Let There Be Light: Sc.19


                                            “You sure it’s close?”

                                            >”It is not far ahead, now.”

                                            “Would be nicer if I could see it.”

                                            >”If you had not fallen asleep again, we’d have made it before sunset.”

                                            “You fell asleep too!”

                                            >Noire flashes you a grin. “That, too, was your fault.”

                                            “Bah.”

                                            >It’s not all that much later than sunset.

                                            >The skies are still tinted red and orange and purple; the sun’s disk is only just below the horizon.

                                            >The more likely culprit preventing you from seeing your destination; all these hills.

                                            >You’re back in the hilly country you first appeared on this island within.

                                            >Unlike then, some taller features loom in the distance now, a mountain dominating a series of ridges.

                                            >Those are, however, quite a ways away.

                                            >Noire said your destination is much closer than that.

                                            >Even with the increased pace you made to get here, you find you’re not as tired as you might have been.

                                            >Noire’s been helping you with that, admittedly, but…

                                            >You’re really getting a better command of the physical.

                                            >You can move faster for longer than you suspect you’d ever been able to.

                                            >The better part of a year spent on this island has improved you in more ways than you can count.

                                            >Now you feel you can truly appreciate Noire’s creation.

                                            >Back home, you know, many didn’t connect with nature like this.

                                            >Vast cities, rapid transit, busier lives…

                                            >It all leads to a degradation of some fundamental connection with nature.

                                            >But as you power up another hill, you’re past tiredness, and through to an exhilaration with life.

                                            >The grass beneath your feet, the wind around your clothes, the scents of spring in the air, and the last vestiges of solar warmth on your face…

                                            >Why didn’t more people live this way? Why did so many insist on piling on top of each other in artificial environments so taxing to their health and states of mind?

                                            >If it weren’t for how much you enjoyed your home, and how self-reliant you wanted to be – while out here in this nomadic trek, you’re back to being fed by magically-conjured food like when you’d first arrived – you could live this way forever.

                                            >Some call of an ancient ancestry, perhaps.

                                            >You’ve even got a horse as a faithful companion.

                                            >You look at her beside you, leaning into the hill’s slope, and chuckle.

                                            >She looks back at you, smiling. “What is so funny?”

                                            “I was just thinking you’re a little too small for me to ride.”

                                            >Her smile turns into a grin. “I would prove you wrong, but unfortunately we won’t be alone tonight.”

                                            “Hah! Very funny. I meant on your back, calm yourself.”

                                            >The two of you make it to this hill’s top.

                                            >”Down there,” Noire nods towards another hill.

                                            >You can make out a feature in it’s side.

                                            >Some sort of shaping of the terrain.

                                            >Digging?

                                            >No, more than that.

                                            >You’ll have to get a closer look.

                                            “Alright then, let’s go see it.”

                                            >As you approach, it becomes clear there’s definitely some kind of earthworks ahead.

                                            >On the descent into the valley between this hill and the next, you can get a better sense of the definition of land.

                                            >There’s some sort of earthen wall set up between you and the rest of what you assume to be your destination.

                                            >You realize, now that the hill that feature seems dug into is sheltering you as well, that the location is well-protected from the wind, even as it’s able to soak up the last vestiges of setting sunlight.

                                            >And there, just now – some movement, so quickly behind that earthen wall you couldn’t get a good look.

                                            >Without thinking, you slow your stride and shift your steps. Lower, smoother, quieter.

                                            >Noire reaches your side, eyeing you sidelong. “I always find that a little unnerving.”

                                            >You give her a look, but say nothing.

                                            >She resettles her wings, then falls in behind you as you look back ahead. “Whenever you do not want to bother someone – even me, the times I catch you – you act like a stalking predator. Seems like it would bother anyone more, not less.”

                                            >You snort in reply, then murmur;

                                            “If I do a good enough job, they don’t even notice. Can’t be bothered by something you don’t know is there.”

                                            >Your stealth – with Noire lagging behind, timing her hooffalls with your steps – gets you to the edge, or rim, whatever you may call it, of the berm surrounding the site.

                                            >Surprisingly, it’s almost as tall as you are.

                                            >Within are a dozen or so ponies, these the mundane kind without fantastic anatomical additions.

                                            >The space they occupy is dug out well within the earthen wall ringing the area, even cutting a little into the hillside to provide a small space with shelter from above if necessary.

                                            >Under that shelter sits the most curious parts of the space; several sections of treetrunk that, judging by the rudimentary lids on them, are being used as some sort of storage.

                                            >Against one of the walls sits a number of crude implements, the working surfaces of which are simple inclined planes fixed to some extension that would, you suppose, allow them to be pulled.

                                            >That may explain how the space was made.

                                            >The design makes you realize that, in time, these implements may eventually evolve into typical agricultural plows.

                                            >You’re not sure they’ll develop farming before Noire moves everyone off the island.

                                            >Speedrunning civilization?

                                            >Noire did say they would develop very quickly, these first few generations…

                                            >You spend enough time ogling their tools that you draw their attention.

                                            >Unlike the dismay Noire thought would come, most seem very still and quiet.

                                            >Except for one.

                                            >A self-appointed leader, or at least diplomat or greeter, approaches.

                                            >You come around to the break in the wall that serves as an entrance, to meet her halfway with Noire following.

                                            >The pony’s all smiles, looking up at you and cocking her head.

                                            >You give her a little wave.

                                            “Uh. Hello.”

                                            >She grins, does a little dance in place, then darts off towards one of the larger stallions, resting in a corner.

                                            >She badgers him enough he gets up and wanders into the carved-out shelter.

                                            >Off to one side is a rig that looks like saddebags, but the bags themselves are hollowed-out sections of small tree that almost look like kegs, but the opening cuts through the ‘side’ at the top rather than one of the faces.

                                            >The stallion slowly lowers each one into one of the larger vats, drawing it out carefully, then with the mare’s assistance puts the whole setup on his back.

                                            >Even one as large as he moves slower under such a burden.

                                            >By the time he’s reached the center of the circle, the mare is back before you, bouncing about and tossing her head at the stallion.

                                            >You take it as an invitation and walk into the ring, Noire coming alongside.

                                            “This is a pretty incredible shelter.”

                                            >”It is their own form of magic. I gave each pony an affinity by your four elements. These ones have earth, are talented with the shaping of the land and what grows from it.”

                                            “Guess I wasn’t too far off when I thought they might be the first to figure out farming.”

                                            >”That is definitely plausible.”

                                            >The stallion lays himself back down in the middle of the ring, seemingly content to let the strange containers at his side rest on him and the packed dirt below.

                                            >Other ponies wander over, dipping their snouts in the liquid within.

                                            >The excitable mare keeps bouncing back and forth between you and the stallion, getting faster as you get closer.

                                            >She’s just about whipping herself into a frenzy of excitement at your mere presence.

                                            >When you reach the stallion’s side, in total contrast to the mare, he simply looks at you with half-lidded but remarkably clear eyes, silently.

                                            >Looking between him and the few ponies dipping their snouts into his cargo, you take out your water bottle.

                                            >You don’t feel right just dumping what’s left of it’s contents out, so you offer it to the stallion.

                                            >He seems to get the idea when you hold it up to his face, and you tilt the remainder into his mouth.

                                            >You then dunk the bottle in one of his little portable troughs, the bouncy mare fascinated at the bubbles created by air escaping the submerged bottle.

                                            >One it’s full, you inspect what you draw up.

                                            >It’s a brownish liquid, just a little bit of froth.

                                            >A sniff reveals an apple scent, but also definitely alcohol.

                                            >They figured out fermentation already?

                                            >Well, it is supposedly one of the oldest arts.

                                            >You wonder how likely it is to stumble onto accidentally.

                                            >You take a swig of it, and-

                                            >Holy crap!

                                            >You sputter and cough, though manage to not make a total fool of yourself.

                                            >That was way stronger than you expected.

                                            >And burns like hell.

                                            >You look back at the stallion, who is still gazing at you with that placid expression.

                                            “So, uh, is this stuff safe?”

                                            >He shifts his shoulders in what you could only imagine was the best shrug he can give, considering his anatomical limitations and current pose.

                                            “I appreciate the honesty, I guess.”

                                            >Noire peers at the bottle, then back at you. “Strong?”

                                            “Very.”

                                            >You offer her the bottle, which she takes up in her magic, then lifts to her lips for a dainty sip.

                                            >Noire’s magic, of course, has the gregarious mare utterly enrapt.

                                            >Apparently warned by your own difficulty, Noire takes the burn much more gracefully. “Yes, that is quite strong.”

                                            >She proceeds to down a sizable slug of it.

                                            >You boggle.

                                            “You’re insane.”

                                            >She gives you a grin. “If I were, this place would be a lot more fun. These ponies seem to have made their own.”

                                            “Their own fun?”

                                            >But Noire’s already taking another big swig.

                                            >By the time she floats the bottle back over to you, it’s more than half gone.

                                            “You’re one crazy horse.”

                                            >As you and Noire settle in and relax, drinking more of the applejack, you take note at how these ponies tend to interact.

                                            >They’re not as physically intimate as the pegasi, but have a much broader range of vocalizations.

                                            >While the pegasi only augmented their usual horse noises with chirp-like sounds reminiscent of birds, these ponies have some wordless tone system they sometimes use.

                                            >You have no idea what it’s supposed to convey, and have no way to understand.

                                            >But the more you and Noire drink, the more Noire especially gets drunk.

                                            >To your great amusement.

                                            >She gets a lot more physical, in an innocently intimate sort of way, the more hammered she gets.

                                            >By the time the stallion is free to stand again, with his precious cargo depleted, Noire’s sprawled out over your lap, wings and limbs piled against you haphazardly, making the same noises back at the ponies they use with each other.

                                            “You can talk to them?”

                                            >”I would-n callit speesh! It s’almost like… emotionbabble.”

                                            “You’re the one babbling.”

                                            >She laughs and leans her head against you, looking up into your eyes. “They make a good brew.”

                                            “This is literally your first time drinking and you’re blasted.”

                                            >”If’n I was… would I be able to speak?”

                                            “I bet there’s people who get more eloquent when tanked. Wouldn’t surprise me.”

                                            >”Psshh”

                                            >You wrap your arms around her neck and upper body, partially because she gets even warmer when she’s drunk and you intend to enjoy it, and partially just to stabilize her gently swaying head.

                                            “What am I going to do with you?”

                                            >Noire tries and fails to shrug her wings; they just flop on the dirt.

                                            “So can you understand them?”

                                            >She nods vigorously. “You cannot?”

                                            “I think you’re just getting it through your conceptual understanding thing, Ms. Godlady.”

                                            >She screws her eyes, then looks back at the cheery mare, who now babbles like a madmare. “Huh. Maybe.”

                                            “You’re so drunk you don’t even know how you’re understanding them.”

                                            >She laughs again.

                                            >The gregarious mare’s babbling suddenly becomes a lot more coherent; she falls into a very basic melody.

                                            >The “words” continue to be meaningless, but she’s now holding a tune using them, going between the other ponies present as if singing a line for each one.

                                            >They don’t join in with their own nonsense sounds, but many do hum along after she’s “addressed” them.

                                            >The effect is almost haunting, in a way; between the sounds the lead mare is making being totally meaningless, and the broken murmuring chorus of background humming accompanying her,  the effect strikes you almost like some sort of nonsense chant or prayer.

                                            >Though the mare doesn’t seem to have any specific lines for you or Noire – though she hasn’t been ignoring you – Noire eventually joins in with the chorus, her voice very clear despite her inebriated state.

                                            >It’s not like they’re praying to her – by all accounts neither they nor the pegasi seem to accord either of you special status beyond the brave one who you engaged in your little trading rituals with – but you do get the impression it’s a prayer all the same.

                                            >Just a quite energetic and lively one.

                                            “So what are they singing?”

                                            >Noire looks at you, then modifies the tune, still spouting nonsense non-words at you.

                                            >You can’t help but grin and squeeze her tighter to you, watching her go cross-eyed momentarily.

                                            “I can’t understand you like that. Use my words, not theirs, please.”

                                            >Noire needs a moment before she remembers how to speak.

                                            >After a quick shake to clear her head; “Thankfulness. Hope. For harmony with nature. Celebration of laughter.” Noire once again tries and once again fails to shrug her wings. “Less meaning. More outpouring.”

                                            “Of what?”

                                            >Noire grins, arching her neck back to lay her head on your chest, her eyes drifting between yours. “Love.”

                                            >You grin back.

                                            “How would you know if that’s coming from them, or something I’m trying to beam into your head myself?”

                                            >She pushes her head into you a little more. “Does it matter?”

                                            >You cup her cheek against you and lean down to give her an apple-and-alcohol tinged kiss. “Nah. But they better know you’re all mine.”

                                            >She smiles, closes her eyes, and resumes humming along with the other ponies.

                                            >The bouncy song-leader is looking at you two again.

                                            >You swear she gives you a wink.