Woodwose Anon -- Part 2


                                            >Be Moondancer.

                                            >You have found your husbando!

                                            >Who knew that the stallion of your dreams would be a hairless ape?

                                            >The woodwose's strange chariot was crammed full of books and alien firearms. Your own blunderbuss looks crude and primitive compared to the sleek designs here.

                                            >These self-contained bullets alone would revolutionize Equestrian gunsmithing, and the apes appear to have figured out every armorer's dream -- repeating firearms!

                                            >And the books! Oh, the books! You count at least two dozen boxes, all filled to the brim with books.

                                            >Irritatingly, you can't actually read the bizarre alien language, but a little lateral thinking and a hasty casting of Starswirl's Swift Summarizer gives you a general sense of each book's content.

                                            >The woodwose likes thaumic fiction, tales of high adventure, epic literature, some mysteries, zoology, and a wide variety of social sciences -- archeology, history, sociology, economics, and political science.

                                            >You are putting a dong ring on this ape. You don't care if you have to fight Princess Celestia herself for him.

                                            >The supernatural transformation from the ape's h-hot, v-virile seed and accompanying phenomenal cosmic power are only a bonus at this point.

                                            >He. Will. Be. Yours.

                                            >Heart,.mind, and cock.

                                            >There's a crash from the basement below you, and a high-pitched shriek.

                                            >YEEEEEEEEEEE!

                                            >You recognize that scream. You haven't heard it since your last family reunion, when there was a tragic accident with Uncle Gear Loose's prototype vibrating toothbrush.

                                            >Dammit, Sweetie Drops, what are you doing to my husbando?!


                                            >OH CELESTIA! THE PAIN!

                                            >You are writhing in agony, so you must be Sweetie Drops, the mare also known as Bon-Bon. (Or Mistress, but only to Lyra.)

                                            >The woodwose bit you!

                                            >Right on the pussy!

                                            >Only your heavy naugahyde catsuit saved your tender flesh from the simian's rending jaws.

                                            >You will find the nauga who shed her skin for this suit, and you will pay her a bonus fatter than Princess Celestia's ass.

                                            >The woodwose takes advantage of your loosened grip and pulls free of your stranglehold.

                                            >It grabs you, spins you around, and one long, wiry arm closes over your windpipe. You struggle, hooves scrabbling against hairy white skin, but you were already halfway out of breath before.

                                            >The edges of your vision go red, then black.

                                            >No.

                                            >No!

                                            >NO!

                                            >You will not die like this! You are an agent of SMILE! You have a monarchy to serve, a life to live, and a minty green unicorn to marry!

                                            >You slam a hoof down with your last reserve of strength.

                                            >Bone cracks, and the woodwose roars in pain.

                                            >Its grip loosens and you snap your head back, feeling the ape's nose crunch against the back of your skull. You twist free as the brute howls, and dive forward into a roll.

                                            >The ape doesn't try to resume the grapple, and you swing back onto your hooves, facing the alien interloper.

                                            >Oh.

                                            >It found that weird blunderbuss it was carrying earlier, and it's pointing it right at you.

                                            >Shit.

                                            >That gun's bore looks absolutely huge at this range.

                                            >The woodwose's lips part, revealing sharp yellow omnivore teeth. Blood runs down from its broken nose, dripping into its mouth. The woodwose laps up its own blood, swallows, and lets out a string of growls.

                                            >{All right, you want to call a truce now? I'd really rather not kill one of the locals unless I absolutely have to. Though you're making it awfully tempting...}

                                            >You have no idea what that meant, or if it was even language at all. Could just be a threat display...

                                            >The apelien's face scrunches.

                                            >{Of course you don't speak English. Derp.}

                                            >Another string of monkey noises.

                                            >{Usted habla Espanol? No hablo Espanol bien, pero que es hablando malo o no hablando nunca...}

                                            >Well, it's still not shooting you...

                                            >You try to inch forward a little, but the woodwose lets out another string of growls and flicks a lever on its gun.

                                            >{Don't even think about it, horse. Back the fuck off. Safety's off, now.)

                                            >You hear hooves clattering on the stairs, followed by a gasp.

                                            >The voice is familiar. "Sweetie Drops! What do you think you're doing?!"

                                            >What in Tartarus is your nerdy cousin Moondancer doing here? Still, beggars can't be choosers.

                                            "Nice timing, Moonie. Give me a hoof here."

                                            >"You've hurt him!"

                                            >What?!

                                            >You hear a humming noise as her magic springs to life.

                                            "Moonie, what are you --

                                            >ZARTCH!


                                            >Be Anon.

                                            >Holy shit, the newcomer turned Little Miss Aggro to stone!

                                            >The little unicorn trots forward, saying something in that weird whickering horse-language. You see a couple of tears fall from those big purple eyes.

                                            >{I'm sorry, Sweetie Drops, but you can't be allowed to interfere.)