Bathorse, My Birdhorse


                                            >"Standard rate."

                                            "Aw, come on now, Mister Blackrock. Throw in a few danger coins! What with the blizzard and all..."

                                            >"Hm, well let's see. You come out alive, and you show me proof you flew by windigos, and I might just start to consider it."

                                            "Nopony's seen a windigo in decades!"

                                            >"That's the idea, Tuft."

                                            >"...Okay. You can't blame a mare for trying, can you?"

                                            >"I feed you /plenty/, fatty batty."

                                            "Hey!"

                                            >"Git!"

                                            >Shaking with light indignance, the gray bat pony made her way to the store's front door. She pat her saddlebags with her wings, flashed a smile back at the proprietor, and pushed out into the cold.

                                            >The cold: it wasn't what it used to be.

                                            >And that was exactly why she was smiling.

                                            >Graytuft hung briefly to the heavy wooden door of the shop. She peered out into the snowed out village, intent on only moving with purpose.

                                            >There were very few ponies out and about, but the commotion near the village center remained in progress.

                                            >Despite her reputation in this particular civilized corner of Equestria, Tuft didn't like to stay in town for long.

                                            >Swiftly, she'd collect all the regular deliveries she could before anything else: only with laden bags would she look for extra bits.

                                            >Or in today's case, extra shenanigans.

                                            >She flit down with short hovering hops from snowbank to snowbank, edging closer to the ponies and their shrill tones.

                                            >She thumped close beside one familiar stallion, inadvertently startling him.

                                            >"Oh, good morrow to you, Miss Graytuft."

                                            "Morning, locksmith."

                                            >For a moment, they refrained from their usual rapport, instead sharing their attention on the display before them.

                                            "The mockingbird's still in town, huh?"

                                            >"I believe some marm's taken pity on the poor thing." The earth pony tsk'd, turning to face Tuft. "Seems an awful sort, being birdbrained."

                                            >Tuft frowned.

                                            "It's rude to call it that."

                                            >"It appears further out of sorts to keep feeding the damaged colt." He pushed his bifocals up the bridge of his snout, then sighed heavily. "No doubt, I'll be speaking with the guard. His suffering has gone on long enough."

                                            >The 'mockingbird' was, in fact, a pegasus. A fairly young stallion at that. He was brushed with a saccharine blue coat, a gorgeous spread of feathers, and a white mane and tail that blended into the snow on any fine day.

                                            >The problem was that he was all kinds of wrong in the head.

                                            >As the elder beside her had called it, the pegasus was birdbrained: he often mimicked the behavior of the common Equestrian avian, and to quite accurate lengths, too.

                                            >At present, the mockingbird was sending a band of stallions whooping and hollering over his fountain dance. Sans water, instead with snow, but a birdbath all the same.

                                            "He never hurts anypony."

                                            >"As that may be, he's bound to hurt himself. These aren't the dark ages, Miss Graytuft. Ponies have a right to be healed after all the hurt the windigos have left us."

                                            >Ponies had been healing for almost half a century in the relatively new nation of Equestria, but Tuft didn't raise her voice to argue.

                                            >Instead, she whistled for the mockingbird.

                                            >His lime green eyes met her reds.

                                            >She entertained the birdhorse with a little bowing curtsy, dipping and flaunting her leathery wings.

                                            >When she rose again, she beamed at him, and whistled more directly.

                                            "Looking pretty today, mockingbird!"

                                            >This was the first real time she'd spoken to the pegasus. But she was as comfortable as the town was with him.

                                            >She just didn't expect how harrowing his stare could become.

                                            >An awkward silence settled over the assembled ponies.

                                            >"Aw, mare. Lookit what youse done. You ruined the show, batto!"

                                            >Graytuft rolled her eyes, then flicked her tail toward the mockingbird.

                                            "You oughta start paying him."

                                            >She smiled at the laughs she received in reply.

                                            >With some shenanigans entertained, she moved to flit away.

                                            >And as she glanced back, she could still see the pegasus' eyes following her.

                                            >Did it bother her?

                                            >Yes. Yes it did.

                                            >But she filed away her struck nerves for later.

                                            >Right now, she had letters and mail, and coin at the end of the rainbow.


                                            >The particularly amusing thing about Graytuft's line of work was that she could very easily see herself being replaced.

                                            >Not for lack of effort on her part, but rather a lack of effort from the big councilmares and stallions 'overseeing the domain': the alleged 'Crown'.

                                            >But Tuft wasn't going to look a giftmare in the frog: she was just fine earning a hot meal every other day.

                                            >There were several routes she circled through. Often, it came down to whether or not ponies needed things ferried. One nice part of her scheme, however, involved that demand.

                                            >If ponies didn't need things delivered, then she wouldn't stick around.

                                            >Her mercenary system pegged her as an amiable, trustworthy sort, but prone to becoming expensive. More than once, ponies had paid her to stay in town for just a little longer, and that was something she actively nurtured in their dealings.

                                            >Lately, though, two very busy villages had been keeping her occupied.

                                            >It wasn't a good look for reputation overall, but hey, if they wanted her to stick around, it had to be the most worthwhile venture around.

                                            >So, there Tuft was. A mercenary courier who ponies trusted to get things around the wilderness. She was light on her wings, and never caught out in a storm.

                                            >But she was usually quite alone.

                                            >Adventurers existed, of course. But they rarely interacted; she didn't seek them out, and they could only find her if they actively tried.

                                            >For a while, Tuft had maintained a steady "friendship" with a burly unicorn adventurer named Cottonmaw.

                                            >The mare had a bite as sharp as her namesake, but there was a catch: she was really a softy inside.

                                            >Like Cottonmaw, Tuft liked to think she had a sweet streak inside, too.

                                            >But ponies just tended to slide off of her.

                                            >Maybe she feared being tethered down to one place. She quite liked her work, as stressful as it could be, but it always reminded her that she was one mistake away from costing her everything.

                                            >So unfortunately, Tuft couldn't take the risk.

                                            >Companions were nice and all, but could easily tie her up.

                                            >And with packages in the mail, Tuft preferred to be the one doing any kind of tying.

                                            >Snap.

                                            >Tuft shot upward, looking right at the entrance to her bed-down cavern for the night.

                                            >Dimly licking at the dark, her campfire revealed nothing.

                                            >She pursed her lips and leaned back, quickly returning to her thoughts.

                                            >She had a future, but no plan. Right now, she lived week to week and spent coin as quickly as she earned it. Commitment weighed her down, and success just kept leading her to more and more commitments.

                                            "What's a mare to do...?"

                                            >Chirp.

                                            >Her eyes shot wide.

                                            >Before she could turn, she had a quick two-note song flicked at her ears. Instinctively, she snapped the whistle back in response, then looked to the opposing source.

                                            >Mere hooves away, green eyes stared into her.

                                            >Green eyes buried beneath a coat covered in snow.

                                            >"Chirp-chirp," the mockingbird stallion chirruped at her. It was a squeaky, yet passive noise.

                                            "...Of course."

                                            >Graytuft settled back into her stony warm spot, eyes holding on the pegasus.

                                            "You followed me."

                                            >"Chirp."

                                            >She glanced past the pegasus, half-expecting some awaiting horde of birdbrains.

                                            >But he was alone.

                                            >Had been, at least.

                                            "So... do you want something, mockingbird?"

                                            >He whistled at her, then tucked his head into his wing, prying at a loose feather.

                                            >Just like a bird.

                                            >Tuft had no honest clue about how to deal with her new guest.

                                            >In towns, she was able to keep to herself, only interacting when she fancied herself talkative.

                                            >Here in the wilds, though, being approached by ponies usually meant adventure, irksome and /possibly/ otherwise.

                                            >But what could she possibly offer a curious birdbrained pegasus?

                                            "Sorry, mockingbird. If you came for food, there's nothing here for you."

                                            >The pegasus unearthed his neck from his wing. His beady little eyes roamed over Graytuft.

                                            >She had no reason to fear him: he was still a pony.

                                            >Allowing him to engage in his curiosity, she merely turned back to the roaring embers of her fire.

                                            >Truth be told, she'd only been planning on resting through the storm outside. She didn't have much to do; while traveling, journals and games didn't appeal to her as much as sleep did.

                                            >So, she really, truly didn't have much to offer the pegasus.

                                            >But she didn't exactly have a reason to shoo him off.

                                            >Especially with the storm outside.

                                            >Increasingly curious herself, Tuft looked up to inspect the pegasus in turn. Unlike the bat pony, he had quite a broad build, and his mane and tail were tightly clumped together in the places where his hairs had bound themselves. He also, obviously, didn't have much to say in response.

                                            >It was odd, really, but it felt more akin to observing an animal.

                                            >Tuft stared.

                                            >The mockingbird pegasus stared back.

                                            "You have a pretty whistle, you know?"

                                            >The pegasus blinked slow.

                                            >Tuft smirked, then pursed her lips. She whistled once, high.

                                            >True to her nickname for him, the mockingbird whistled back.

                                            "I hear you all the time when I'm around Overo. Noisy bird."

                                            >He chirped, then whistled a new triplet call. New, but familiar.

                                            "The noises are accurate, too. It's weird to actually see you doing it, though."

                                            >Her conversational partner was quiet, though he was striding closer.

                                            >Tuft invited him in with a wave of the wing.

                                            >She did worry a fair bit as he danced around the edge of her campfire, but her fear proved to be unnecessary.

                                            >The pegasus folded in with all the grace of a tumbling tortoise, collapsing in a heap beside her.

                                            >He was close enough to touch, but she didn't dare provoke him further.

                                            >Instead, she watched the pegasus nestle into his wings, and soon into a comfortable slumber.

                                            >His idly dreaming tail betrayed the pony instincts within him.

                                            >Outside, the blizzard thumped against the cave's stony face.

                                            >Inside, the warmth swelled, prepared for the cold of the night.

                                            >And for Tuft, she watched her new companion, fresh thoughts casually swirling.


                                            >"Do you think somepony misses the poor dear, Miss Graytuft?"

                                            "I don't think so. Well, except maybe this one elderly mare in Overo. Word around there is that she's been feeding him."

                                            >"/Elderly/ mare? You twenty-odd moon foals and your unprecedented namecalling..."

                                            "With all due respect, Miss Sourdough, you're practically ancient. And I'm well around twenty-one moons, thank you."

                                            >There was a heavyset pause.

                                            >Then two sets of laughter set it free.

                                            >"Mm, you're lucky that I know you jest, Miss Graytuft. A lesser mare might take you at just the grain and chaff."

                                            "Yes, ma'am."

                                            >And that was that.

                                            >Tuft stared at the pony seated across from her in the bakery.

                                            >The mockingbird had stayed with her the entire night, as well as the entire flight. He was surprisingly graceful in the sky, and he dutifully followed her when she broke for quick landings.

                                            >He'd even respected her boundaries when she'd fled to the bushes for the odd tinkle.

                                            >And seeing as how Tobiano was likely new territory for him, Tuft only found it fair to reward his good manners with breakfast.

                                            >"So, will you be keeping him?"

                                            >Tuft hummed conspiratorially, leaning toward the bakery's matron.

                                            "I don't know, yet. I think he might belong back in Overo."

                                            >"Mm. Then it seems you already have your next little delivery."

                                            "Oh, that's my secret, Miss Sourdough. I always have a message to send."

                                            >"And yet, never the bits to spare."

                                            >A whine rose in Tuft's throat.

                                            "You know I always come back after I get paid!"

                                            >"Graytuft, dear. I'm pulling your feathers."

                                            "...I don't have feathers."

                                            >"Well, you do now! If I were you, I'd put that big, strong pegasus to work." Playfully batting a hoof at Tuft, Sourdough turned to regard the pegasus. "Have you at least figured out a name for him?"

                                            "Me? Name him?"

                                            >"I think you and Overo could do better than 'mockingbird', dear."

                                            >Tuft squinted at the mockingbird.

                                            >/Her/ mockingbird.

                                            >Largely ignoring the fact that it was another pony, it felt right to think it.

                                            "/My/ mockingbird."

                                            >Her murmur thankfully evaded Miss Sourdough's ragged ears.

                                            >And mare, did the words feel even better to get out.

                                            "Well... I don't know. How did you name your foals, Miss Sourdough?"

                                            >"It's just a certain feeling that comes to you, dear. The right words at the right time."

                                            "I'm pretty sure I know exactly how my parents named me," Graytuft grumbled.

                                            >"I don't suppose you truly believe he looks to be a mockingbird?"

                                            "No, but I know he is one."

                                            >"A name isn't necessarily a commitment to one's being, dear."

                                            "Meaning?"

                                            >"It could just be the best presentation of somepony's character."

                                            >Tuft eyed the pegasus carefully.

                                            >While she was caught up in deep thoughts, the pegasus continued to work away at his bread.

                                            >It made for a very amusing juxtaposition.

                                            >When she let out a thoughtful hum, the pegasus' ears rose in attention.

                                            >The rest of him followed suit: his green eyes came to rest on her. Breadcrumbs lined his lower lip, and remained as glued in place as the rest of him; they were a part of him.

                                            >Tuft whistled one high, then descending series of notes.

                                            >The pegasus followed with an arpeggio of his own creation, a trilling little whistle that managed to send a shiver through Graytuft.

                                            >She smiled, returning to Sourdough with an answer.

                                            "I feel like he's a Whistler."


                                            >Whitewood was the politest pony Graytuft knew.

                                            >Back when she was but a yearling, still out on her own in the wide new world of the Pinto Fiefdom, she’d first found work with him.

                                            >He was actually the pony who had introduced her to Miss Sourdough all those years ago.

                                            >Looking back, she saw the young faces of all of the Tobiano townsponies she’d come to know.

                                            >Ponies whose homes had been built by Whitewood, held by nails forged by his brother Blackrock, and all brought together through Graytuft’s deliveries.

                                            >And yet, as she stepped into the all-too comfortable warmth of Whitewood’s home and workshop, she knew she didn’t really belong.

                                            >In the past, Tobianos had asked her why she never stuck around.

                                            >She’d slowly worked out an answer to that question, but she’d never spread it aloud.

                                            >Graytuft never really had to fly between the Pinto Fiefdom for work: Tobiano was the first and only real town in the fiefdom, and much of its success bled down to Overo. It was why she’d recently found a productivity streak, and stopped visiting the other two villages in the territory.

                                            >She’d gently been guided by the natural needs of ponies.

                                            >And while she wasn’t against staying, she merely felt the need to leave each town and village.

                                            >In some primal part of her bat pony blood, she wanted to go it alone.

                                            >Just as her ‘family’ had done to her.

                                            >Behind her, the door thud against somepony.

                                            “Eee! Sorry, Whistler.”

                                            >Graytuft nudged back and held the door open for the blue pegasus. He seemed none too dimmed by the muzzle-full of door he’d just received.

                                            >“Ah, is that a Tuft I hear?”

                                            “Hi, Whitewood!”

                                            >The white-splotched earth pony was up against his workbench at the back of the room. He pushed away from the woodcraft he’d been inspecting, then met Tuft at the counter.

                                            >“Good day to you, Graytuft. Visiting, or delivering?”

                                            “Delivering.” She turned, then produced the weighted parcel from her left saddlebag. From her right bag, she followed with a twine-tied letter. She set them both on the counter. “But I can visit, too.”

                                            >“Too right, Tuft.” The stallion smiled gently at her. “And I see you brought some extra company through my door. Good day to you, sir.”

                                            >Tuft and Whitewood looked at Whistler, but the stallion stood stock still. He blinked his beady green eyes at Whitewood, then glanced at Tuft.

                                            >“Is he alright?” Whitewood asked with genuine concern.

                                            “Yes... Well, no. This is Whistler.”

                                            >“Chirp.” He stepped close to Graytuft, eyes flicking to Whitewood.

                                            >Whitewood blinked. “...Ah.” A frown touched at his lips, but he didn’t break eye contact with Whistler. “I see.”

                                            “He followed me from Overo. Spent the night in my camp. And then we went and ate breakfast at Sourdough’s.”

                                            >“Can he understand us?”

                                            “I’m not too sure. He’s already used to be being called Whistler, though.”

                                            >Pursing his lips, Whitewood leaned over the counter.

                                            >The two stallions stared.

                                            >Amused, Tuft watched on.

                                            >Finally, Whistler broke off, but not in a way Graytuft nor Whitewood expected.

                                            >The birdhorse closed the distance between him and Tuft, flexed out a wing, and settled it over her.

                                            >He pulled her into his side with astonishing force.

                                            “Eee!”

                                            >Tuft stopped herself from moving any further with a foreleg braced against Whistler’s barrel. She steadied her hooves, and looked up at the bulky pegasus.

                                            >He looked down at her, and whistled a positive chime.

                                            >Tuft blushed, whistled back at him, and looked over at Whitewood.

                                            >The older stallion’s smile caused Tuft’s blush to deepen.

                                            >“Ah, you’ve found yourself a lovebird.”

                                            “Whitewood!”

                                            >“I’m merely making an observation, sweet Tuft. While it’s no business of mine, I’m happy to see you’ve finally found yourself a companion.

                                            >The words came unwittingly.

                                            “He found me...”

                                            >And the self-annihilation of her own admission caused her to crumple deeper into the one holding her.

                                            >“Chirp.”

                                            >“Speaking of business...” Whitewood looked down and picked up the delivered letter. “Once again, I assume that my brother expects me to be responsible for paying you?”

                                            >Graytuft plucked her head from Whistler’s broad front, leaving her head pressed against his neck.

                                            “He said standard rate.”

                                            >“I believe that...” Whitewood flipped over the letter and unbound the twine with a pull of his teeth. “But given last night’s conditions, and the fact he sent you with a package, I can’t believe he’d only offer a usual rate.”

                                            “It’s not right for him to make you pay over half the time.”

                                            >“Right again, Tuft. But, you have to understand...” He unfurled the letter, then began to read. “Overo thrives more on bartering than coin. We’re much more well-off in Tobiano.”

                                            >Graytuft shrugged.

                                            “You’ve always done me right, so I don’t question Blackrock. But he didn’t say what was in the package, this time. And it almost didn’t fit in my bag.”

                                            >“It’s a special project,” Whitewood replied, though he was still reading. It was a big letter... “Do you remember the hilt I had you bring him not too long ago?”

                                            >Ah, the hilt.

                                            >A hilt for a /weapon/.

                                            >Independently, the brothers weren’t weaponsmiths, but from time to time, Tuft saw the results of their combined efforts: she didn’t know much about weapons, but Cottonmaw had called the pieces in Blackrock’s shop ‘excellently refined’.

                                            >When the work of earth ponies impressed a unicorn, Tuft knew it meant something.

                                            >“Well...” Whitewood set the letter down, and moved to the package. Graytuft and Whistler watched with keen eyes. “This particular effort may require a bit of back and forth.”

                                            >When the package was unveiled, Graytuft could immediately tell that she was looking at a very, very valuable piece of work.

                                            >“Recently, the Crown reached out to my brother.” Gently, Whitewood ran a hoof over the worked metal in front of him. “As he tells, adventurers had passed on his name to the extent of Canterlot.”

                                            “Canterlot? Really?”

                                            >“Truly. Further, ponies of certain persuasions produced an offer for him, and by his word, extended it to me in turn.” Whitewood held Blackrock’s work up for all of them to see. “This spearhead, it seems, is destined to bring ponies and wealth to Overo.”

                                            >The delight and awe in Whitewood’s words wasn’t lost on Graytuft. But the longer she looked up at the piece in his hoof, the quicker its luster turned to dull metal.

                                            >The words really weren’t doing it for her.

                                            “Um... how so, Whitewood?”

                                            >“It’s simple.” The stallion carefully lowered the spearhead again, then tapped the letter. He smiled at Graytuft, his voice taking on a teaching tone. “The Canterlot armory seeks a new design. Apparently, there is tell of new leaders, soon to lead Equestria and the greater fiefdoms to new prosperity. For this purpose, they wish to adequately prepare the Royal Guard. Prior to this piece, Blackrock had drawn up the design for a sword. But a spear, it seems, is bound to become the new leg of the guard.”

                                            “So what you’re saying is that there’s going to be plenty of work for me?”

                                            >It was brief, but Whitewood’s smile slipped. “Maybe not so much in the future, but for this delivery, you should be much better compensated. It is the start of a new era, for me and my brother.”

                                            “You’re not cutting me out of deliveries, are you?”

                                            >“Goodness, no, Tuft. But... work between us may be lacking. Letters, yes, but the usual proper pay you’re used to? Not so much.”

                                            “Oh...”

                                            >“Fret not, I’ll put together a bonus for you. How does triple the standard sound?”

                                            “W-what? But that’s...!”

                                            >A shudder ran through her. A giddy shudder.

                                            >“Plenty for you to arrange for a stay at the inn, to plot your next move accordingly, and to perhaps get you and your friend here a much needed hot bath.”

                                            >Graytuft glanced at Whistler above her, then back to Whitewood.

                                            “I don’t know what to say, Whitewood...”

                                            >“Then say nothing. It’s worked well enough for your friend, here.”

                                            >She couldn’t deny that at all.

                                            >A stay at an inn? And /a bath/?

                                            >For... two.

                                            >She tried to tell herself that she didn’t have to take care of Whistler.

                                            >But Whitewood had taken on so much responsibility for her, too.

                                            “Thank you, Mister Whitewood...”

                                            >“No, thank you for all your help, Tuft. My brother and I owe our lives to you.”

                                            >As Whitewood turned away for the moment, Graytuft clutched close to Whistler.

                                            “Are you bringing me all this good, Whistler?”

                                            >Her whisper was answered with a low whistle.

                                            >Tuft stretched out a wing, and thinly stroked Whistler’s side.

                                            “Well, thank you. It’s... nice to share my good fortune, for once.”


                                            >Graytuft had never been too keen on getting a room at the Tobiano inn, even in the worst weather.

                                            >She typically had zero trouble finding a good, warm, albeit damp cave to alight for the night.

                                            >And as far as the hills around Tobiano went, there were plenty Tuft-frequented hollows that even local critters had learned to avoid.

                                            >For Tuft, caves were home.

                                            >That was just a byproduct of her ancestry, though; most ponies needed experience to seek out the kind of campsites she tended toward. And those ponies felt they needed full comfort to call a camp sheltered.

                                            >Still, the prospect of speaking with the innkeeper and getting a hot bath drawn wasn't a comfort Tuft would turn her muzzle up at.

                                            >It was just a plus that they insisted on giving her a double bed.

                                            >And pricing a bath for two, at the cost of one.

                                            >Still unwilling to look a giftmare in the frog, Tuft easily pushed aside the unspoken reasons behind the innkeeper's kind gesture.

                                            >If feeding and shepherding Whistler around brought even more good, she wasn't going to stop.

                                            >A giddy, quiet laugh bubbled out of Graytuft as she pulled Whistler into the washroom.

                                            >She shut the door behind him, then stood at his side to take in the room together, an activity Whistler had already leaned into with an owl-like swivel.

                                            >He might not have had her sharp eyes, but he was continuing to prove himself quite the observant sort.

                                            >The washroom glowed in all the right corners. An appealing cloud of steam waved around the room's ceiling, and warm wax candles burned orange in the otherwise dark room. The wood of the walls was crisp and damp, an earthy scent settling amid the mist. This place was just the kind of hot needed to ward off the winter chill.

                                            >The washtub itself, opposite Graytuft and Whistler, was generously filled, at least as far as Tuft could tell from the way it was set into the washroom floor, and its present state: the water was a white murky fog that Tuft assumed was the work of soap and other blessings of the civilized world.

                                            >The theme here was a deep, innate warmth, and an earnest earth pony's effort had gone into making it presentable.

                                            >A warm shiver filtered through Tuft.

                                            >Her coat felt slick just looking at the deep pool.

                                            >She looked at Whistler, inspecting the burly pegasus while evading his scrying eyes.

                                            >It was plain to see why Whitewood had at least recommended a bath for Whistler: Tuft's new companion was a mess.

                                            >Aside from the knots in his mane and tail, there were burrs buried deep, as well as long festering dirt rubbed into his withers and the base of his wings.

                                            >Yet, his wings were perhaps the best groomed half of him.

                                            >Tuft was a bat pony, but the tidiness of Whistler's feathers was impressive on its own.

                                            "Whistler?"

                                            >The pegasus cocked his head down to look at Tuft.

                                            >Whistler came close.

                                            >A bit /too/ close.

                                            >Tuft blocked his advance with a gentle foreleg.

                                            >She almost swore she heard a complaint in his throat.

                                            "I hope you've figured out what's about to happen, because I'm not entirely up to speed on how to preen a pegasus."

                                            >He whistled at her.

                                            >Tuft smiled and whistled back, arching her neck up playfully.

                                            >It was a trick, she found, that quickly produced a result she very much liked.

                                            >Tuft hummed when the big pegasus rested his neck against her nape, and draped his wings over her.

                                            >Where she moved, he trot.

                                            >She used that quirk to bring them to the side of the washtub.

                                            >There, Tuft separated herself enough to dip a hoof in at the tub's edge.

                                            >Still glued to her, albeit a bit more loosely, Whistler’s head drooped low.

                                            >He sniffed at the water.

                                            >He wriggled a lip.

                                            >He leveled a side-eye on Tuft.

                                            >And he chuffed.

                                            >The whole process made her heart skip a beat.

                                            >There /was/ still some pony in him.

                                            >And here she'd believed that his rather unique style of eating Sourdough's bread was the end of the 'possibly pony' conversation.

                                            >It was then that her doubts over the entire situation resurfaced.

                                            >Truth be told, Tuft had found the idea of having an essentially blind companion that depended on her... alluring.

                                            >She liked being in control. She liked having a say over what came next. She liked knowing that she was choosing her next path.

                                            >But still, in so many more ways, Whistler—or whatever his /real/ name could be—was a pony.

                                            >And yet... He wasn't saying no in any shape or form.

                                            >Even if he had entirely gone the path of 'animal mad', he could still find a way to push her away, couldn't he?

                                            >She tried to push the thoughts aside and focus on one thing at a time.

                                            >Like a simple bath. With absolutely no dubious consent or scrambled minds at play.

                                            “C-come on, don’t tell me you haven’t even had a birdbath.”

                                            >Whistler glanced between Tuft’s dripping hoof, and her eyes.

                                            >Tuft’s deep thoughts screamed at her.

                                            >She eee’d right back.

                                            >With a breath, she set her hoof on the first step of the descent.

                                            >Whistler released her.

                                            >And Graytuft slid into the murk.