Horsemas Greenery 2022


                                            Miscellaneous, shorter greens I've written for the Secret Santa threads of 2022. So far the following OC greens can be found here:


                                            Hoodie Goodie

                                            Sprung'a Leak

                                            [WIP] Zamboni the (Snow)Zebra

                                            Pineapple Rightside Up Cake


                                            -------------------------------


                                            Hoodie Goodie:


                                            >Be the pegasus mare known as Hoodie Goodie.

                                            >Also be the time of year that you dread for its terrible, treacherous weather!

                                            >Other ponies and especially other pegasi never complain about the winter, they just frolic about in the snow or fly through freezing clouds.

                                            >Brrr! Your poor ears tilt back against your head just thinking about it!

                                            >You do have your trusty old blue hoodie with the drawstrings that you pull so tight, the only thing that pokes out of the hood is your smiling little muzzle but...

                                            >It's getting pretty worn these days, to the point where you find yourself shivering even with it on.

                                            >You'd get a new one but you've been scraping together the bits for something more important than that.

                                            >Hearth’s Warming is coming up and even though Hoodie’s Goodies has been doing well, the recent storm necessitated some repairs.

                                            >But you’re not thinking about that now! Not when you have a whole day to yourself, to start off right by getting your favourite pastry to have with breakfast!

                                            >And… face the ear-nipping chill this morning.

                                            >Gulp…

                                            >No, you can do this!

                                            >You flip your hood up, look that door square in its shiny knob, and push on out into the street.

                                            >And immediately flap your wings out below your top, trying to flap the cold air away from yourself, to no real avail of course.

                                            >Ohhh, why are you like this?

                                            >Other ponies walk past with no problem, most not even wearing more than a scarf or a hat, you shouldn’t have any problem.

                                            >Even though your hooves feel like they’re quickly becoming blocks of ice.

                                            >You take a breath–a particularly cool, crisp breath–and try to appreciate the clear air and sunny day.

                                            >No snow, no hail, once you get back home, you can set your fire and sit near the window in the living room, watching everypony go by.

                                            >Nice and cosy.

                                            >You grab that thought and hold firmly onto it and keep your ears firmly pressed against your mane, trying to transfer the warmth from that mental image into them.

                                            >And hay, you’re not going to get anywhere just standing outside your door!

                                            >Okay, it’s just a short trot down to Fran’s Festive Fete.

                                            >Well, that’s what Frangipane’s calling it now, she always liked to spruce the place up near Horsemas and give it a little festive look and feel.

                                            >And name.

                                            >You can’t help but nicker, remembering the two of you brainstorming over what to go with this year.

                                            >Of course she had to go with the idea you came up with but thought was way too silly to go with.

                                            >Now, looking down the street, you can just about see the edge of the sign outside her shop.

                                            >This weather is just the perfect incentive to get there even quicker and enjoy the warm scent of gingerbread inside.

                                            >And as you put your hooves into motion, you feel a little warmth build inside you as you think of that.

                                            >Warm, fresh gingerbread sounds like the perfect treat for this morning.


                                            >”Thanks, Fran, you’re too kind.”

                                            >Old Mister Evergreen levitates a steaming cup from a tray Frangipane carries with her.

                                            >”’Tis the season!” Fran sing-songs. “Besides, you’re always great company when it’s quieter.”

                                            >You swear, your ears feel frozen to your mane and it’s a struggle to lift them up enough to hear better.

                                            >Right after you pull your hood back and shake your scarlet mane free.

                                            >The warm air filled with the mouthwatering scent of baked goods hit you like a wave as you entered Fran’s and you instantly felt your legs start to relax after the stiff walk here.

                                            >There’s cushions and tables set out for ponies to sit at which a few, apart from Mister Evergreen, do.

                                            >Behind all of them you spy the glass cases behind which you’d often find Fran, picking the perfect pastry for any pony.

                                            >And sure enough, there’s a tray with slices of gingerbread that has your name on it…

                                            >”Goodie!” Fran cries out, swinging the tray around as she turns to you, almost sending a pair of mugs flying from it. “Come on in, sweetie. Oh you must be frozen!”

                                            “Heh…”

                                            >Ears up, they flick right back down as you try to put on your best smile.

                                            “I-I’m not t-too cold.”

                                            >Fran fixes you with a look that appears less than convinced and walks over to you, horn still lit with the tray in her magical grasp.

                                            >”Uh-huh? And I suppose your teeth are just chattering to practice for my taffy?”

                                            >Chattering?

                                            >You shut your mouth tight the moment you realise that yes, they are, and force more of a smile to your lips.

                                            “Mm-mm!”

                                            >You can still feel your teeth just about chattering, however

                                            >The golden brown unicorn eyes you even more suspiciously before setting the tray down at an unused table and holds out a hoof.

                                            >”Gimme your hoof, Goodie.”

                                            >You know better than to resist and dutifully raise a hoof and hold it out for Fran to take.

                                            “R-R-Really, I-I’m o-okay!”

                                            >Oh!

                                            >You clap a hoof over your mouth right as Fran takes the other in her hoof.

                                            >And immediately follows that with the other.

                                            >”Sweetie, you’re freezing!”

                                            >In an instant, she’s turned about to Mister Evergreen.

                                            >”Would you mind keeping an eye on things?”

                                            >The old stallion lifts his head and looks about to the quiet morning regulars, eating and drinking.

                                            >”I think I can handle ‘em.”

                                            >”Good, because you,” Fran says, turning back to you, “are coming with me.”

                                            >Without another word, the mare gives your foreleg a tug and starts leading you back through the shop.

                                            “F-F-F-Fran, I-I c-can m-m-manage.”

                                            >Especially if it means stopping by the counter near the back of the store and ordering a couple of gingerbread slices.

                                            >But no, you’re pulled beyond the tables, beyond the counter, beyond even the doorway into the back of the shop, filled even more with the scent of baking.

                                            >More importantly, the warmth is more intense here and you instantly spot why, as Fran leads you to it - the oven.

                                            >Celestia, she’s not going to stuff you in it, is she? You’re not /that/ cold!


                                            >”Sit.”

                                            >A simple word said after the mare leads you in front of the oven–not to stuff you into, of course–and sits you on a stool in front of it.

                                            >You’d expect Fran to look annoyed or even angry from that clipped word but… no.

                                            >She still holds onto your hoof, even after seating you.

                                            >”You stay right here and get yourself toasty, okay Goodie?”

                                            >No sense denying it but you’re also not going to risk saying anything, so you just nod.

                                            >”Okay. I’m going to get something that’ll sort you out.”

                                            >But even in saying that, Fran’s reluctant to let go of your hoof.

                                            >You give hers a little squeeze and smile a more genuine smile this time.

                                            >It takes a moment longer for her to let go and when she does, she gives you a look over before departing.

                                            >Off to one side through a doorway and up a flight of stairs.

                                            >Leaving you alone with the warmth, the morning light shining through the back window, and the mixed smells of baked goods.

                                            >In here, you can’t even hear the quiet chatter of the ponies out in the shop, so you opt to shut your eyes and hold your hooves towards the oven.

                                            >Mustn’t have been long ago that Fran was baking, there really is some nice heat out of it.

                                            >But that was Frangipane, as sweet as her namesake for as long as you’ve known her.

                                            >Probably getting one of her world-famous hot chocolate mixes ready to thrust into your hooves and a blanket to drape over your back.

                                            >For the same reason the repairs were taking longer - you used more insulation just to keep yourself as warm as other ponies.

                                            >What you really needed was to open your own bakery so you could have an excuse to keep a big oven running all the time.

                                            >But you’d probably just camp out in front of it.

                                            >The clopping of hooves from the same side of the room Fran left stirs you from your reverie.

                                            >”I’m real sorry, Goodie, but I didn’t have time to properly wrap this.”

                                            >You–almost reluctantly–turn around from the oven to see your unicorn friend levitating a fancy white bag with three blue diamonds on it, and a red rosette on top.

                                            “Aw, Fran, you didn’t have to.”

                                            >Hey, your teeth aren’t chattering any more!

                                            >”Oh no, I did.”

                                            >She comes around a table strewn with baking implements and sets the bag down next to you.

                                            >”I really did. Especially after you went and paid for—”

                                            “You needed it!”

                                            >And you don’t need to hear how she’d get by okay without the help, again.

                                            >”Same as you did!”

                                            >Ohhh, she looks like she’s getting ready to start.

                                            >But… she doesn’t.

                                            >Fran levitates over another stool and sits in front of you.

                                            >”Same reason you’re still wearing this.”

                                            >She reaches over and places a hoof on your shoulder.

                                            >On your old hoodie.

                                            >You always wore them. Always.

                                            “I… I’ll get by.”

                                            >Fran pushes the bag towards you with a hoof and a smile.

                                            >”You don’t have to Goodie, not now.”


                                            >You lift a hoof to the bag but don’t take hold of it.

                                            >The logo looks familiar and while you can’t quite place it, you have a sinking feeling that whatever’s inside is something that’s too good for you.

                                            >”I know it’s not quite Hearth’s Warming yet but…”

                                            >Fran trails off, her smile growing warmer.

                                            >Okay, if you leave this any longer she’s probably going to levitate it into your hooves, so…

                                            >You take the bag and, with both hooves, push it open.

                                            >The sight inside is… It’s…

                                            “Fran…”

                                            >Something fluffy. Something plush.

                                            >You reach in and pull the impossibly soft feeling item out, watching as it unfolds in your hooves into what is unmistakably the most beautiful hoodie you’ve ever seen.

                                            >The colour matches your coat, just a shade darker with two furry pom poms dangling from the drawstrings at the hood.

                                            >And what a hood it is - the inside is lined with the same luxuriously soft material the pom poms are made from and once you touch it with a hoof, you have to struggle to stop.

                                            >It’s just so soft!

                                            >But the best?

                                            >The best part is that there’s two ears poking out of the hood, with a plush lining over them.

                                            >You flip one of them back and forth with your hoof, not realising how your ears flick up and down in time with it.

                                            >You can only imagine just how warm and cosy you’ll be while wearing this out in that weather.

                                            >But as you turn it over in your hooves, you spot something strange - two flaps near the hem of the hoodie with what feel like clasps on one side.

                                            >”They’re for your wings!”

                                            >Fran is practically beaming at you.

                                            >”I know they’re probably pretty warm but the pony who made this said this is a design popular with pegasi in northern Equestria where it’s colder.”

                                            >The stitching even looks like feathers… Whoever made this, did so with a great deal of love and care.

                                            >”Oh, and watch this.”

                                            >Fran reaches over with a hoof, under one of the ‘wings’ of the hoodie, and makes a little motion with her hoof.

                                            >Just like that, it unfurls, with a little thrum of magic even you can feel - so the pony who made this was a unicorn, or at least had help from one!

                                            >And from the shape of it? The two of them have to sit over your wings while you’re flying, to help keep you warm even then!

                                            >This…

                                            “Fran…”

                                            >”Like I said, I know it’s not Hearth’s Warming yet but…”

                                            >She slides off the stool and steps closer to you. Close enough to slip her hooves around you in an embrace that’s warmer even than this beautiful new hoodie.

                                            >”Happy Hearth’s Warming, Goodie!”

                                            >And with the love of a friend as good as this, how could you be anything but warm this winter?


                                            -------------------------------


                                            Sprung'a Leak:


                                            You are Sprung’a Leak, the mare who always makes sure that which so many ponies try to hold in, is freed for all to see.

                                            >Right now, you stand outside Shimmering Sugarcookie’s Sensations corporate headquarters, the low evening sun reflecting off the high glass-faced building.

                                            >Word was that Sugarcookie Delite had swapped out the sugar in her recipes for a cheaper, corn-based alternative, that her Hearth’s Warming Gingersnaps were using ginger from kirin farmers pressed into lowering their prices below sustainable levels, and a folder of other scandalous items the Equestrian public deserved to know about.

                                            >You light your horn and thread your magic into the breast pocket of your jacket, retrieving a white, lemon-flavoured candy cigarette from its brightly-wrapped package; a gift from the stallion who tipped you off about this.

                                            >Around you is the bustle of city ponies, heedless of yet another mare caught up in the swarm. Occasionally one will jostle you, unapologetic, uncaring, but that’s okay.

                                            >You’re nopony important, after all, just somepony keen to keep up her civic duty to her fellow equids.

                                            >Blowing a misty breath into the cool winter air to check—yep, just the lightest hint of mint to make for an attractive scent—you step towards the revolving doors of your next target.

                                            >Inside is all too typical - stark, polished stone walls and floor, corporate posters and advertisements, the usual smattering of bland fake plants, a hoofful of chattering employees, and a pair of secretaries manning the front desk.

                                            >The bespeckled white stallion on the left looks up at you with a bored expression as you approach.

                                            >Clearly, Sugarcookie’s practices extend to her own employees.

                                            >”Hello and welcome to Shimmering Sugarcookie’s Sensations. How can I help you, miss?”

                                            >Confidence is key, if somepony gets a whiff of you being unsure then they’ll quickly suss out that you don’t belong.

                                            >You, of course, do.

                                            “Yeah, I’m here for a 4:30 meeting with Paper Punch. Didn’t tell me where his office is, so if you wouldn’t mind… ?”

                                            >You tap your hoof against the gleaming wooden desk, making a show of looking impatient as you glance around yourself.

                                            >A clock hanging on one of the walls shows the time - 4:27.

                                            >The stallion flicks through a clipboard with a wing, eyes scanning back and forth.

                                            >”Could I have your name, please?”

                                            “Cocoa Swirl. From Bean & Sons Farms.”

                                            >In the highly unlikely event this stallion did go looking, he’d find a company registered under that name - one that hadn’t been in the confection business for ten years but what were the chances a secretary would be that thorough?

                                            >He continues looking through his clipboard and you continue tapping your hoof, holding in a smirk at how he glances up at it.

                                            >”I’m sorry, Miss Swirl,” he says, letting the papers on the clipboard flop back down, “I don’t have any record of your appointment. Perhaps-”


                                            “Celestia damnit, this is the third time he’s screwed this up!”

                                            >You clop the hoof you’ve been tapping on the desk for effect but the stallion doesn’t jump.

                                            “Look, I don’t know if it’s Paper Punch or his secretary or maybe your internal mail system or whatever, I don’t care. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him for the last month but he keeps giving me the runaround.”

                                            >The secretary looks up at you, you glance over to the clock and huff.

                                            “Can you just tell me where his office is and I’ll leave a message with his secretary?”

                                            >”I’m sorry, Miss Swirl, but if you want to see Mister Punch, you’ll need to make an appointment.”

                                            >You make a show of pushing the hoof you’ve been tapping up along your muzzle.

                                            “No, look… I made the appointment! I had to call one of our suppliers and explain I can’t deal with their problem because I have this problem.”

                                            >”I’m sorry, Miss Swirl, but I can’t-”

                                            >Okay, you’re using the wrong tack, this is not somepony paid enough to care about inconveniencing a company client.

                                            >”-allow you to-”

                                            “Fine! Fine!”

                                            >You sweep your hooves up, raising your voice just enough to make your frustration clear to the stallion but not so much as to attract undue attention.

                                            “I’ll tell Green Bean that, uh…”

                                            >You peer over the desk at the nameplate.

                                            “Shufflebuck is the one he needs to tell Sugarcookie about when she loses her key cocoa supplier.”

                                            >Then, you wait just long enough to see the stallion’s eyes go wide before turning about.

                                            >”W-Wait!”

                                            >It’s important to school that look of frustration on your face, make the pony in question think you’re sincere in your threat and why you’re threatening. Maybe even give them an idea of what you’re going to tell your ‘boss’ about them.

                                            >Sure enough, the stallion wrings his hooves, glancing over to his partner—still nose-deep in files—before beckoning you back.

                                            >Not paid enough to care about a company client but still paid enough to worry about losing his job. Not that you’d put somepony in his position out of one.

                                            >”I really shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers, magic words that are so often the keys into places you don’t belong, “but Paper Punch is on the third floor, his office is to the right, at the end of the hall, you can’t miss it. H-His secretary is Candy Almond, she has a blue mane and a pink coat.”

                                            >Wow. Poor guy must really need this job if he’s spilling his guts this much.

                                            “Thanks,” you say with a smirk, “I’ll put in a good word with Green Bean for you.”

                                            >It doesn’t do much to shift his expression from a deep frown.

                                            >But right now you’ve got other things to worry about.

                                            >The polished stone of the foyer gives way to rich wood panelling and polished metal insets.

                                            >It might look tasteful if not for the overly-detailed cookie motifs.


                                            >You come up to one of the elevators and tap at the button, a mare and a stallion carrying a sheaf of papers and files in his magical grip, stop to one side of you.

                                            >Neither pay any real mind to you as you three wait.

                                            >Passing the candy cigarette from one side of your mouth to the other, you glance down the hall they came up through - doors and ponies, most carrying files. Could be some useful records down there but you won’t know until later tonight.

                                            >Ding!

                                            >The elevator doors open and a group of ponies exit it, including a pudgy manila yellow stallion.

                                            >You weren’t expecting Paper Punch to be gone from his office, this’ll work out in your favour. Especially if he’s held up.

                                            >It’s just the three of you in the elevator, the stallion and mare say a few words to each other but otherwise are content to ignore you.

                                            >You’re the only one getting off at the third floor, however, emerging into the usual subdued cacophony of voices in such an office.

                                            >Cubicles line the way you’ve been directed along - here a pair of mares laughing as one chews on bubblegum, her cubicle filled with photographs and notes pinned up, there a stallion nose-deep in a small filing cabinet.

                                            >None notice you as you pass.

                                            >None, that is, until you come to the tall door that must belong to Paper Punch’s office.

                                            >It’s wider than the others you’ve seen and you can’t say you’re surprised, nor about the sweet aroma that wafts out with it slightly ajar.

                                            >Sure enough, seated at a desk to one side of it is a pastel pink mare with a baby blue mane that has similar pink streaks through it.

                                            >There’s a typewriter, a stack of files, and a small lamp on her desk, behind which the mare almost seems a little too short to see over. Or maybe she just needs her chair raised.

                                            >She turns her head up as you approach, pushing her thick-rimmed glasses back up her nose.

                                            >”Can I help you?”

                                            “Hello,” you put more warmth into your voice this time, smiling at the mare, “I’m here to see Mister Paper Punch, I have an appointment with him at this time. The name is Cocoa Swirl.”

                                            >You give your curly mane a toss, styled up to look more professional but still attractive, this time.

                                            >Candy Almond takes a pen in her mouth and scans down a notebook in front of her, eyes flicking back and forth.

                                            >You’re not surprised when she drops the pen and looks back up at you, brow furrowing.

                                            >”I’m sorry, miss, but I don’t see your name down for an appointment.”

                                            >Once again, you’re not surprised.

                                            >Luck and good acting have taken you this far and have rarely failed you before, you just need to pray to Celestia your informant wasn’t just joking around with you.

                                            “That’s a shame, Miss…” you glance over her desk, letting her see that you notice her name plate, “Almond. Maybe Mister Punch forgot to tell you that my superior was talking to him and arranged this meeting?”


                                            >Candy Almond opens her mouth to speak.

                                            >Then shuts it.

                                            >But you’re not here to make her stew.

                                            “Oh, sorry! I really shouldn’t be criticising your boss in front of you like this, right?”

                                            >You giggle politely with a wink, hoping she gets the feeling of you knowing exactly that you know how far to push without making her really feel uncomfortable.

                                            >Ponies are always so much more receptive when they get the feeling that you understand them.

                                            >”Oh, heheh… Ah, well, Mister Punch is in a meeting right now so I’m afraid I can’t ask him about this. If you’d like, I can ask him to call you when he gets back.”

                                            >She picks her pen back up, looking at you hopefully.

                                            >You need to dash that hope.

                                            “I don’t think there’s any need for that, I just need to pick up a few files for my superiors. In and out, you won’t even know I was there!”

                                            >But she doesn’t even consider your request before placing the pen back down.

                                            >”I’m really sorry, Miss Swirl, but Mister Punch doesn’t like anypony going into his office without his permission.”

                                            >Yeah, that doesn’t sound surprising.

                                            >”Really, it wouldn’t be any trouble for me to pass along your request!”

                                            >Now comes the test.

                                            “Candy,” you say, leaning over the desk just a little and smiling at her, “is it okay if I call you ‘Candy’?”

                                            >She’d be used to being called that as it is and if you’re asking to see her boss, you’re probably someone higher up the corporate ladder than she.

                                            “I don’t want to cause any embarrassment for your boss by having him admit he forgot about the meeting. And I know a dutiful mare like you understands that.”

                                            >You raise a hind leg, letting your skirt shift above your cutie mark, exposing it as you sit on the edge of her desk.

                                            >Candy Almond’s eyes widen as she sees exactly what your mark is.

                                            “So I won’t ask you to give me anything without offering you some kind of compensation as thanks.”

                                            >She’s not exactly your type but in this line of work, choosing that is more than a luxury.

                                            “I’m sure there’s somewhere we could go where I could show you just how… appreciative I’d be.”

                                            >Candy’s staring at your flank so intently that her glasses have slipped back down her nose.

                                            >Good. You’ve got a bite.

                                            >Looks like Manilla Mailer was more right than she realised.

                                            >”I-I, uh… um…”

                                            >Candy looks back up at you, her soft amber eyes betraying everything her words don’t.

                                            >She bites her lip, tracing the line of your hand and the way your blouse clings to your chest, perhaps only now really taking you in.

                                            >And then back down to your cutie mark, before she squeezes her eyes shut.

                                            >”T-There’s a closet down that hall.” She tilts her head to the left, a different way than you’d come. “F-Follow me.”

                                            >It never ceased to amaze you how little it took to win over some ponies.

                                            >How they’d be so willing to help you… spring a leak.


                                            -------------------------------


                                            Zamboni the (Snow)Zebra


                                            >Be Zamboni the Snowzebra.

                                            >Be the time of year of short days and few plants.

                                            >Be with your dear friend, Cold Shoulder.

                                            >“You’re sure I don’t know her? This friend of yours?”

                                            >And be those the first words she’s said since the two of you left the village.

                                            >You try not to smile, not too much at least, but considering how many questions she’s asked—more for her than you’d usually hear, anyway—it’s difficult not to appreciate just how much her curiosity must be getting to her.

                                            “That depends on what you mean by ‘know’.”

                                            >Cold lets out an exasperated sigh.

                                            >Once she might have said something about how you’re just like your mother, a lover of making mazes of words that left the listener more lost than a southerner among the floes.

                                            >Once.

                                            “And I never said my friend is a mare.”

                                            >You’re thankful Cold stops dead in her tracks, it shields the wide grin you can’t possibly hide.

                                            >”Who is he?” Cold asks, with all the warmth of her namesake.

                                            >You do your best to study a piece of bark you hope looks interesting enough to warrant that scrutiny before you turn around, your face the very picture of peace.

                                            “Do you think there’s a stallion I know that you don’t?”

                                            >Cold snorts, her breath misting thickly before her.

                                            >”I think,” she says, stepping towards you through the snowy glade, “there’s a stallion I should know.”

                                            >Is that the hint of a smile you see?

                                            >Or is it just her jaw clenching even tighter?

                                            >Sighing, you step towards her, closing the gap between you.

                                            >And stroke your nose against her cheek.

                                            ”Cold.”

                                            >Sure enough, you can feel how tightly her muscles are clenched.

                                            “This friend is my friend. And she is a mare.”

                                            >There’s a moment, a long moment more where Cold stands there, her body set to pounce on the unseen fool who’s thought to court her friend without seeking approval first.

                                            >But you also stay where you are, nuzzling her cheek and hoping she can feel you smile.

                                            >Maybe she does. Maybe she realises that trying to puzzle out whether you’re telling the truth—and you are—isn’t worth it, just now.

                                            >Whatever she decides, it involves nuzzling you back, her long fringe tickling against your eyelashes as Cold leans towards you.

                                            >”You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

                                            >When you move away to speak, Cold stays standing closer to you than she was before.

                                            “I tell you everything worth telling.”

                                            >She’d been your constant companion since…

                                            >Since that day your mother and father went to the far north.

                                            >You’d been heartbroken, so worried from all you’d heard, until your mother took you in her striped hooves and told you; there was nothing to be afraid of, she had sprung from the earth and carried its marks on her coat, just as you did. She may be away for a time, longer than you or she might like but as long as your hooves touched the earth, she would be with you.


                                            >It still brings a measure of comfort to think of that now, as your hooves crunch the fresh snow underhoof.

                                            >As much as Cold by your shoulder does.

                                            >When Cirrus Wisp had asked you to come with her into the forest, no other had been allowed except Cold.

                                            >No other had been as unwilling to disobey Cirrus’ request.

                                            >But then, when you were young and shy, unsure of why you alone in the village were the sole filly with a striped coat, quiet Cold Shoulder was always the first to talk to you.

                                            >Neither of you had siblings and over time, you’d grown to look at her almost as a sister.

                                            >Even more when her family took you in.

                                            >The tribe had always supported you, had shared in your grief and your tears just as much as your laughter. But it was Cold and her parents who had been the first to offer you their hearth.

                                            >It was Cold who lay by your side with Cirrus, as the mysterious shamare whispered to Great Mother Earth to keep your mother’s spirit in her loving embrace.

                                            >But now and then let her hooves dance from below, for your mother had been a great lover of music and song, whose voice had so often lifted above all others in the village, sweet and rich.

                                            >She whose dance had so enticed your father.

                                            >Who, when you were just a filly, would hold your little hooves and teach you.

                                            >”So we ask you, o Great Mother, you who love us, your children, so dear, let your daughter’s heart be filled with joy, her lips with song, and let her join her mother Zurna, once more, in dance.”

                                            >Ever after, there would be times when you and Cold Shoulder walk through the forest, that you would be struck with the need to hop and twirl and laugh and sing.

                                            >And when she’d ask why, you could only smile and say that you weren’t sure, you just felt the need rise up through you, from your hooves that touched the earth.

                                            >But not now.

                                            >Now, you’re content to walk with Cold by your side with the crisp morning air and warm sun on your backs.

                                            >”I think if we go left we might find what you’re looking for. Pin Ponder-Whoah!”

                                            >With a muted ‘poof’, Cold unceremoniously falls forward, from… As far as you can tell, a snowdrift that’s animated itself and decided to attack her.

                                            >”Aha! I’ve got you now! Gimme back my scarf-... Huh?”

                                            >If you squint, you can just about make out the shape of a pure white filly against the snow, pointing a hoof towards your friend.

                                            “Niveous,” you say, stepping around to get a better look at the filly’s pale purple eyes, “what are you doing.

                                            >You also have to try and not laugh, what with Cold Shoulder’s rump poking out of the snow much like Frozen Harvest when she goes hunting for roots.

                                            >The filly looks up to you, surprised and scrunching up her nose, then back to Cold who’s now pulling herself free of the snow.


                                            >Her mane and face look a lot whiter but do little to hide her frown.

                                            >It’s for perhaps that reason that Niveous dives towards you, clinging to one of your forelegs.

                                            >”I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Dry Kindling took my scarf and I wanted to catch her and get it back and I heard voices and I thought it was her and… and…”

                                            >The poor thing is almost in tears.

                                            >Smaller than the other fillies her age, it’s easy to forget how much more intimidating Cold Shoulder might be to her.

                                            >Even if the idea of Cold so much as scolding a filly is enough to make you laugh.

                                            >Still, you lower yourself down and put your other foreleg around her.

                                            “It’s all right, Nivy.”

                                            >You glance up - Cold’s not frowning quite so much now but perceptively stands back from the filly.

                                            >”No, it’s not! Mama’s going to think I lost my scarf on purpose again!”

                                            >Poor Niveous’ voice starts to tremble, you know it’s only a matter of time before she starts sobbing.

                                            >Floe Forage would never do anything to harm her daughter but you can only imagine how exasperated she must be growing with how often Niveous ‘loses’ her scarf.

                                            >”Dry Kindling took your scarf?”

                                            >Cold Shoulder’s measured tone is betrayed only by the firm set of her jaw.

                                            >The filly glances back, nodding repeatedly.

                                            >”We’ll get it back.”

                                            >You squeeze Niveous in a hug, letting go only to reach up to just below your mane.

                                            “That’s right, Nivy. If you keep trying to trap her, you’re only going to trip up others.”

                                            >She looks back down suddenly, perhaps realising the true extent of what she had planned.

                                            “In the meantime…”

                                            >Ah! There you go.

                                            >You unknot your headband and mentally sigh at the way your thick, curly mane—another thing that distinguishes you from your friends—sweeps over your face.

                                            >A little shake and holding your ear up and stiff and… it might just hold it in place, at least until you come up with a more permanent solution.

                                            “I don’t want you to worry.”

                                            >You wrap the headband around Niveous’ neck, the small filly being at just the right size for you to use it like a scarf.

                                            >”But… Zamboni…”

                                            >She looks to her new makeshift ‘scarf’ and touches it with a hoof before looking back up to you.

                                            >Your own mother had lacked the coat necessary to make one for you and your father never had the chance to before…

                                            >No, instead Cirrus had woven it from her own coat hairs and dyed it with precious blue berries and petals from the southern tribes.

                                            >Cold’s mother, your adoptive mother, had given them, a personal treasure, to Cirrus to use.

                                            >She told you that as beautiful as the band Cirrus had made for you was, she wished for more.

                                            >For you to always remember that almighty Sky would watch over you, and keep your father’s spirit safe. That he too would be with you, wherever the winds might carry you and the sun shine upon you.


                                            >But also… to please never forget that this would always be your home and you would always have a place at its hearth.

                                            >You give the filly another hug.

                                            ”It’s okay, I know you won’t lose it!”

                                            >When you pull back, Niveous looks up at you with wide eyes and gives her head a fierce shake.

                                            >”I promise!”

                                            >And that is how you leave her; a few words to return to her friends with the reminder that you and Cold will deal with Dry Kindling. That she should return to her friends and if any ask why she has your headband, to tell them truthfully what happened.

                                            >It was with no little chagrin that she told you, instead, that they already knew and that Frostbite and the others had also gone searching for Dry Kindling.

                                            >That filly was as slippery as a seal on ice, however, so an extra pair of eyes searching would do no harm.

                                            >Once more, you and Cold Shoulder thread through the trees, occasionally stopping to examine one in the hope it has the right type of wood.

                                            >You had part of your gift made but it needed something from near the village.

                                            >Something to show it was from here, not traded for from elsewhere.

                                            >”We’d have more luck with Pine Ponder.”

                                            >It’s not the first time Cold’s brought her up and it probably won’t be the last.

                                            “You’ve a better idea of what I’m looking for.”

                                            >That was about as much as you could tell her.

                                            >You were taking something of a risk as it was.

                                            >”Maybe. If she were with us, I could be looking for Dry Kindling, though.”

                                            >There’s still some hardness in her voice when she says that name.

                                            >Cold had been sure to tell Niveous, again, before you left that you’d find and deal with Kindling.

                                            >Probably by marching her straight back to Crackling Fire, her caretaker and about the only pony Kindling seemed to be genuinely respectful of.

                                            “We’ll yet find her, Cold. She wouldn’t have wandered far from the village.”

                                            >The mare at your side scowls deeply.

                                            >”She’d better not, I don’t want to have to go looking for-Wait.”

                                            >She holds up a hoof, stopping dead in her tracks, ears swivelling about.

                                            >You push back your thick mane from your own and listen carefully.

                                            >The crunching of hooves through snow echoes from just a little further on.

                                            >Kindling was always so careless about that, too.

                                            >Before you can say a word, however, Cold Shoulder takes off with surprising quietness.

                                            >Maybe she was spending more time with Frozen Harvest than you thought.

                                            >You follow after, hoping your own hoofsteps don’t undo her good work, and are soon rewarded by the sight of them ahead.

                                            >The sight of the village’s smug-grinned, green eyed and ink-black maned troublemaker..

                                            >”Dry Kindling.”


                                            >Be back being the Snowzebra known as Zamboni, looking down at Dry Kindling.

                                            >Cold Shoulder hides her anger less successfully.

                                            >”Give it back, Kindling,” she growls.

                                            >You’d expected her to take the filly to task but by the way she grinds a hoof into the snow, it’s clear the only thing holding her back from tackling Dry Kindling is getting those words out between grit teeth.

                                            >Kindling, naturally, tosses her head and puffs her chest out, proudly showing off the scarf.

                                            >”Give what back?”

                                            >Cold takes another step forward, snow continuing to crunch as she slowly drives her hoof further into it.

                                            >”Don’t make me ask again.”

                                            >Most learned quickly that despite her gruff demeanour, she dealt fairly with anypony she met but nonetheless brooked no foolishness.

                                            >You’ve never seen her actually become violent with anypony—the thought of Cold actually hurting somepony intentionally… isn’t one you like—but then she’s never had to.

                                            >Dry Kindling was about the only pony you knew who might reasonably test that.

                                            >”What, this?” Chest still puffed out, Kindling flicks the end of the scarf with a hoof. “I was just holding onto it for Nivy. Y’know, since she’s always losing it, she’s really clumsy like that. So I said I’d be a good friend and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

                                            >Mentioning Niveous’ name like that reminds you of the filly clutching your foreleg, on the verge of tears. How could Kindling treat somepony who was supposed to be her friend like this?

                                            >Cold Shoulder doesn’t say another word as she starts walking over to the filly.

                                            >Her eyes narrow and you can tell by the way she starts to just barely lower herself with each step that she has something planned.

                                            >Much the same idea as Kindling, it seems, by the way the filly’s leg muscles tense.

                                            >Crunch, crunch, crunch.

                                            >Kindling makes a show of fixing one end of the scarf around her neck but you still notice she doesn’t take her green eyes off Cold. Nor, you’re sure, does the mare.

                                            >In an instant, it happens; Cold springs forward, face set like stone, with her forelegs stretched out to grab the troublemaking filly.

                                            >Who in turn leaps into action, jumping back from where she stood.

                                            >And it’s just enough to clear the spot from which Cold dives to, for the second time landing face-first in the snow but not without tapping the filly’s hoof on the way.

                                            >”Gonna have to be faster than that!” Kindling sneers. “Or are you gonna get your girlfriend to do it for you?”

                                            >You frown - Dry Kindling was the only pony in the village who used certain terms and you weren’t alone in having to puzzle some out, while others you could easily deduce the meaning of but still needed to remind yourself.

                                            >This was one she’d used before and suggested you and Cold were joined, or at least had begun courting.

                                            >If you didn’t look to her as your own kin, you might be flattered that somepony saw you two so close but even so, from the tone Kindling uses, it’s clear she means it as nothing but an insult.

                                            >”You-!”


                                            >And Cold takes it as one when she pulls herself from the snow, face once more covered in it.

                                            >”Apologise.”

                                            >The word is said much more calmly than her earlier requests and it gives Kindling pause.

                                            >Even she had to know how protective Cold Shoulder could be.

                                            >And with the two locking eyes so intensely, it gives you the perfect opportunity.

                                            >”Why would I say sorry to a couple of fags?”

                                            >That term you’re much more familiar with, though understand not as well.

                                            >Crackling Fire had said it was a severe insult but also a term of endearment.

                                            >Strange. And stranger still that Kindling would use an insult for such a thing.

                                            >You take the opportunity to shake your head, however, knowing she’s looking at you.

                                            >She grins and looks back at Cold. Maybe she thinks better of how your thick mane whips about your head.

                                            >One of the great benefits of your dancing was being asked to accompany Frozen Harvest, who said you had a natural talent for stepping lightly.

                                            >You told her it was because, even blanketed with snow, the Great Mother should not be trampled upon carelessly.

                                            >But you hadn’t been able to hold that stoney expression before leaping from a hind leg and spinning through the air.

                                            >No! It was because so often when you felt your hooves upon the ground, you could feel the Great Mother calling to you to dance. ‘Never let your heart be heavy, my child, for while I may keep your mother’s bones, her spirit longs only to dance with you once more!’

                                            >The same reason Cirrus allowed you and Cold to accompany her when she went deep into the forest, each year the long nights began to pass.

                                            >To help wake Great Mother Earth; when her voice would slowly rise in song, like the birds once more returned, and you would twirl and leap and stretch and lift even your voice to join her.

                                            >And Cold… Cold would lie upon the Earth and whisper. She never told you what she said, but perhaps from the rare smile she would wear upon looking to you, you could guess all the same.

                                            >But now is the time for caution and quiet, like stalking the skittish roots.

                                            >Cold and Kindling speak, though not much, and the former still looks like she might still dive towards the filly at any moment.

                                            >You need to focus on carefully making your way around, carefully, slowly, because this troublesome little root might bolt off at any moment, and Frozen Harvest was keen to impress upon you how important it was to never… give… yourself…

                                            “Hah!”

                                            >... Away!

                                            >You’d seen her dive dozens of times, gracefully arcing in the air before diving halfway into the deep snow, only to return with a delicious fresh root.

                                            >”Hey!”

                                            >And while she may be earthy and difficult to catch, you doubt there’s anything delicious about what you have squirming about in your forelegs.

                                            >”Lemme… nngh,,, lemme go, you dumb zigger!”

                                            >’Zigger’? That’s a new one.

                                            >Perhaps Crackling Fire might know what it means. She always sounded a lot more familiar with the filly’s strange words than anypony else in the village.


                                            >Which was no great harm, considering just how many turned out to be insults of various types.

                                            >”What did you call her?”

                                            >Cold takes it much less well, as you expected, though you doubt she has any more idea of the meaning than you.

                                            >And maybe it’s because the mare now stands before the two of you that Kindling struggles less in your grip.

                                            >Your mother had taught you how to balance on your forelegs and that required quite the degree of strength. Certainly enough to hold one kicking troublemaker in place.

                                            >”Uhh…”

                                            >Maybe, too, she now realises just how easily you hold onto her and how imposing Cold looks, standing so close

                                            >”Or should I ask Crackling?”

                                            >”NO!”

                                            >Even in your firm grasp, Kindling shivers.

                                            >Crackling Fire was a good friend to all in the village, a quiet mare but one always happy to lend her hoof to any in need.

                                            >On the eve of the foals testing their courage, when the village gathered about the great fires to tell tales together, it was Crackling who directed those given the honour of watching and tending the fires.

                                            >And it was she who had been entrusted with the care of the wayward Dry Kindling when she’d been found.

                                            >She whose single look made Kindling run to apologise to who she’d wronged.

                                            >”N-No.”

                                            >But the filly offers no more.

                                            “What does it mean, Kindling?”

                                            >You keep your tone even - Cold is the one who knows how to press, you need to allow her an opportunity to avoid involving Crackling.

                                            >”It-”

                                            >She squirms in your grasp again, turning her head to look up at you fearfully, before turning back to Cold who regards her with the same icy glare she’s been holding.

                                            >”I-It’s just a… a dumb name! Y’know, um, i-it sounds like ‘digger’ and… and your name’s Zamboni, so it’s like you’re a digger! You dig around in the snow and the dirt and… uh…”

                                            >Even without knowing what it means, that’s possibly the worst excuse you’ve ever heard from the filly.

                                            “And would you say the same of Frozen Harvest?”

                                            >She always does her best to look so calm, but even for a filly she usually does.

                                            >But at that question? You can feel how much she tenses up.

                                            “She digs around in the snow but she does it to provide for the village. I’ve seen you eating the stew made with her roots, too.”

                                            >It was remarkable; when she wanted to, Kindling could be a good friend to the other foals and polite to her elders in the village.

                                            >Why did she insist so often upon causing so much trouble?

                                            >”That’s not… she’s different.”

                                            >Cold’s eyes suddenly narrow and her chest slowly expands as she inhales deeply.

                                            “She’s better at catching roots than me, oh yes. Maybe if I spent more time practising my digging I’d be better!”

                                            >You hope the smile you wear is convincing.

                                            >The filly held in your hooves is still unmoving, even if Cold hasn’t taken another step towards her.

                                            “But you won’t call me that again, will you, Kindling?”

                                            >She’s staring straight ahead, into Cold’s eyes.

                                            “Kindling?”

                                            >”N-No!”

                                            >You release your hold on her just a little, just enough that you hope she’ll relax.


                                            “Good. I’d really rather not bother Crackling Fire about it.”

                                            >She tenses up more at the name but… There you go.

                                            >“Or about Nivy.” Cold leans forward. “Because you’re going to apologise to her yourself, aren’t you, Kindling?”

                                            >Almighty Sky, one moment she’s so tense you worry she might hurt herself, the next she’s scowling!

                                            >”She’s just gonna lose-” Kindling starts to mutter.

                                            >The filly’s interrupted by a, “there she is!” coming from behind Cold Shoulder.

                                            >The voice is one you recognise and is followed quickly by its owner - Frostbite.

                                            >Trotting up to you with Snowfall and Arctic Ink in tow, the older filly rounds Cold while paying little attention to her.

                                            >”That was really mean, Kindling! Nivy was almost crying when we found her!”

                                            >Snowfall, glaring along with her friends, glances back and spots Cold Shoulder and then suddenly looks up at you.

                                            >”You’re coming with us back to the village and you’re giving her back her scarf, and explaining to her mother… that… you…”

                                            >Frostbite slows to a stop as she realises exactly the predicament Kindling’s found herself in.

                                            >The look of confusion on her face as she turns between you and Cold is enough to put a genuine smile on your lips.

                                            >“Um, did something else happen?”

                                            >She’s looking at Kindling when she asks that question and your charge huffs.

                                            >Though she doesn’t answer, perhaps thinking better about what you and Cold had just said to her.

                                            >Sure there’s no longer a risk of Kindling running off—not with Snowfall and Arctic Ink now flanking her—you drop her back to the ground where she stands with her head lowered.

                                            “We met Niveous on our way and she explained all. We’ve been impressing upon Kindling that she shouldn’t take her friends' things, isn’t that right, Cold?”

                                            >The filly looks back up at you and for a moment, you expect one of her signature scowls.

                                            >Instead, she looks over at Cold who gives you a nod.

                                            “You girls were out looking for her too?”

                                            >Frostbite absently gives you a nod while looking Kindling over before unwrapping the scarf around her neck with a hoof.

                                            “It’s well Nivy has such good friends that care about her. You might follow their example, Kindling.”

                                            >She flicks her head back and gives you a dirty look but says nothing.

                                            >Only mutters under her breath, too low for you to hear.

                                            “And be sure not to go digging up any more trouble.”

                                            >She stops, tenses up, and looks back at you.

                                            “I’d rather not have to tell Crackling.”

                                            >You almost expect her to still give you a scowl but it seems whatever she’d said to you earlier carries enough meaning to genuinely worry her about you telling Crackling Fire.

                                            >It’s tempting to mention it anyway, to find out just how deeply she sought to wound you.

                                            >But there was an implicit understanding shared and you wouldn’t be the one to break it.

                                            >The four fillies leave and you content yourself with thoughts of Niveous deciding to resume wearing her scarf or continue wearing your headband.


                                            >No doubt she’d be keen to let her mother see you trusted her enough to believe she really did lose her scarf, and seeing kindling and the others return…

                                            >She’d probably try to claim Nivy had lost it and she had found it but Floe Forage knew better than most to trust a trickster.

                                            >Still, it does leave you with your mane once more obscuring part of your vision - not quite the problem while you were focused on holding Kindling but now, as you return to your search with Cold?

                                            >”C’mere,” Cold says, after looking you over for a moment. She moves up beside you, pressing her flank against yours. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall.”

                                            >The two of you begin making your way through the forest once more.

                                            >How long until you find what you seek?

                                            >After all, the name your mother had gifted you was an auspicious one - Zamboni.

                                            >She said it was a very rare one in her home, where… ice and snow were almost unheard of!

                                            >She did love her stories, just as much as the village did. The memories of everypony gathering together to listen to them; of plains so hot they had earth and dust instead of snow and ice, places untouched by water, and creatures nopony had ever heard tell of.

                                            >But when she told you of your name, it was only with your father.

                                            >It was something of a title for a craft that did not exist in this place. Even there it was something not heard of by many, for it was only those who made their lives in the high mountains, close to Almighty Sky and where he touched them.

                                            >There were those who had learned to dance upon the ice and there were those who saw to it the ice was just so for them to dance upon. Who shaped it, so to speak.

                                            >You had given that to her - since the day you were born, her heart had been too glad to be held upon the earth and so she felt the need to dance, always. You had created a path for her and so long as she had you, she would know where in life she belonged.

                                            >It was not until you were an older filly, akin to Frostbite, that your talent was discovered; when you were first taken to the villages of the far north by chance, with a few others afforded the privilege of seeing their work.


                                            >It was virtually unheard of for somepony outside of them to possess that gift and in the time after, you often wondered if that was why it was Cirrus who suggested you accompany the small group travelling there.

                                            >And it is why you now walk through the forest, with Cold Shoulder leaning against your side, pausing now and then to direct you around a gnarled root or treacherous rock.

                                            >You did not tell her the exact reason you needed to find bark and branches - if she knew what gift you sought to craft, she’d decline or ask you to instead create it for another, that she didn’t deserve such a thing.

                                            >But the beauty of the ice stars of the far north was, at least for you, outdone only by her heart.

                                            >And soon, with any luck, she would have something that might come close to matching it.


                                            -------------------------------


                                            Pineapple Rightside Up Cake:


                                            >Be Pineapple Rightside Up Cake

                                            >Or just ‘Pine’ as you liked to be called, as opposed to the dumb joke announcement Summer Showers loved to sometimes herald you as when you went anywhere.

                                            >”Aw, c’mon, Pine, don’t chicken out now!”

                                            >But looking at this shop, and how it does look fanciful but not the big estate you’d expect from somepony who’s a true blue snob, a niggling little doubt creeps its way up through you.

                                            >You stand outside it, chewing on your lip.

                                            “I dunno, Summer, what if you’re wrong?”

                                            >Last thing you wanted to do was make fun of somepony who didn’t deserve that.

                                            >It’s why there’s a box in your saddlebag wrapped up with a pretty little bow, to use as a peace offering.

                                            >”Hey,” Summer says, trotting back up to you, “the pony I talked to was sure about it. Now you remember Prim and Proper, right?”

                                            >You bristle at that name.

                                            >Memories bubble to the fore of your mind of a platinum-maned filly making your life a misery because you were born to a ‘lowly’ baker.

                                            >She always smugly insisted you address her as ‘Primcess’.

                                            >Oh! No coiffed mane or conditioned coat could hide just how ugly that filly was!

                                            >”Exactly!”

                                            >Seems whatever expression you wear tells precisely how well you remember.

                                            >”We’re not gonna hurt her or anything, just… remind her how dumb all that stuff is.”

                                            >You give a firm nod.

                                            “Just don’t take it too far, okay?”

                                            >Summer rolls her eyes before trotting back up to the door of the shop, leaving you to follow.

                                            >”I won’t! Now, c’mon, you’ve gotta get even more prettied up!”

                                            >One last breath and you toss your nose up, waiting as Summer pushes open the door and takes to her wings as she enters.

                                            >”May I have your attention, please!”

                                            >For such a small mare, it was surprising how loud she could speak when she wanted to.

                                            >”Presenting the most esteemed Lady Pineapple Rightside Up Cake the Third, Baroness of Battenberg Manor, Oatley-upon-Milkwood, in the Ceremonial County of Candyapple, Equestria!”

                                            >Summer does a little flourish in the air, putting both hooves to her mouth to toot at an imaginary trumpet.

                                            >”Oh good heavens! Y-Your ladyship, please excuse my-”

                                            >You step inside, holding your head up, expecting to see a stuffy old fusspot come up to you, bowing and scraping before the noblemare.

                                            >But that’s not what happens.

                                            >Instead, it’s a white unicorn mare with a purple mane that sticks out at odd angles in places.

                                            >On one of her forelegs is strapped a pincushion and across her withers is slung a long measuring tape.

                                            >This is not the mare Summer led you to expect! And at least you have the good sense to at least look a bit embarrassed.

                                            >Oh, but not Summer.


                                            >She just flaps back down to the ground with a gentle clop and bows deeply towards you.

                                            >”My lady.”

                                            >Ever since you were fillies, Summer Showers loved to poke fun at your long name.

                                            >Over the years she’s developed longer and longer titles but the thing is, she never did it to make fun of /you/.

                                            >It was always to trip up the sorts of ponies like Prim and Proper who fell over themselves to suck up to the nobility, no matter how undeserving of it they were, because they saw themselves as within that pecking order.

                                            >Before getting to this place, she told you she’d heard about it; in fact, Summer was the one who recommended you come here as she heard lots of good things about it.

                                            >But she also said that it was run by a stuffy unicorn mare who was way too taken up with Canterlot nobility and hoity-toity-ness. How she even styled herself as a minor noblemare.

                                            >It was always good to remind ponies like that how silly it all is.

                                            >Just not this pony, it seems, who looks like she knows what a real hard day’s work is.

                                            “Sorry about that.”

                                            >You slap a hoof over your muzzle but it’s no good, Summer is already nickering and doing a poor job of trying to hide it.

                                            >Because you stupidly emulated this unicorn’s own posh accent without thinking.

                                            >Well, maybe it was a little fun now and then to join in on the joke.

                                            >But only sometimes!

                                            >This poor mare looks like she’s just come off an all-nighter.

                                            “Sorry!”

                                            >You just about squeak out the word in your regular accent.

                                            >”Yes well,” the unicorn mare says, clearing her throat and fixing the red-rimmed glasses on her nose, “we all enjoy a good joke now and then, hm?”

                                            >She says the word ‘joke’ with a very pointed glare at Sunny who just shoots back an innocent look that all but says ‘what’.

                                            >Closing her eyes, she takes a long deep breath and levitates the glasses from her nose.

                                            >When she turns back to you, she adopts a smile.

                                            >”Welcome to the Carousel Boutique, where every garment is chic, unique, et magnifique!”

                                            >The unicorn mare gives you a little bow.

                                            >”I am Rarity, and it should be my great pleasure to ensure that you’re fitted with an ensemble that allows you to shine like a diamond!”

                                            >You feel like bowing after that entrance might be a bit on the nose, so instead opt to extend a hoof.

                                            >”Pineapple Rightside Up Cake! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rarity!”

                                            >And yep, you lay your accent on extra thick just there to make sure she knows you’re not nobility, nor do you think you are.

                                            >Definitely not because you’re still embarrassed that such a nice pony was pulled away from her work by your friend.


                                            >”Oh, please!” Rarity takes your hoof and gives it a little shake, leaning in closer to you with a smile. “Just Rarity is quite enough, darling.”

                                            >No hard feelings, huh?

                                            >She turns to one side of you, not wholly presenting her side but enough to face Summer Showers.

                                            >Who also extends her hoof.

                                            >”Summer Showers! And you can just call me Summer Showers. Or Summer. Or Showers. Just not Sum-Sum, I think my coltfriend might get jealous.”

                                            >Coltfriend?

                                            >”A pleasure,” Rarity says, though her tone as she shakes Summer’s hoof makes it clear she considers it anything but.

                                            >As if remembering something, Rarity turns back around to you.

                                            >”Oh dear, please excuse my appearance! I’ve had Lady Nightingale in five times over the last three days, making alterations to her order. Honestly, if that fop’s bits weren’t as good as everypony else’s, I’d…”

                                            >She sighs, lifting a hoof to her cheek.

                                            >”I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t speak of my clients so, and you needn’t hear my complaining.”

                                            >She fixes you with a genuine, albeit tired, smile.

                                            >”Now then, were you looking for something in the line of prêt-à-porter? Or perhaps you had a design in mind that I should be delighted to breathe life into?”

                                            “I… I’m not sure.”

                                            >And you’re really not!

                                            >Normally you just go into a clothes shop and pick out what you’d like to wear, you’ve never had somepony ask you if you had a design you wanted made.

                                            “I guess something… wintery?”

                                            >Rarity slides her hoof down to her chin, looking you over.

                                            >You can’t help but raise one of your forelegs slightly, feeling a little self-conscious about your appearance.

                                            >It’s not like you actually wore anything here beyond your saddlebags and glancing around at the dresses on racks, you get the impression that this is a pony who knows fashion.

                                            >”Wintery,” Rarity repeats absently. She continues looking at you for a moment more before her face lights up. “Aha! Come with me!”

                                            >As if some force has breathed new life into the mare, she takes the hoof you’ve lifted and gently leads you further into her shop.

                                            >Summer grins as you pass, taking up following along as you pass by racks of clothing, ponyquins, and a desk with bolts of fabric heaped high next to a sewing machine.

                                            >There’s a soft thrum as Rarity’s horn lights and a screen in front of you floats off to one side, revealing a trio of mirrors that she leads you to before stepping back and looking you over again.

                                            >Now you feel even more self-conscious!

                                            >There’s your pale green mane, your golden brown coat, the yellow freckles on your cheeks and—without thinking you turn to one side—the light dappling of yellow spots along your croup.


                                            >You’d never have said you were the prettiest mare in Equestria and having somepony as elegant, even in her present state, looking you over with such a keen eye makes you blush.

                                            >”Is this dress perhaps for a Hearth’s Warming party, my dear? Something to catch the eye of just the right pony?”

                                            >She asks that as she levitates the measuring tape from your back and sets about wrapping it around your forelegs and pressing it against your chest.

                                            >Now you’re blushing even harder! Why would she suggest you, Pine, would ever attract a pony whose eye is worth catching?

                                            “I-I-It’s… for a winter ball, actually.”

                                            >You swallow in a dry throat.

                                            “Back home, w-we have it every year.”

                                            >”A ball!” Rarity stops in her work and looks back at you with wide, shimmering eyes. “How romantic! And every year, you say?”

                                            >”Yeah!” Summer pipes up, to the rescue, mercifully. “The Pollbrook Winter Wonderball is the event of the year.”

                                            >She trots over, her reflection tripling in the mirrors.

                                            >”Except somepony thinks she doesn’t belong.”

                                            >Not when Prim and Proper would be there, with her mother and gaggle of friends, ready to sneer at the mare who can’t afford a dress that matches everypony else’s.

                                            >Okay, it’s not like Pollbrook is the Manehatten of southern Equestria or anything but you had more important things to pay for then keeping your wardrobe up to date!

                                            >It just didn’t feel right showing up in your faded old dress when everypony else looked so nice for the season, even Summer Showers!

                                            >”And it’s like, hello, have you seen this mare?”

                                            >Summer, please no - she’s just making you blush even harder!

                                            >You’re not anything special!

                                            >”I’m most certainly glad I have,” Rarity says, returning to measuring you and having seemingly forgotten her earlier irritation at Summer. “Why, you have the most beautiful colours of Fall! I believe,” she mumbles, sounding more to herself, “what we must do is play towards that strength; the transition from Fall to Winter, its Queen wearing the season’s new weather as her gown.”

                                            >Q-Queen?

                                            >You’re not a queen!

                                            >”Blustery winds bringing forth fresh snows from the mountaintops, lakes freezing to crystal perfection, the woodland returning to its yearly rest.”

                                            >Eep! Did she just run that tape up your hind leg‽

                                            >”And you, darling, you shall be the one to usher forth the very ball itself!” She comes back around to one side of you, eyes still gleaming. “They shall gaze upon you and gasp that the Queen has arrived to declare they may proceed, she has given her gracious permission for the passage of the seasons!”

                                            >Foreleg extended, she looks not at you but at some unseen audience, voice projected, glasses barely balanced on the tip of her nose.


                                            >”Yes, of course! No mere prefabricated pretender shall sit upon you, this will strike awe into the hearts of the Pollbrook ponies and you shall shine as beautifully as the morning sunlight refracted through the first snowflake of the new season!”

                                            >For a moment longer, Rarity stands there proudly, triumphant in her artistry.

                                            >You and Summer exchange sidelong glances and you wonder if she thinks about what you’ve gotten yourselves into as much as you do.

                                            >”Oh. Excuse me, dears, I think perhaps that was just the stroke of inspiration I needed.”

                                            >Indeed, the bags under Rarity’s eyes look significantly less heavy now and even her mane seems to glow in the light streaming through the shop’s windows.

                                            >”Yeah, Pine!” Summer nearly shouts, leaping forward to put a foreleg around your neck. “You’re gonna… what she said!”

                                            >A dress that’ll leave everypony awestruck? You dread to think just how much that might set you back.

                                            >And you can’t hope that the treat you’ve brought in your saddlebags, now sitting to one side after Rarity unclasped them to properly take your measurements, might be enough to bring the cost down to a more manageable level.

                                            >You’d brought it in case Summer decided to… be Summer. Or, rather, in case she turned out to be wrong about this pony and you needed some way of making up.

                                            >But… it does sound kind of nice. A new dress that complements your looks, or at least can distract enough from them to make you look prettier by association.

                                            >Summer was always the more beautiful mare - with her sky-blue coat and her blonde mane and tail, with those darker threads through them that only highlighted the locks.

                                            “I-I guess it might be nice.”

                                            >And you can get some idea of the cost before you commit to anything.

                                            “It would be nice to look pretty.”

                                            >Rarity gently turns you about, with a hoof, to face her.

                                            >”My dear, you already look lovely. This dress will simply highlight and draw out more of your natural beauty, to help you truly shine.”

                                            >And looking into her eyes, hearing the way she speaks, you don’t detect a hint of sarcasm or insincerity.

                                            >She really does mean every word she says.

                                            >Mare, was Summer wrong about this pony. She couldn’t be less like Prim and Proper, even if she looked even prettier.

                                            >”Of course there is the matter of when, exactly this ball is scheduled to take place.”

                                            >Oh. Right. When you were looking around at the dresses, you were taken by how well made they were. A mare like this, with that kind of skill, would probably need a while to make something new, right?

                                            >And she already has one customer she’s working for, what’s the rest of her worklog like?

                                            >You can’t keep from biting your lip nervously.

                                            “It’s, um, it’s… in about two weeks?”

                                            >You’d hemmed and hawed, trying to argue against Summer insisting that you should do this at all.


                                            >Now you await your judgement with baited breath and bitten lip.

                                            >”Hmm…” Rarity hums, ears flicking and eyes turned upward. “Perhaps… no, that’s almost done. But… hmm, yes, that might be alright. No, it shall be alright.” Turning back to you with a fierce look of determination knit into her brow, Rarity nods. “Miss Rightside Up Cake, you shall have a dress that will mark you as the belle of the Winter Wonderball before the two weeks have passed!”

                                            >”Woo!” Summer leaps forward, grabbing you in a fierce hug. “Hear that, Pine? You’re gonna have /all/ the ponies lookin’ for a slice of /your/ cake!”

                                            >Oh Celestia, just send you to the moon now…

                                            “Eheheh! S-Speaking of cake!”

                                            >And not /that/ kind of cake!

                                            >You light your horn and extend your magic over to the saddlebag sitting to one side of the mirrors.

                                            >Undo the flap and aha, there it is!

                                            >This is just the distraction you need from yet another of Summer’s slip-ups.

                                            >Nice or not, you can’t imagine Rarity would want to hear about what you get up to in the bedroom. Or don’t, as the case may be.

                                            “I, um, brought along a little something. J-Just so there’s no hard feelings from earlier!”

                                            >Rarity takes the box in her own magic when you levitate it to her, already giving the air a little sniff.

                                            >”My word, this is utterly delectable…”

                                            >With great care and delicacy, she unwraps the bow and pushes up the lid, eyes widening when she looks inside.

                                            >”Oh my… This is as good as any of Pinkie Pie’s pastry perfections!”

                                            >She gives another, longer sniff in the box and comes away with an incredibly satisfied sigh.

                                            >”You know, I was just about to break for some tea before…” She trails off, lowering the box and looking over to you and Summer. “Not to suggest you came at an inopportune time! In fact, would you ladies care to join me? I do know where Pollbrook is and how far you’ve travelled; surely a light repast is in order?”

                                            >You’re tempted to politely decline the offer, after all, if she really was going to have lunch and you kept her from that, the last thing you’d want to do is impose.

                                            >”Are you kidding? I’d do anything for a slice of one of Pine’s cakes!”

                                            >But trust Summer to make the decision for you.

                                            >Oh well, maybe you’ll learn a little more about the mare you’ll be working with.