knelt beside Maya.

Maya weakly nodded and allowed Miss Veer to open her skirt and slide aside her fresh underwear. The woman too one look at the bruised flesh, red puffy eyes, grip marks on her thighs and waist and the still bloody womanhood before standing up and turning to Zarina angrily.

“Rape is punishable by being thrown out of the brothel but this… rape while the other is unconscious… this is punishable by imprisonment and torture. I will inform the authorities and have a guard come and find Octovio. He probably thinks no one would realize what happened since Maya was unconscious. You stay with Maya today. I will have one of the girls take your places for today. Do whatever you need to in order to ensure that this never happens to Maya again. Arm her, change her clothes, whatever you need but fix this.”

Zarina nodded as the woman angrily stormed downstairs, yelling orders to the other workers. Zarina sat down beside Maya who was crying again.

“I am ruined, aren’t I?” she whispered. “I had begun to like being here… with you… and Miss Veer…and I hoped that perhaps if my family every visited Kings Landing, I would return to them but… no one will want me like this… not my sister… not my brothers… not a possible husband… most definitely not my father!”

“Sh,” Zarina cooed. “None of this is your fault Maya. That man will pay for what he did to you and I am certain your family will not hold you responsible and welcome you back with open arms. As for a husband. Every man is a fool for not wanting to marry you, virgin or not. Just because you aren’t a virgin anymore Maya does not mean you are not the innocent, sweet, caring girl I have known these two years.”

Maya whimpered as she remembered her sixteenth birthday and the romantically memorable dance, she shared with the young prince of Dorne. “Not even Oberyn Martell of Dorne, the man whore of Westeros would want me, even if I paid him.”

#got #game of thrones #oberyn #oberyn martell #oberyn Martell x oc #oberyn Martell x you #oberyn Martell x reader

0 notes

wandering-chronicler-blog · 7 years ago

Text

The Songstress

It’d been a while since he’d been in Aboda. The last time he was there was before heading off to the islands of the South Seas, chasing after a wind mage. The hour was late now as he headed down the street. A couple guards walked past him and he saw a group of traders from Windfall talking on one of the piers and torches alight further down the way by the ferry to the islands. He smiled a little as he took a turn and neared a large building that stood at the end of a square. He reached the door and pulled it open just as two people came out, laughing and cheering. Link sidestepped them as he went in.

The bar was busy and filled with people. A waitress squeezed past a goron talking with a zora with a tray on her hands. A couple people sat at a table with numerous others around them, playing cards. A cry from one of the players came as the other one placed another card on the table. The smell of a boar on a spit in the kitchen filled the warm room, while the sound of a lyre and drums came from the stage, singing of two brides in an argument with their mother-in-law. Though Link didn’t know the exact words, Medli had given him the translation the first time he’d heard it.

“Sir,” a man said. Link turned to see a man in a sleeveless leather vest, revealing large muscles. “Weapons are not allowed on the premises.” His eyes narrowed and the folded his arms.

Without a word, Link pulled the green charm from around his neck and held it up. The man’s demeanor changed in an instant. “From The Tower of Hera,” he said.

“Oh. Chosen.” He let his arms fall to his side. “Sorry sir.”

“It’s alright.” He let go of his charm and it fell to his collar. “I’m looking for a rito, maybe you’ve seen her?”

“Describe her.”

“About my height. Auburn hair. Probably…”

“Link! Over here!” Medli cried. She waved to a table near the left side of the stage.

“I guess over there!” the man said with a small chuckle. “Anything else?”

“Mmm, drinks?”

“I’ll send someone over.”

“Thanks.” Link turned away and started for the rito. She laughed a little as he approached and shook her head.

“You really have to bring your sword and shield?” she asked, opening her arms. The two shared a hug before she let go and pulled a chair out for him at the table.

“A Chosen doesn’t go anywhere without their tools,” he replied.

“Still, how likely are you to run into trouble here?”

He chuckled a little as he pulled out another chair for her and sat down. “Well, I’m not leaving them in Epona’s bags.”

Medli nodded in thanks as she sat next to him. The table had a couple things already on it including a deck of cards, a pitcher of water and glasses. “I ordered us the buttered apples for a treat.”

“Ah, perfect.” He rolled his head on his shoulders a little. “So, I miss the band yet?”

“Just the first set.” She grabbed the deck of cards and flipped through them quickly. “Haven’t seen Marin yet though.”

“Who?”

“Their lead vocalist.”

“Aaaah…” He chuckled a little. “Aryll’s letter said she and the band was incredible when she saw them a couple months back when they went through Azundella.” The performers on the stage finished their song. There were a couple humans, a goron and two rito. One of them had long plumage and feathers akin to a peacock, while the other looked like a white and blue macaw with a large accordion in his feathery hands. The group bowed on the stage to applause before filing out.

“They usually don’t go that far inland.” Medli poured him some water as the crowd grew quiet. Link glanced up to the stage once more to see a woman walking out. She was dressed simply in a blue dress and held a harp in her arms. She went to a stool and pulled it over, tossing her red hair over her shoulder before sitting down to tune her harp briefly. The audience fell quiet and she took a deep breath, looking out upon the crowd.

Her fingers began to dance along the strings. Link recognized the tune, but had never heard it played so skillfully. After a couple bars, she began to sing. He didn’t know the language, but knew the tune and could see the story she was telling. A tale of an island of dreams and an ancient egg on its highest summit. Of how The Hero of Legend came to the island to chase away the nightmares. How he fought the evils in the minds of the island’s inhabitants and saved them. He didn’t notice the apple that was oozing with its juices and a dollop of goat butter planted on top of it was placed under his nose. He was only vaguely aware of how the charm around his neck shook on its golden string. The songstress’ song came to an end and she got to her feet. After a brief bow, the tavern began to applaud. Some got to their feet even. The Chosen Champion was among them.

As the applause died down, he took hold of the charm in his hand. “Yes?” he asked.

“You busy?” Lana asked in his mind.

“Vacation,” he replied, squeezing the stone a little. Medli noticed and looked to him as she sat back down. “Sorry, give me a minute.” Link walked away from the table to a quiet corner of the tavern. “What’s going on?”

“We might have a small problem down there,” Lana said. “And I’m sorry about bothering you on your break but you’re the only Chosen who Rauru thinks could handle the thing.”

“What’s going on?”

“There’s a basilisk down there that’s made off with a couple cattle. The Provincial Governor wants someone to deal with it before it kills some people. And the closest guys are over by Calatia right now.”

He groaned a little. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll look into it first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll tell them too that you’ll be taking whatever time off that is taken here.”

“Thanks.” He let go of the charm and shook his head. Alfonzo had always said that being a Chosen meant sometimes vacations would be cut short or interrupted. He was thankful at least that he wasn’t anywhere near the capitol. In the past year he had wanted to stay as far as possible from there for a myriad of reasons.

When Link got back to the table, he saw the songstress sitting next to Medli. The two women laughed together. Medli shook her head as she grabbed her drink and took a sip carefully.

“So, that’s why I’m not allowed back,” Marin said.

“I’m sure that he’s quite happy about that,” Medli replied. “You and Pavo do that at every arcade you find.”

“Well, it’s just so boring otherwise! And I like putting them in their places.” She looked up at Link. “Oh, and this must be the hero who helped you with the winds!”

“I see Medli’s told you about me,” Link said as he sat back down.

“I’ve been tempted to write a song about it.” She offered a hand across the table. “I’m Marin.”

“Link.” He gently took it and shook.

“Everything alright?” Medli asked.

“Just a basilisk I need to deal with.” He looked to his baked buttered apple before grabbing his fork. “I’ll deal with it in the morning so it doesn’t interfere with my vacation too much.”

“Need any help?”

“If you’re offering.” He sank his fork into the apple and tore a piece off. It seemingly melted away the moment it entered his mouth as he smiled a little.

“Sure.”

“So you do this thing all the time then,” Marin reasoned. “Can’t be an easy life.”

He swallowed his second bite of the sweet. “Not really, but rewarding.” Link smiled a little. “Get to help a lot of people. And I’m trained for it.”

“Like the adventure you had in the seas with Medli.”

“Yeah. Yeah like that.” He glanced at the handmaiden for a moment who raised a feathery hand. The small gesture told Link everything he needed. Though she’d shared some of the details, the more sensitive ones had remained secret. It was a part he didn’t always like, but knew the importance of it. Especially some of the more dirty political details of his work.

“Y’know, she’s never told me exactly how you two met. Just that you ran into each other on Windfall.”

“We did. Literally.”

“Link!” Medli cried with a laugh.

“The winds were so bad that day she crashed into me as I was looking for a ship to take me to the freighter. In the middle of that big plaza by the wheel in Windfall.”

She laughed a little. “Feathers everywhere?”

“Not quite,” Medli admitted.

“So,” Link began. “How much has she told you about our adventures?”

“Well, it took you to the islands and dealing with pirates and men made into monsters by a mercenary lord who was seeking to reclaim his glory all because of a wind mage.” She studied him with a small smile. “I’m sure there’s some details that got left out given that charm around your neck. Which, would be expected given as well the fact that you are going after a basilisk tomorrow morning it sounds like. To say nothing of the fact that Medli insisted she couldn’t answer all the questions I had about the monsters, or the mage who gave him the information to make the monsters.”

That was more than he expected, but he was impressed how she’d pieced some of it together. “Very perceptive of you. So, how’d you figure that out?”

“Which part?” She took a sip of her drink.

“That the mage was responsible.”

“Mmm…” She put her mug down. “Well. Conservation of detail for one. As a storyteller, you only have so much to use. So, you want to make sure you’re using the right words in the right way to convey the meaning of it. Giving too many details can make things far too confusing, as well as drag the pace along. Could lose your audience’s interest. You need some, especially for mysteries, in the form of red herrings, or general detail to help make the world feel alive, but… Too much when it comes to storytelling can be just as bad as too little.” Marin waved a hand slightly. “Medli made mention of the mage being involved with the wind problems, but also that you ran into the monsters there, after the mercenary lord had been dealt with. So, clearly the mage was responsible because most mercenaries would not hold enough power to have that sort of magic at their disposal. He put it all in motion. Why’s the question I could never get answered. And I’m guessing I won’t because of state secrets.”

Link chuckled a little as he took another bite of his apple. “Impressive. So what’s kept you from writing a story about this?”

“Research. A good storyteller knows their material to convey and knows how to use it. And right now I’ve only had a chance to speak with Medli about it. You have enough information then you can figure which details are important and which one aren’t. Like… Like the song I just finished here.”

“Ballad of the Wind Fish, right?”

“Yes.” She smiled a bit at him. “Tale of Koholint Island. And there’s a few different versions of that tale. Little changes to it throughout the world.”

“Example?”

“Depending on where you are, it could have changes to its tale. For example, if you’re hearing a version from Termina, it involves some of the mythology from that land a little. Such as talking how the Wind Fish was cursed because of Ikana’s greed. Or in the islands. Where it’s the tale of an island that was ensnared by a dark dreaming god and it was up to The Hero to save it. But, the dark god was a sore loser. So he sank the entire island.”

“Haven’t heard that version before.”

“It’s not a common telling. Heard it from a fortune teller on Ember Island. It’s probably also one of the more darker tellings of The Hero’s adventures.”

“Aaah.”

“Heard a lot of his stories?”

Link nodded. “Yeah. Was a lot of them we heard back at The Tower. Heard the one about the ghosts and the ranch?”

“I have. Termina retelling.”

“What about the cursed princess?”

“Which one? The one who got turned into a striga, a stone statue or a frog?”

“What about the one with the picori?” he quickly replied. “And the talking hat?”

“Okay, that one I haven’t heard of. What’s it-”

“Marin!” the goron on the stage called. “Time for the next act!”

She spun around in her chair to see him waving her over. “Well, intermission over.” Marin pushed off the table and out of her chair. “It was good to meet you. “

“Same.” He smiled at her.

“Enjoy the rest of the show.” She started for the stage.

Perhaps it was a little curiosity about her tales and the versions she knew. Or there was the natural curiosity of what other things she’d performed. There was also that smile and her red hair that seemed to just make her all the more striking with her slight accent and incredible voice. “Hey… Marin?”

“Yeah?” She turned back around.

“Can I buy you a drink after? I’ll tell you enough to finish your story. Just not the stuff that’s under Crown Seal.”

There was that smile, wider than before and a glint in her eye. “I’d love to.” With that, she went back to the stage, grabbing her harp off the stool she’d used earlier. The rest of the troupe had come on and were tuning their instruments.

“You can stop grinning now,” Medli said to Link quietly.

“Mmm? I’m not grinning.”

She laughed a little. “Yes you are. And blushing a little.”

#Link #Marin #Medli #The Legend of Zelda #Link/Marin #Fanfic #Zelda AU #The Wolf of Farore

6 notes · View notes

mrtroy · 4 years ago

Text

The Scores Have Changed, My Childhood Is Over, and I Think I Might Understand How Other People Look At Sports

Originally from December 5th, 2010

To say that the last twenty plus years of my life have been completely and hopelessly consumed by sports may be the grossest understatement I have ever put into print, yet until just recently, I don't think I had a grasp on what a more "normal" sports following could be like. I'm still not sure I am willing to accept this concept of "social sports fan-dom" as I'll call it, but it might be worth a prolonged look.

Let me explain.

I suppose that to best understand where I'm at now, it might be best to understand where I am coming from. I think I need to blame my mom for setting me off on this crazed obsession, or maybe the blame should go the Oakland A's for the utterly disappointing display they put on in the 1990 World Series. As I had really started to get into baseball in the Summer of '90, Mom had the great idea of taping the World Series. While other 5 year-olds were perfectly content watching Mr. Rogers zip up his cardigan every morning, Mom knew that if she was lucky a good World Series could provide my baseball fiending mind with seven games of pure VHS-driven bliss. At roughly 3 hours a game, played back ten times each, Mom would have 200 hours of fodder to answer the question, "Mom, when are they going to start playing new games again."

And then, Jose Rijo, Barry Larkin, Chris Sabo and the Don't Stand A Chance Reds had to ruin everything. It wasn't so much the fact that they won the series as it was that they did it in such decisive fashion that added insult to injury. Four games, and it was over. The minimum. The very least. And worse, Game 1 was a 7-0 blanking, and Game 3 was a convincing 8-3 rout in which the Reds put up 7 in the third, and the rest of the game was a mere formality. Translation: My to-be friends of 18 years later, Nathan Clinkenbeard, and Nate Kohrs, rejoiced as their Reds won it all, but more relevant to the situation at the time, I was left without much good winter baseball to tide me over until April.

I watched the tape, and all I wanted to do was to be able to break a bat on my back the way I had seen Reds journeymen outfielder Glenn Braggs do it. I emulated the overly pronounced batting crouch of Rickey Henderson, and began to wonder how Harold Baines could hit a ball so far, despite never looking like he was even swinging hard enough to hit the ball as far as I did in T-Ball.

In '91 things worsened. For some reason I got the Pittsburgh Pirates lineup in my head, and every day in the back yard I would throw the ball up to myself, hit the ball, run around imaginary bases, take a break to become an imaginary outfielder to retrieve the ball, and then switch back to being the base runner to continue running. Every day, it was Cubs and Pirates. I can remember getting mad at myself, and actually sitting down and pouting for extended periods of time because when it came time for Sid Bream's at-bat I ran too fast. Sid was a notoriously slow runner in real life, and I wanted to maintain a certain level of realism in my one-man re-enactments. Apparently in my excitement I had forgotten who I was supposed to be impersonating, and run too fast. In my six-year old world, this was enough to ruin my day.

The Fall came, and with it a Fall Classic for the ages. Why Mom didn't tape this one, I'll never know. Although, if she had, I may still be watching it. The Braves and Twins treated me to seven games of pure ecstasy. Although, all I cared about was the sweet headstand that Greg Olsen went into after a collision at the plate. Sports Illustrated put Olsen on the cover, and I spent all winter trying to duplicate the feat in my basement. Here's a look at the photo; it's a miracle I didn't break my neck. ( http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/cover/featured/9301/index.htm )

It was also in '91 that I first realized there were other sports other than baseball, as the Bulls were on their way to capturing their first title. I don't remember much of the season, other than laying on the floor with a basketball in my hand trying to mimic the Michael Jordan poster in my room.

History seemed to repeat itself over the next few years. The Bulls won another title and the Braves were in the World Series again in '92. I was incredulous to the fact that Otis Nixon would try and bunt his way on while representing the Atlanta's last shot to extend the series. I was mad about that until about March of '93 until Mom and Dad packed my brother and I into a conversion van and we set our sites on Mesa, Arizona for Cubs spring training. We ran into Cubs' pitcher Mike Morgan in the parking lot, he gave my mom his hat, and sent me into a swoon of idol-worshiping that would last even longer than Morgan managed to bounce around the big leagues.

**Side Tangent** I remember being in a bar in the Phoenix area eating dinner, and everyone was going crazy about the Phoenix Suns as they were on their way to meeting the Bulls in the Finals. And yet, all I cared about was that Steve

Buechele, Cubs third baseman was sitting a few tables away. I remember my French fries getting cold because I was too mesmerized to eat.

Later in '93 the Toronto Blue Jays won another World Series, and I began to understand for the first time what it was like to feel compassion. Mitch Williams gave up the famous home run to Joe Carter that sent Canada into a a frenzy, and while everyone was celebrating, all I could think about was how mad people were going to be at Mitch Williams for blowing it.

1994, my life almost came to a screeching halt. The day before I turned 9, the Major League Baseball Players strike started, and eventually culminated with the cancellation of the World Series. You may as well have cancelled my birthday, Christmas, New Years, Easter and any other meaningful holiday. We're talking total devastation.

Luckily in '95 baseball came back with a new playoff system, and I had spent the entire off season reading. It was about this time in school that we had to do free reading every day, and we had to write about it. Our school library had a seven or eight book series highlighting the different aspects of baseball that someone could be good at. The books were entitled, "Speed," "Power," "Pitching" etc. I read these books over and over. They were large format books that I think I would consider to be rotating coffee table material if I came across them today. Little matter, I read them cover to cover, and they had these charts that listed the all-time leaders in many of baseball's statistical categories. After a while, I'd just read the charts. Time, and time again. For some reason, knowing who was the best at certain things excited me. Even if this person had been dead for 60 years. The pages came alive in my mind, and even though I had never seen Ty Cobb play, never known anyone who had, or had any rooting interest for his team, the Detroit Tigers, I was fascinated by what the numerical data next to his name could teach me about him. I would later go on to read that Tyrus Raymond Cobb (I developed a penchant for knowing players full names) was not so much of a good guy, but actually was a mean spirited bigot. It was at this time that I remember being glad that many of his most hallowed records had been broken.

Around this time I also discovered that each morning the glorious, glorious sports editors at The Chicago Tribune published box scores for all the major sports action from the night before. It was an unbelievable development. Now I had happened upon a way to read new and evolving history, every morning. League leaders in all the statistical categories, short recaps of what had happened, and overall numbers galore; every day was better than the last. Ken Griffey Jr. was tearing up the American League with home runs on what seemed to be a daily basis. On the other side of the page in the paper, Greg Maddux was shutting down the National League, and further cementing himself as the best pitcher of his generation, (in my mind at least) and elevating himself to Greek God-like status in the mind of my father.

It was at this time that the foundation for my current sports revelation first planted its seeds. Although, I didn't know it at the time. I was too busy counting home runs to realize what was going on, but inside there was also this great love of Maddux developing as well. This really had nothing to do with Maddux himself, as he had moved on from the Cubs to the Braves a few years earlier, and I could no longer watch him on a day to day basis. This had all to do with Pops. Seeing my father get such enjoyment out of simply reading that Maddux shutout another opponent was very cool to me. And, as is the case with many father-son duos, I loved Maddux because Pops loved Maddux.

These trends continued. I read as much baseball statistical data as I could get my hands on, and I looked to Pops to find new interests to follow in the paper each morning.

Lots of guys rose to prominence at this time. But it wasn't necessarily the guys that were established that caught my eye. It was the young guys. Despite the fact that Maddux would go on to play for more than twenty years, he was old news by the time I really got into following this sort of thing. He was Pops' guy. Pops didn't much care for the new-age stars like a Ken Griffey Jr., but we could agree on a guy like Chipper Jones, the all-American can't miss kid, or Derek Jeter the emerging star of the Yankees. We weren't fans of their teams, but they were in the post season every year, and it was easy to watch them progress.

Then came the star of stars for Pops and I. Tiger Woods. Pops had been reading up on him for years, and by the time he burst onto the scene in '96, Pops had already drank about six quarts of the Tiger Koolaid. Every week our love grew, with every major championship, it wasn't just that Tiger had won, it was as if Pops and I had won. We won because we had followed him, we had read about him, and along with millions of others, we knew he was going to be good. And, every time he won, he elevated himself further into this land of unthinkable admiration. Never before had there been an athlete of whom I had come to expect so much from that had actually been able to deliver. Not only had he been able to deliver, but each time he delivered, he seemed to do it in such a way that I couldn't help but just think, man, I love this guy.

Time continued on, and my enthrallment with the games that these men played continued to grow. '96 marked the beginning of the Yankees run of dominance, and with it much reading of Yankee lore. Also I remember teaching Mom how to keep a proper score book for a baseball game. We'd watch the World Series, and while she didn't know Mariano Duncan from Duncan Hines, she came to learn that if there was a ground ball to Mariano at second, she would enter a 4-3 in the score book as soon as he recorded the out at first base.

As the numerical world inside my head expanded further, It may not shock you to learn that my abilities on the field experienced an inverse reaction. Once in possession of an above average fastball and an hefty appetite for shagging fly balls, by the time freshmen year of high school rolled around, my role on the high school baseball team had been reduced to pencil pushing scorekeeper, infield practice facilitator, and blowout mop-up inning specialist. This didn't so much bother me, as I recall an instance where I rushed out of an early season practice so my mom could drop me off at a fantasy baseball draft where I was the youngest guy in the room by about 30 years. (I picked up Mike Sweeney late in that draft, and was smiling cheek to cheek all season as he hit well over .300) My uncle Tony was nice enough to let me tag along in his fantasy league for years, and I remember the best day of the week being when the old stat packets would show up in the mail, and I'd spend all afternoon breaking down what the other team owners were doing, and what we could do to improve on our perpetual 7th place standing. This was before all of the fantasy sports had moved to the Internet, and while I have come to appreciate the ease in which I can stay connected to fantasy sports nowadays, there was something magical about tearing open that envelope to find out that we'd moved up a half a point, and were now only a point and a half out of 6th place!!

Eventually the Internet won out for statistical tracking, and while I was sad, this transition gave me access to entire portals of data that were completely dedicated to my passions. Living with my buddy Ed Liss my freshmen year of college, he must have thought I owned a partial stake in www.basketball-reference.com. While I wasn't much of an NBA fan at this point, the historical standings, all-time leader boards, and player searching capabilities kept me occupied for hours on end. In fact, my choice of the University of Illinois to go to college in the first place was a choice that I made in large part due to the Big Ten sporting atmosphere that I knew I'd experience while I was there.

Jeff Renfro and I lived and died along with every play of the Illini's historic run to the Final Four in 2004-05, and I'll never forget going to games in the years following with Melissa Colgan, Suzan Balch, Gregg Conn, and countless others. I wore my Luther Head # 4 shirt to every game, and for something like 41 times in a row, if I wore the shirt, the team didn't lose. It was unbelievable.

In 2008, the Illini football team made a rare appearance in the Rose Bowl, and took on the heavily favored Trojans of USC. The family made the trek out to Pasadena for the game, only to watch our team get thoroughly trounced. Walking out of the stadium, if I would have had a tail, it would have been tightly tucked away between my legs as if I were a puppy who had just ruined a garden full of freshly planted petunias. The Illini had been humiliated, and so too had I.

I'm not sure if my transformation really started because the teams I rooted for never won, or if it was just gaining a new perspective that can only come with growing up, but I started to realize, maybe the keys to the games didn't so much lie in the encrypted world of statistics.

Time passed and one by one, the sports heroes of my childhood faded away. Maddux retired after the '08 season, and watching Ken Griffey Jr. limp through his final days in Seattle early in the 2010 season really put the nail in the coffin of my childhood. Sure, I was 25 years old at this point, and far from actually being a child, but here was the guy whose jersey I had, baseball cleats I had, video games I played, baseball cards I collected, and the guy who I had simply first known as "The Kid." And here he was, 40 years old and unable to keep his legs healthy enough to play every day. I may not have been a kid anymore, but Ken Griffey Jr. was my childhood.

And so I thought, "This is what it was like for Yankee fans as they watched Mickey Mantle hobble around the bases in 1968? This was the anguish of watching Johnny Unitas try and hang on with the Chargers, or Willie Mays with the Mets?" The unmistakable ending of an era, right before your eyes.

It was awful.

No amount of statistical data could save me, either. On the stat sheet, Griffey Jr. may have hit 630 career home runs, but that was just it, at this point, those were just stats. They were history. The guy who could never get old, got old. And just like that, he was gone. Next thing I knew, Chipper Jones tore his ACL, and there is a good chance his career could be coming to an end shortly. Somehow Derek Jeter is 36 now and has just negotiated the final contract of his career. All of these guys that I associated with my childhood, they're old. Sure, there are always new players, and there will always be guys to make assaults on the record books, but unfortunately for me, for every new young star that comes along, I'm no longer going to be that little boy who doesn't know any better than to worship the ground on which he stands. The innocence it takes to one day envision yourself running the bases at Wrigley Field or Yankee Stadium, these thoughts can only be conjured up by the mind of a pre-pubescent teen. I'm sure a new young star will enter the game in the coming years, and there's a good chance I'll admire the level at which he's honed his skills, but there's no way he'll turn me into a major leaguer, the way I thought Ken Griffey Jr. could.

Maybe that's why golf, despite being what most would call a boring game, has endured over time and remained relevant. In no other sport can a guy like Jack Nicklaus win major championships 24 years apart, or a guy like Tom Watson compete a few months shy of his 60th birthday for an Open Championship. For any average 50 year-old watching Watson toil at Turnberry, an opportunity arose for them to remember back to when the same guy did they same thing at the same course- when they were in high school. Just think of that.

All of this leads me back to Tiger Woods. My sports equivalent to a Lord and Savior. Mine and Pops guy. The same guy who prompted Pops to call me in June of 2008 when I was at the College Baseball World Series in Omaha, Nebraska, just so Pops could channel his inner Dan Hicks and give me the play by play of Tiger's famous putt.

"He's lining it up. Now he's walking around it. You know, looking at it from every angle, like he always does. He really seems to be taking longer than he usually does on this one..."

At this point, the baseball game I'm watching is in between innings, and not much was going on, but Pops continued.

"Alright, I think he's finally ready. I think it's about 18 feet or so. He putts it. And....Ohhh my gosh Matt, HE MADE IT. HE MADE IT. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. HE MADE IT!!"

At this point, I let out a loud cheer 450 miles away in Omaha. I'm sure the people around me were looking at me like I was crazy, but at this point, I didn't care. Tiger had done it! The guy was playing with a torn ACL, and a broken leg, and the next day he would go on to with the U.S. Open. This is the kind of legend that Mark Twain couldn't write, and Steven Spielberg couldn't make any more sensational.

A year and a half later when the world came to find out that Tiger wasn't exactly the guy everyone thought he was, I was crushed. While his feats on the golf course should not be diminished in light of the details that came out of his personal life, the mystique and the aura that he carried with him could never be the same. Steroids rocked baseball, the NBA after Michael Jordan lacked the luster that it once had, the NFL, while great, had never had quite standing in my sports universe, but this was more than those combined. This was fifteen years of bonding between my father and I that all the sudden seemed hollow. Sure, those events that we cheered about still happened, but the big part of what made it so special was the fact that it was Tiger, and up to that point, he had represented all of the things that my parents had tried to teach me to be. A hard worker, a fierce competitor, and a well-rounded individual away from sports. I should be clear in emphasizing that my parents never told me to emulate Tiger, or any athlete for that matter, yet his case just so happened to be one was easily relate-able. With the deeper meaning of what Tiger meant to my father and I now in question, I was sent searching.

This all helped me realize that being a sports fan is not about the people who play them, or the stats they accumulate.

You can say that I'm going "soft," or that in this moment in time I must be feeling overly sentimental, but, I think I'm ready to come to grips with the fact that being a sports fan is about sharing your rooting interest with those around you.

Really? You had to spend thousands of words to figure that out, genius?

I never thought I'd say it, but being able to share these moments with others means more than a box score ever could. Sure winning helps, but the jubilation I watched my friends experience when the White Sox won the World Series in 2005, or the way people partied when the Bears advanced to the Super Bowl after the 2006 season, none of that would have existed in a vacuum. Sure, you'd be excited if a team you'd rooted for your whole life finally achieved their goal and won something, but being able to call up your dad, or party with your buddies, or text your uncle, those are the things you remember.

I look back fondly on that U.S. Open, not for how it turned out, but for the memories I have with my father. I think back to the Final Four with Renfro reduced to tears as we watched players from North Carolina cut down the nets. I remember an Illini basketball game where it appeared as though Rich McBride had hit a last second shot to beat Penn State. The shot was later overturned, but my memory of clutching the arm of my friend Jessica Young, hoping against hope that somehow they'd overrule the call can't be taken from me. The Rose Bowl from '08, my most indelible memories are of my friends Tim and Meghan Michaels having a comical battle with their GPS as we drove around LA. To this day I don't watch an Illini fooball game without thinking of Steve Contorno and his detest for my old E.B. Halsey Illini football jersey. Halsey has moved on, and the jersey is gathering dust in my closet, but that one little morsel of a fact has been enough for Steve and I to remain friends five years after the fact.

The fantasy sports I play today, I no longer have rabid tendencies to devour stats, or prove to anyone that I'm smarter than they are. In fact, the playful ribbing of a Steve Hild, or the incessant banter of Jeff Lizzo, Kevin Barry and Drew Stiling mean more to me than winning a fantasy league title ever could.

I often wondered as people sat in the stands at games, or watched on TV, how they could fully enjoy the experience without knowing that the last time there had been a statistical oddity like this or that was in 1974, and before that 1921, and so on and so on. Rather, I've moved on. Beyond all the statistics, and all the analysis lies the significance of human emotion. And while I may never be able to quantify it, and it may have taken me longer than most to come to this conclusion, it really is what sports are all about.

0 notes

stillpartofthisworld · 7 years ago

Link

Synopsis: Angus learns first-hand the risks of his career and begins a new one. Taako isn’t happy.

(I deserve to burn for what I’ve written….)

Story under the cut! Note: Major character death

"You gonna need this gift wrapped?"

Taako snaps out of his daze and brings his attention to the small human girl in front of him. She was holding a book in her hands- the newest installation of the Caleb Cleveland: Kid Cop series. For a moment, Taako wonders why he's there. In a small, cozy bookshop, looking down at a girl who defo needs some face cream, those pimples are just-

"Sir? You alright?"

Oh .

The world finally sews itself back together, memories clicking into place as Taako waves his hand in the universal "no" gesture.

I'm not alright.

"Nah, no gift wrapping for me, hombre. How much is the kid book?"

She tells him and he pays, giving her a tip because that's what he felt like doing today, not because of the understanding look she gives him, or the casual slide of the tissue box that he clearly did not need (he wasn't about to ruin his eyeliner for anything). He gives her a few extra gold and even the name of a good cleanser (it'll do magic, honey, no pun intended-) because that's what he felt like doing as he exited the small shop and put on his sparkling frame sunglasses, even though the sky was overcast with clouds. It was a fine day, he told himself, and he was doing just fine as he headed over to Lucretia’s house.

---

Lucretia's modest cottage is sometimes referred to as a "safe house".

It's a quaint little place, all brick and class-the same things Lucretia herself was probably made out of. Most of the actual property is a green space, filled with forest and meadow and a small greenhouse for Merle's more...interesting specimens. It's also quite close to the Neverwinter Grand Library, Lucretia's only pride and joy on the prime material plane. She spent an unholy amount of time there, only coming home for a change of clothes and to chastise the guests who use her home as a sort of vacation house.

She spends a lot of time at home now.

Taako slips in through the kitchens back door with a key that hangs fashionably around the neck of his hat. It's one of the few copies Lucretia had made for the IPRE crew, along with a few others. Through the years, her home became sort of like the Starblaster all over again, filled with Lup's laughter, Davenport's postcards, Lucretia’s writing, Magnus's hugs, Merle's dances and Barry's stammer. It was what "home" meant to them now, even when they each had an apartment, a bungalow or a lab somewhere else on the continent. It was where they truly came together again and lived, making up for the lost time through closeness and touch and sight.

It was now also home to whispers and deep sighs, which Taako could hear all the way from the other side of the house.

"...worried about him, Magnus. He's been like this since..."

"...seems to be getting a bit better. He was able to get up yesterday, wasn't he?"

"The symptoms aren't...we can't wait for Lup and Barry forever. He can't wait-"

"He's a strong boy, 'Creesh. He already seems to be on the mend."

"So were you. All those years ago, so were you. "

The voice cracks and dissolves into muffled sobs. Taako hears Magnus's footsteps as he gets up and hugs Lucretia tight, as if he could shield her from the fate of the boy that lay in bed a floor above them.

The same boy Taako was going to see now.

The wooden steps didn't creak under his light weight as he sneaks past the pair and tiptoes up the cedar staircase. Even from this distance, he can hear the boy's labored breathing as he fights a losing battle for his life. Each breath, each step assails the wizard with memories, memories of how, exactly, this all came to pass.

The memory of Angus, dirty but whole, screeching and jumping into Taako's arms when they finally land back on the material plane in the Starblaster.

The memory of Angus's face, stricken but resigned, as the crew starts to decide how to restart and rebuild on this broken continent.

The memory of his cherubic, beaming grin as Magnus offers to take him in, with Taako appearing every so often for impromptu magic lessons.

The memory of a boy slowly but surely maturing into a young man, to the point where Taako isn't even sure exactly when Angus came to be his height, or when he was able to cast level eight spells like it was nothing. He, unlike most teenagers, never adopted a sullen or snappy temperament. Taako is almost sad that this never happened. Almost.

The memory of Angus, now seventeen years of age, taking on a case of a mysterious death by apparent poison. He enlists the help of Lup and Barry for this task, reportedly sending them samples of blood and plants every so often.

The memory of Magnus showing Taako the note Angus left him, detailing that he had found the murderer and would be capturing him during a train ride to Rockport. Back soon, he wrote.

The memory of Angus in a hospital, seizing and shivering violently as Merle tries to draw the poison out of his system. The culprit is gone in a wisp of ash and screams, and the authorities try to explain what had happened to a sobbing Magnus and pale Lucretia. The culprit had apparently found a new species of deadly mushroom spores. Barry and Taako both shoot a glance at Magnus.

The memory of Lup sitting Taako down in their room, telling him what they already both knew. The mushroom shares the exact same qualities as the one they had found on another plane a century before, the one Magnus had succumbed to all those lifetimes ago. Angus is not much younger than the IPRE Magnus. Lup reassures him that they are trying everything they can to create a cure. Taako smiles and high fives his sister, digging his feet into the floor in an attempt to stop them from shaking.

The memory of Magnus rushing in and finding Taako curled up in a ball on his chair, dry sobs escaping him as Magnus holds him tight, nearly crushing his ribs and making him forget whether or not he's breathing.

Is he breathing?

Taako takes a breath.

He's standing outside the kid's door now. The door is never shut, never locked in fear of missing something, of missing someone. The room is dark, save for a lamp beside the bed where Angus lay. He's sitting up now, reaching for his glasses in order to make out the small figure that stood at his door frame. They were no longer the wire-rimmed, owl-eyed glasses he had worn in his childhood-these looked professional, rectangular shaped with gold frames and pieces of jade at the temples. That was Taako's gift to him on his sixteenth birthday. How happy he had looked when he looked in the box. How vibrant. How youthful.

The vibrancy he had less than a year ago has been drained from McDonald's very being. The detective looks ghastly pale, with deep purple bags under his eyes even though he had just woken up from sleep. He moves slowly, painfully, deliberately, as if living needed to be choreographed to ensure minimal pain.

Taako moves closer as the boy's eyes focus on him, and his listless features carve themselves into a deliberate smile. "Hello, Sir," he rasps weakly, waving at him with long, skeletal fingers as he grasps for a drink with his other hand, missing the glass on his nightstand by a mile.

Taako waves his wand. The glass gently lowers itself into Angus's outstretched palm, the water from the pitcher floating up from its vessel to fill the glass. Angus smiles and takes a sip, clearing his throat as he settles himself into a cross-legged position. The light green shirt that used to be barely his size now hangs free from his body, his legs still covered by the heavy duvet. He seems to get chills often. It also seems to be summer.

Taako breathes.

"Hey there,kid," he says as he ruffles the kid's hair. "Guess what your dude bought you?" He puts the book behind his back and flashes him a smirk when he sees Angus's face scrunch into a small scowl at his words. "I'm not a kid, sir," he protests, which only makes Taako want to call him a kid even more. "And I already know you got me the next Caleb Cleveland novel. Your hand tapping gives it away.” Angus pauses, bringing up information catalogued in that huge brain of his. “Are you nervous, sir? You always hand tap things when you're nervous.”

Damn. The kid’s dying and can still read him like a book.

Hesnotdyinghesnotdyinghesjustsick-

“Why would I be nervous, bubbleh? I'm just giving you a hint.” He flashes him a sly smile, as if he had planned everything in advance while handing him the book. Angus, to his credit, just rolls his eyes and accepts the gift, his frail arms straining to carry the weight of two pounds of writing. A memory assails the elf-one of Angus challenging a slightly drunk Magnus to a pushup competition and carrying the weight of both Davenport and Merle on his back before collapsing in a heap of laughter and sweat, glasses pushed up to the top of his head. The boy had loved to show off his strength to the rest of them, especially when they treated him like the ten year old they had met so long ago on a train to Rockport. Humans-so quick to age. So quick to die.

But never quite this quick. Never quite so young.

Angus pushes his glasses up his nose and winces uncrossing his legs and letting himself sink farther back into the bed. The book had already been set on his lap, and judging by the dazed yet determined expression the human had, he was set on reading it all before he fell asleep again, something he was now prone to doing (Magnus used to doze off at the most inopportune times when they were on that planet. They thought he would be killed by his sleeping spells before the poison took him). He saw the boy’s hands dance along the cover of the book, excited to read the newest adventure of the character he had strived to be like for years. He also saw the pain and weariness that coursed through his body, as if living needed to be choreographed to minimize pain, and he had stumbled on a number he did not know.

Taako takes a breath.

“Wanna hear a bedtime story kid?”

He casts a feeble Mage Hand, picking the book up from the human’s lap and flipping it open to the first page. He looks up to see Angus staring at him, a myriad of emotions swirling beneath his dark pupils. He could see some happiness, yes; through the way his eyes crinkled at the idea of being read to at such an age, and the way the boy said “Thank you, sir!” as if he had just saved the kid's life.

But mostly, all he saw was weariness.

Angus was tired.

So, so tired.

The thought stays with him as he begins to read aloud, watching the child sink into his bed and slowly close his eyes. The only indication that he was awake was the regular expansion of his chest and the way his mouth quirked upward when Taako uses different voices for characters. After a while, Taako forgets to look at the boy every so often, losing himself between the pages of a book that both of them are too old to read. It's a welcome distraction, and Taako doesn't even notice when the boy's breaths start to even out and deepen.

He does notice his name being whispered from the back of the room.

“Taako?”

He turns around to see Kravitz.

The reaper is still in the smart suit of his profession, the only flashes of colour being in the blood red of his tie and the gold bands that adorned his hair (both which were obviously chosen by none other than Taako himself). He has a clipboard in hand, and he glances down at it briefly before looking back at the wizard. He looks absolutely stricken as he whispers Taako’s name again, causing the elf to put down the novel and tilt his hat backward to see him in full.

“‘'Suuuuup, babe,” he shout-whispers. “You finished work early today.”

Kravitz swallows, his Adams apple bobbing visibly in his throat. “N-not yet, exactly.” His voice still carries a Cockney accent, growing fainter by the day as Lup bullies him about it during work hours. He only uses it on solo missions now. Taako swings his feet and gets off the chair, gently setting the book on Angus's nightstand, not taking his eyes off Kravitz for a second. “Aww,” he cooes, striding over and straightening the reaper’s suit, smoothing the collar as he asks “Did you miss me? Your boss isn’t going to like it if you skimp on work just for lil’ol’me.”

Kravitz looks down at him and for the first time in his life, Taako can't read his facial expression. The reaper brings his hands up to his chest and curls them around the elf’s, sending shivers down his spine and for a second Taako nearly loses his balance, caught in the riptide of both fear and excitement as he watched Kravitz try to find the words to say in a moment he has no name for-

“Taako,” The words are slow, hesitant and Kravitz drops off for a bit before swallowing again and continuing. “Could you cast Blink?”

What?

Taako overrides his confusion with an arrogant eyebrow raise. “That's a spell slot, babe,” he says, splaying his fingers on Kravitz's chest because dammit, that kid was right, I really do tap my fingers - “Mind telling me what for?”

“You’ll know when you cast it.”

The tone is enough to get Taako untangled from his grasp and ready the spell, fear coming over him in a cascade as his eyes begin to close, memories nearly a century old dripping into his brain like ink of monsters-

Of eyes-

Of darkness-

Blink.

The world seems to bleed in front of Taako’s eyes, slowly yet instantly losing their color and tangibility around him. His body does a quick 360, an instinct instilled in him from years of scanning, spotting, scaring, running-

He does not find the Hunger (how could he, how could he).

He finds something much, much worse.

“Hello, Sir.”

Angus McDonald sits on the edge of his bed.

The boy detective looks better than he has in months. His sickly posture and demeanor are nonexistent, and he slides off the bed and walks toward Taako with the ease a young man should carry, as if living was a wild dance without choreography. His glasses are gone too, although he does paw at his shirt for a second, looking for them although he doesn’t really need them now, does he? He comes and stands in front of Taako, hands in his pockets and a sheepish grin on his face.

“Ango?” Taako looks at him, blinking. “You can’t be here.Did you use a spell slot in that condition, kid?”

Angus looks at his mentor, the sheepish smile watering down into something a bit sadder, a bit regretful. “I didn’t need to this time, Sir. Apparently, you can Blink into the ethereal plane...or you can just die.” His gaze shifts away from Taako, settling on a figure behind him. “Isn’t that right, Kravitz?”

Taako turns and sees his boyfriend in all his monochrome glory, nervously glancing between the two mortals. He looks a bit guilty, Taako realizes. Like he had known this was going to happen. Kravitz sees the realization dawning on his face and sighs, flipping pages on his clipboard. “Angus McDonald, seventeen years of age, dead by poison aftereffects.” He looks at Angus, who nods imperceptibly and Kravitz clears his throat to read the last line. “Slated to become a reaper under the guidance of Her Worship, the Raven Queen.”

Silence.

“Ok, what .”

Taako gestures at Angus. “This kid. Is seventeen. Seventeen! That isn't even half a century yet! And you're telling me he’s dead?”

“Sir, I did die of poison.”

“You were getting better, Ango. I heard Lucy talking about you downstairs.”

“She's certainly not going to be happy with a dead body in her house, is she?” Angus smirks a bit and Taako stares at him, exasperated.

“Is this a phase for you, kid?” Taako leans in and pokes Angus’s chest, his heart dropping as his finger actually meets flesh. He keeps going. “Are you finally going all emo on us? Death isn't a good thing, boy, take it from someone who’s been there, done that .”

“Hey,” Kravitz mutters, but Taako ignores him.

“Listen,” His voice drops, his voice drops in that way it only does when he's negotiating, when he's bargaining, when he's desperate. “The Raven Queen owes us, like, a bajillion favours. I'm sure we can get her to overlook a soul.”

“And go back into my body?” A flash of pain goes through Angus’s eyes, and for a second Taako regrets not thinking of all the suffering this child has gone through in his fragile human body. “No, thank you.”

“We still have Barry’s body-making thingamajig.” He could practically hear Barry now, chiding him and telling him to “stop referring to the blah-blah-blah as a thingamajig!, but the thought of his family still gives him a small dose of confidence. They had outwitted death over a hundred times; they could do it once more.

“That takes months to work.” Angus points out. (Kravitz mutters something about breaking the whole damn rulebook, but they both ignore him.) He's about to open his mouth again when Angus puts a hand on his shoulder. “Taako,” He says, and for some reason Angus suddenly looks much, much older than seventeen. “Thank you for thinking about me, I-I really appreciate it. But I've known that I've been dying for weeks now. I've settled my accounts and everything-my will is in my nightstand drawer, take that to Lucretia by the way-and I got Kravitz to secure me a job so, so I'm not really gone, sir. I'll just be a while.”

Taako feels an uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

He's felt it before, when he saw Magnus taken over by darkness as the Starblaster flew away all those years ago. He felt it every single time his sister died, when she became something other with her lover to save them all. He felt it multiple times here, even when his mind was split and his memories fractured. He felt it every single damn time he looked at Lucretia's face.

“Don't patronize me, kid,” he mutters and knocks his hand off of his shoulder, tipping his hat down to shade his face. “Fine, go. Don't blame me if Lup makes you work your ass off.”

Angus is silent for a beat before breaking into a beaming grin and enveloping Taako in a bear hug. The elf goes stiff in his arms but allows this to happen, trying to remember the paper-and-blood smell the detective had when he was alive and ignoring Kravitz and his nervous habit of twirling his scythe. “Don't worry about me, sir!” he says and Taako nearly says “Screw it,” and shoots Kravitz for even daring to take this one good thing away from him but he doesn't, he merely nods and says “Good luck with reaper training, homie,”

And just like that he's gone, walking side by side with Kravitz and the spell wears off, Taako appearing back onto the material plane 10 feet from where he cast, sinking back into the chair beside Angus’s dead body. It's only been minutes, primary flaccidity already setting in but other than that he looks as if he's just sleeping.

Taako stares at him for a long time.

He should probably move, go downstairs and tell the rest of them the news, give Lucretia his will and assure them that he was coming back to annoy them all as a reaper in probably, like, a week but he just sits there, stewing in the cool darkness of the room before a knock echoes and Lucretia comes in, balancing a tray of food in one hand.

“Angus?” she says and stops when she sees Taako. “Taako? What are you-” She reads his expression and her face goes slack, hands moving up to her mouth as the food tray hits the floor with a loud crash.

“No.” She says, and the sorrow in her voice is like a jolt of electricity, racing down his spine and restarting his heart and mind as they both process the still body lying on the bed.

“No, is he-?”

“He's a reaper, now, Lucy, calm down.” He’s by her side in an instant, holding her by the elbows because she'll crumple to the ground if he doesn't, just as she did every year Magnus died on the Starblaster even though she knew he'd be back and dammit, he's feeling a bit shaky as well.

“Were you-” she swallows, drawing her eyes away from the bed and towards him, and in that moment he felt nothing but pity and compassion towards her, like all those times when they would drink tea and mourn together in those horrible cycles where both Magnus and Lup died, the vitality of the group drained with their nonexistence.

“Were you there for it?”

“The kid knew his time was coming, Lucretia. He even left a will for you, we talked in his ghostsona.” She chokes back a sob and he sighs, rubbing her back. “You did everything you could, Lucy,” he mutters, feeling the vibrations of the wood floor as Magnus rushes up the stairs, probably to investigate the loud crash. “You always do,” he says and suddenly Magnus is there, he's there and he's staring at Angus and it looks like he's reliving his own death all over again. He reaches for the two of them and they let him envelop them in his arms, all of them shaking as they take in and truly realize that death wasn't something they had the luxury of running from anymore.

He's back a week after his funeral, already able to hold a scythe casually in one hand and look through files with the other. He's back and he looks healthy and happy, talking about his new job looking through the special cases that hadn't been solved yet (“He's already Big Momma’s fave,” Lup teases and Angus blushes before clapping back, “Is it because I can actually do my job?”. The whole group explodes into laughter, even as Lup pulls up her sleeves and Barry has to physically hold her back from fighting him.).

He's back, and he's happy and Taako tells himself that's all that matters, but when the boy reaper puts his arms around him and he's cold, unbearably cold Taako nearly crumples in his arms and cries, wanting to tell him that he was sorry, he should have protected him somehow, he should have saved him somehow from death but he just smirks and calls him “boy icepack” before retiring into the kitchen and whipping up some mean ceviche.

Because sometimes, it's all you can do.

#the adventure zone #the adventure zone fanfic #taako and kravitz #taako and angus #angus mcdonald #taz fic #taz angst fic #taz angst #taz balance

24 notes · View notes

botanyshitposts · 7 years ago

Note

Okay, so I'm hoping to go to my local used bookstore tomorrow, and I wanted to ask how you decide which books are good to buy? How do I tell if it's worth having, or if it's good/accurate?

my rules for botany books (and science books in general):

-if its a textbook type book and was published in 2005 or sooner, it’s probably accurate as long as its dealing with beginning level stuff. some people would say for most accurate, do 2015 and later, which is true out of concept, but what 2015 book shows up in a used bookstore for cheap??? they dont and im poor. examples of textbooks would be something on the principles of botany or something with ap bio level to upper undergrad level stuff in it. as far as money goes, im willing to go up to, like, $4-$5 on this one because I already know a lot of the beginning level content. if it’s clear that a textbook has stuff you don’t know in it, the potential amount i would shell out for it would go up, but never above $15. the usefulness of a textbook depends on its publication date and how much you know as a person.

-with narrative books, it varies on how interested you are in the topic. for instance, something i recently did was shell out $15 to order a brand new book by one of my favorite botanists because i really value the topic (about his work saving plant species brought to his institution as a last resort in the face of extinction). there’s another one out there that’s about researchers climbing redwoods and how much work it takes to study a plant that size, and another about drama and shady shit going down in the orchid collection business, for example. there are a lot of cool other ones, too; it’s just a matter of stumbling on them.

-if its something crazy specific, it super depends. for example, i have a book entitled “Genomics and Breeding for Climate Resilient Crops Volume 2: Target Traits”. It’s a research textbook that’s basically a compilation of important writings in that specific topic at a graduate level, and I got it because of my interest in environmental and botanical sustainability. I found it at a used bookstore for $10. had i bought it new, i would have paid literally a little over $200. (for reference to point #1, it was published in 2013).

-floras. ive never come across one of these in a used bookstore, but they’re really important and valuable botany books and you just never know, so i’m gonna talk about them here. a flora is a book that details all the plants in a certain area, and sometimes of a specific type in a certain area. all of them. this isn’t a general field guide, this is like, a research-level field/identification guide or a collection/hobbiest guide. if you’re interested and you see one, i would probably pay up to about $25 for one depending on the area and my interest. some of these are published on CDs now instead of in physical books! more specific example, broader example

-compilations of species. again, ive never come across one of these in a used bookstore, but they’re super cool. this is like, books listing all the known species of a certain type of plant. a good example thats on my wishlist for my birthday this month is Stewart McPherson’s set of pitcher plant compilations; this currently is a set of three, two volumes called “Pitcher Plants of the Old World v1/2″ and another volume he put out a few years ago after a ton of unexpected new discoveries were made, called “The New Nepenthes, Volume 1″ (volume 2 doesn’t exist yet, but will once we find more!). there are these kinds of compilations for a ton of random types of plants and succulents, ranging from the super specific to the broad. (its important to differentiate here between the “best of” books and the compilations. compilations would be, for example, all orchids, while a “best of” book of orchids might only show some that the author deems “exotic”. also, an orchid compilation would be crazy and i would love to see it. there are around 30,000 species, if i remember correctly, making the orchid genus the largest known to man). man...i dont know what i would do if i found one of these in the wild. i guess if it was over an interesting plant type, i would pay up to $25 or so in a used bookstore, but if it was a carnivorous compilation or something similarly interesting, i might go higher.

-if you are unsure if you should get something, check half.com. this is a subsite of ebay that just sells used books, and is a little more niche and rare than amazon (which i would also check if the book you’re looking at is more common). another really useful site to check before making large purchases is Summerfield books, the only site i’ve found so far that specializes in botany and natural history books. i usually check prices from my phone to see if its worth it if im thinking of getting something. if its cheaper online, i just add it to my massive amazon list of books i want and move on with my life for the moment.

#i like botany books a lot #except i need to read them more #books #not plonts #asks #Anonymous

92 notes · View notes

ask-de-writer · 5 years ago

Text

HICCUPS! : MLP Fan Fiction : A Work In Progress

As usual for works in progress, new parts and changes to older ones are done in Boldface type.

HICCUPS!

A Grumpy Goat <tail>

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

10601 words so far, this is a WORK IN PROGRESS