> The Portal’s a crucible for hearts too fierce to fade. Griffons, yaks, buffalo, merponies, kirin—they’ve all crossed my bar, chasing love or a shadow to slip into. Tucked on Ponyville’s edge, by one of Equestria’s two embassies, it was the first to fling its doors wide for humans when others sneered. Now it’s a legend, where a mare might carry a human’s foal—always a filly, pure pony. Human colts are plenty; pony colts, rarer than a phoenix’s song. These tales pack my place to the brim every night.  
>  
> I’m Crimson Brew, earth pony, dark coat, gold mane, mixing drinks with a barbed quip and keener gaze. My collar’s telekinesis—human-made, bless their craft—swirls bottles like a dance. Tonight, the air’s heavy, folks. Protests roar outside, mares chanting for their stolen loves. The noble houses that backed that ambassador’s cursed law are choking on a human lesson, sharp and bloodless: economic boycott. It’s my anniversary running this bar, and the day, decades back, when I saw the first human-mare couple spark. The guest of honor’s here, Octavia, eyes red from tears, needing something fierce. I’m mixing a tiro de la viuda—tequila, hot sauces, jalapeños, lemons—to burn her pain. Let’s hear what’s breaking Equestria, then her tale.  
>  
> ---  
>  
> Crimson Brew here, watching it unfold. That ambassador’s law, ripping men aged nineteen to thirty-one from Equestria, lit a fire. Marriages shattered first, mares left weeping. But these mares—highborn, humble, every stripe—forged a front, a tide of will no noble saw coming. Equestria’s got no laws against monopolies; we trust the good hearts of our ponies. Pity the nobles forgot that. They thought Princess Celestia would bail them out. Hah! Titles don’t fill bellies, and the mares hit hard.  
>  
> Word spread, pony to pony: no coin for the houses that backed this law. No buying their grain, silk, gems. Markets froze, fields lay fallow. Any house offering aid? Shunned, same as the rest. In two months, three of the six guilty houses—Blueblood’s kin, Silverhoof, Jet Set’s line—crumbled, bankrupt, their manors hollow. These mares run Ponyville’s trade, its harvests; their word’s iron. That’s the human way, a lesson of heart and grit, not blades. Celestia stays her hoof, her heart torn between justice and order, while she and Princess Cadance corner the guard’s brass—stallions too eager to enforce this mess, hiding behind “duty.” The real culprits always dodge the dirt. Cadance’ll spill more when she visits, but that’s another night’s tale.  
>  
> Tonight’s special, folks. My anniversary behind this counter, and the day that I see my first human-mare couple lit a spark. Now, here’s the mare herself, Octavia, Ponyville’s cello queen, her gray coat dull, her eyes scarred by tears. Take it away, Octavia.  
>  
> ---  
>  
> I am Octavia, and my strings are silent. I was Canterlot’s pride, a violinist leading symphonies, class councils, every burden thrust upon me. The weight broke me. I took a year’s sabbatical—allowed, with pay, though the orchestra wailed. I fled to Ponyville, my home, expecting quiet. Instead, I found life. Humans, bare of fur, wove into our herd, winning mares as diverse as their hearts. I stared, awestruck, at a mare of earth carrying a human colt asleep on her back, steady despite her stride. A human, mud-streaked, dressed like a cowboy, saw my wonder. “Telekinesis,” he said, grinning, showing a black band on his wrist, a blue gem glinting. “Human-made, for ponies like her.” I scoffed—earth ponies can’t cast spells. He laughed, bold. “From Canterlot, huh?”  
>  
> That was Anon, a construction worker, building Ponyville’s new drains. We met again—market, town hall, Sugarcube Corner—chance, not stalking, though I wondered. One day, in that same park, he invited me to The Portal for drinks. Ten years ago, I stepped into this bar, met Crimson Brew, her eccentric spark. That night, I forgot my chains. I danced, laughed, lost myself in human music—sounds I hadn’t heard in years. I owe that to Anon, my partner that night. We woke here, me curled on his chest, his heartbeat a rhythm I crave now that he’s gone.  
>  
> Our start was rocky. I flirted, he fumbled—humans, he said, aren’t used to mares so bold. I teased, asked how he’d woo me. He tipped his hat, leaned close, our noses brushing, and with a shameless grin said, “Fancy a ride on the bull?” I laughed at the nerve, harder when I learned of the mechanical bull humans brought—a game of grit. A year later, we wed. I stayed, became Ponyville’s music teacher. We had a son, human, bright as his father, then twin fillies, my little ponies. Joy, until the guards came. They tore Anon away, deported by that wretched law. Months later, they tried for my son, claiming him “disposable.” I broke a guard’s jaw, my rage a mother’s fire. Cadance and Celestia stepped in, furious, crushing the captain and the noble house behind a vile law to strip human-born colts of rights.  
>  
> My hoof grips this tiro de la viuda. One gulp, fire down my throat, no flinch—proof of nights spent drowning pain. The glass cracks, my anger spilling. Vinyl and Lyra watch my little ones now, but I’m empty. I play for the mares, my cello their anthem, my bits fuel their boycott. I sent a package—my bowtie, a letter—through the gray points, vowing Anon’s return. I hear he’s with his kin on Earth, but his heart’s mine. Protests shake the streets, a pink pony fights for her grump, and I fight for you, Anon. I miss you. We need you.  
>  
> ---  
>  
> Crimson Brew here, wiping a tear. Octavia’s fire burns brighter than my hottest brew. Her colt’s safe, and that guard? Demoted, sentenced to forty years watching the Badlands’ edge—good riddance. The mares’ boycott chokes the nobles, and Cadance might bring news next. Will these mares mend Equestria’s heart, or will the portal’s pull break us? You, my fine customers, will want to know. Come back tomorrow—this bar’s seen worse, and we’re still pouring. Raise a glass to Octavia’s song and the fight ahead.  
>  
> To be continued.