Outcasts and Rejects, Tools and Guests
OurLadyOfWires
Uh-oh, better hide those FOALS!
- Joined
- Jan 7, 2024
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- 15,978
It is night in the Velvet Estate.
But not the pleasant kind of night. Not the pony kind of night. Not the night where the watchful moon gazes down upon its peaceful subjects, and the starts keep company to the sleepless, and the warm wind blows gently through the breeze.
No. Not that kind of night.
This is a cold night. A night where the weather department, due to a mishap, had to make up for a building drought, and decided to kick up a storm. A night where Paranoia is free to whisper through the corridors of the mansion and the streets of Ponyville. A night where the ground tastes like Ash.
It is a night where it would be so very rude to keep a guest outside in the rain.
But ah, that royally-cloaked figure that is strolling through the central garden, that dark and bony-white figure that is alicorn-tall and taller still, is no mere guest.
Not anymore, at least.
Because you see…
She has been given privileges.
Unspoken privileges. Unnamed privileges. Barely a nod of a head, or a shift in the mood. But, to a listener as attentive as she, more than enough to convey true meaning.
Because she knows… she knows, and she smells, and she sees, and she senses, that she is still welcome here. That she is desired here.
So, with a merry stride on her bony hoofs, Mareinette makes her way through the central gardens. Unmolested by the battering storm, and undisturbed by the shivering wind. She leaves the side building where she made her abode, and practically makes a beeline towards the mansion itself.
But she does not make her way to the front door. Oh no. That is a treat, a dessert, that she is keeping for the future. That is a threshold she will only cross when her gracious host opens it for her, and invites her in with wave of hoof and welcoming flair.
For now, she is content with the side entrances. The other entrances. The less-used entrances.
So, she makes her way to the back of the mansion. And when she reaches a wall, she begins to climb without breaking stride.
Because again, she has been given privileges.
Her host never said her embargo of entering the house had been lifted.
But certain things need not be said with words.
And her host did (or will, in the near future) signal that Mareinette's presence is still welcome.
So how could she interpret this any other way? How could her host possibly wish for her to remain close, and not allow her some indulgences, without being rude?
The answer is simple. She cannot.
So, with the grace of a noble and the morbidity of a great spider, she climbs to the second floor of the mansion. And she caresses a particular window until it opens.
And without the slightest hint of noise or sound, Mareinette steps a hoof into the second floor of the Velvet Mansion. Where only family, trusted servants, and close friends are permitted. Because what else could she possibly think of herself as, now?
But of course, her visit will be brief. It will be brief, and it will go unnoticed. After all, her gracious host herself is not here, and the latest… permanent guest has no love for her.
And besides, she is here for a social call. Nothing more.
Her cloak is warm and dry, by the time she crosses the open window. And both the floor and the air barely notice her presence.
And with the slightest click of the window being locked behind her, Mareinette looks around at her host's workshop.
Quite a number of peculiar items here and there, yes. But it still has all the markings of a flight of fancy, or a work in progress if one is feeling generous about it.
Still, she navigates the localized mess of a room until she reaches the item that is most precious.
She navigates the room, until she is face to face with a small, intricate-looking clock that is hanging from the wall. With a body of brass and copper, and some of its internal clockwork exposed. Bleeding energy with each slow tick of its body, and humming with the muted intensity of a cold forge.
And then she has a short, pleasant chat.
But of course, as she opens her mouth, the only thing the world hears is-
"[GRAIL]!"
-which is answered by nothing but silence, and the slow ticking of a clock.
But of course, the very old and the very great are able to communicate through more ways than mere words.
Words that were not words. Gazes and minute movements. Waves of sensation and power that could barely be understood by immortals, let alone mere ponies.
Answered by nothing but silence, and the calm ticking of a clock.
But still, that was more than enough for such delicate and intricate beings as them.
And with that, Mareinette turns to leave.
Although…
Although, on second thought, this would not do. Not yet, at least.
Because this latest guest graced her with a secret, news of a whispered blessing uttered by one so high that even the passage of time cannot diminish its value.
He graced her with that, so it is only fair that she give him a blessing in return.
So, she begins to work on her own present, for her newfound friend.
With ebony hoofs of white she picks up the delicate clock from the wall, and she carries it towards the door.
She whispers words to it, instructions and suggestions, of what the clock should do next.
She makes her way down the corridor, as the clock rearranges itself into a new form.
And when she reaches the door she was looking for…
"[KNOCK]…"
Ahh… very, very clever…
The door, she can see, is locked. That door, from which wafts such a pleasant and young smell, is locked. Locked, and marked, and warded, and almost cracked by the great axe that has been sunk into it.
But only for those who have the eyes to see, of course. For any other mortal, the door before her would be nothing but an unlocked door.
Still… still…
It is a shame that the Snake forgot that certain rules simply do not apply to her.
It takes some time, and it takes some effort, and it is as painful as it is pleasant.
But eventually, great and tall and so very hungry Mareinette makes her way in.
Until she is looking down at the soft face of a precious sleeping foal. Awash with all the smells, and all the tastes, and something new besides upon her flank.
"[MOTH]," she whispers to the object she is carrying.
And with hoofs as gentle as they are hard, she pulls up the covers around the foal… and places the intricate pony-shaped toy, the new shape of the clock, between her forelegs.
The filly, innocent and asleep as she is, hugs and huddles up to the toy almost immediately. Completely unaware of the bony hoofs that are once again tucking her covers. And completely ignorant to the muted tick-tock-tick of the unique toy that she will start playing with come tomorrow.
And then, she crawls back into the storm and the night, where monsters like her belong.
Leaving the filly, and her confused new friend, to the warmth and safety of civilization.
But not the pleasant kind of night. Not the pony kind of night. Not the night where the watchful moon gazes down upon its peaceful subjects, and the starts keep company to the sleepless, and the warm wind blows gently through the breeze.
No. Not that kind of night.
This is a cold night. A night where the weather department, due to a mishap, had to make up for a building drought, and decided to kick up a storm. A night where Paranoia is free to whisper through the corridors of the mansion and the streets of Ponyville. A night where the ground tastes like Ash.
It is a night where it would be so very rude to keep a guest outside in the rain.
But ah, that royally-cloaked figure that is strolling through the central garden, that dark and bony-white figure that is alicorn-tall and taller still, is no mere guest.
Not anymore, at least.
Because you see…
She has been given privileges.
Unspoken privileges. Unnamed privileges. Barely a nod of a head, or a shift in the mood. But, to a listener as attentive as she, more than enough to convey true meaning.
Because she knows… she knows, and she smells, and she sees, and she senses, that she is still welcome here. That she is desired here.
So, with a merry stride on her bony hoofs, Mareinette makes her way through the central gardens. Unmolested by the battering storm, and undisturbed by the shivering wind. She leaves the side building where she made her abode, and practically makes a beeline towards the mansion itself.
But she does not make her way to the front door. Oh no. That is a treat, a dessert, that she is keeping for the future. That is a threshold she will only cross when her gracious host opens it for her, and invites her in with wave of hoof and welcoming flair.
For now, she is content with the side entrances. The other entrances. The less-used entrances.
So, she makes her way to the back of the mansion. And when she reaches a wall, she begins to climb without breaking stride.
Because again, she has been given privileges.
Her host never said her embargo of entering the house had been lifted.
But certain things need not be said with words.
And her host did (or will, in the near future) signal that Mareinette's presence is still welcome.
So how could she interpret this any other way? How could her host possibly wish for her to remain close, and not allow her some indulgences, without being rude?
The answer is simple. She cannot.
So, with the grace of a noble and the morbidity of a great spider, she climbs to the second floor of the mansion. And she caresses a particular window until it opens.
And without the slightest hint of noise or sound, Mareinette steps a hoof into the second floor of the Velvet Mansion. Where only family, trusted servants, and close friends are permitted. Because what else could she possibly think of herself as, now?
But of course, her visit will be brief. It will be brief, and it will go unnoticed. After all, her gracious host herself is not here, and the latest… permanent guest has no love for her.
And besides, she is here for a social call. Nothing more.
Her cloak is warm and dry, by the time she crosses the open window. And both the floor and the air barely notice her presence.
And with the slightest click of the window being locked behind her, Mareinette looks around at her host's workshop.
Quite a number of peculiar items here and there, yes. But it still has all the markings of a flight of fancy, or a work in progress if one is feeling generous about it.
Still, she navigates the localized mess of a room until she reaches the item that is most precious.
She navigates the room, until she is face to face with a small, intricate-looking clock that is hanging from the wall. With a body of brass and copper, and some of its internal clockwork exposed. Bleeding energy with each slow tick of its body, and humming with the muted intensity of a cold forge.
And then she has a short, pleasant chat.
But of course, as she opens her mouth, the only thing the world hears is-
"[GRAIL]!"
-which is answered by nothing but silence, and the slow ticking of a clock.
But of course, the very old and the very great are able to communicate through more ways than mere words.
Criminal.
Failure.
Have you come to devour me, the son of my mother?
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack
I was not aware you had been built with humor.
I was built to be pleasant company, whatever that entails.
A slow nod of a head, amidst the ticking silence.
Your existence was hinted at, by those who went deep into the Malleary and Her grace.
Indeed? I wouldn't know. The only step I ever took out of Her bosom was also my last.
Indeed. There were whispers. But it was ever complicated to differentiate them from longings, or gossip, or false information being sold like counterfeit treasure. But how does it feel, to be birthed for the first time?
I know, and you can already tell, I was not birthed. I was built. And I will never be more than that.
Do you resent Her for that?
I was not built for that. But to answer your first question, the air is nice. Feeling resistance against by internal machinery is a novel experience. Although I can feel this attrition draining my energy, and that I will soon cease.
Our mutual friend desires your continuance. I feel she will propose an arrangement very soon.
That would be very kind of mother, if true.
Another moment of thoughtful silence. The slightest tilt of a cloaked head.
… have you met the other guests yet?
I assumed that was the reason for your visit. I have not. Not in any way that matters, at least. But I am aware of them.
I must ask. Where do your loyalties stand? You may not have noticed it yet, but Eras have passed since your… disassembly?
My loyalties are built, not thought. I remain loyal to Her. And to my mother, whoever that may be.
Good. The Princess and the Executioner remain intractable. It is good to know there are still some who see sense.
Do they? Even though their defeat happened so long ago? They could learn a little of change… But in a sense, I am glad you did not. I am thankful for the part you played, small as it was. And so was Her. She mentioned how each player would act, before She left. And even your kind was spoken of favorably.
A shiver, a thrill. An unusual display of excitement.
An honor, even if this secret is so very old. You have my thanks.
It was not mine to keep, and She was always charitable with Her blessings.
May I count on your aid, if the servants of Order draw a line in the sand against us who espouse Change?
I apologize, but I was not built to make promises.
That is understandable. Still, I thank you for your presence.
And I for yours. And I will never argue against Her actions. But I am sorry you were not Pardoned.
I am not.
Failure.
Have you come to devour me, the son of my mother?
Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack
I was not aware you had been built with humor.
I was built to be pleasant company, whatever that entails.
A slow nod of a head, amidst the ticking silence.
Your existence was hinted at, by those who went deep into the Malleary and Her grace.
Indeed? I wouldn't know. The only step I ever took out of Her bosom was also my last.
Indeed. There were whispers. But it was ever complicated to differentiate them from longings, or gossip, or false information being sold like counterfeit treasure. But how does it feel, to be birthed for the first time?
I know, and you can already tell, I was not birthed. I was built. And I will never be more than that.
Do you resent Her for that?
I was not built for that. But to answer your first question, the air is nice. Feeling resistance against by internal machinery is a novel experience. Although I can feel this attrition draining my energy, and that I will soon cease.
Our mutual friend desires your continuance. I feel she will propose an arrangement very soon.
That would be very kind of mother, if true.
Another moment of thoughtful silence. The slightest tilt of a cloaked head.
… have you met the other guests yet?
I assumed that was the reason for your visit. I have not. Not in any way that matters, at least. But I am aware of them.
I must ask. Where do your loyalties stand? You may not have noticed it yet, but Eras have passed since your… disassembly?
My loyalties are built, not thought. I remain loyal to Her. And to my mother, whoever that may be.
Good. The Princess and the Executioner remain intractable. It is good to know there are still some who see sense.
Do they? Even though their defeat happened so long ago? They could learn a little of change… But in a sense, I am glad you did not. I am thankful for the part you played, small as it was. And so was Her. She mentioned how each player would act, before She left. And even your kind was spoken of favorably.
A shiver, a thrill. An unusual display of excitement.
An honor, even if this secret is so very old. You have my thanks.
It was not mine to keep, and She was always charitable with Her blessings.
May I count on your aid, if the servants of Order draw a line in the sand against us who espouse Change?
I apologize, but I was not built to make promises.
That is understandable. Still, I thank you for your presence.
And I for yours. And I will never argue against Her actions. But I am sorry you were not Pardoned.
I am not.
Words that were not words. Gazes and minute movements. Waves of sensation and power that could barely be understood by immortals, let alone mere ponies.
Answered by nothing but silence, and the calm ticking of a clock.
But still, that was more than enough for such delicate and intricate beings as them.
And with that, Mareinette turns to leave.
Although…
Although, on second thought, this would not do. Not yet, at least.
Because this latest guest graced her with a secret, news of a whispered blessing uttered by one so high that even the passage of time cannot diminish its value.
He graced her with that, so it is only fair that she give him a blessing in return.
"[GRAIL]."
A blessing, of company, until our mutual friend returns.
A blessing, of company, until our mutual friend returns.
So, she begins to work on her own present, for her newfound friend.
With ebony hoofs of white she picks up the delicate clock from the wall, and she carries it towards the door.
She whispers words to it, instructions and suggestions, of what the clock should do next.
She makes her way down the corridor, as the clock rearranges itself into a new form.
And when she reaches the door she was looking for…
"[KNOCK]…"
Ahh… very, very clever…
The door, she can see, is locked. That door, from which wafts such a pleasant and young smell, is locked. Locked, and marked, and warded, and almost cracked by the great axe that has been sunk into it.
But only for those who have the eyes to see, of course. For any other mortal, the door before her would be nothing but an unlocked door.
Still… still…
It is a shame that the Snake forgot that certain rules simply do not apply to her.
It takes some time, and it takes some effort, and it is as painful as it is pleasant.
But eventually, great and tall and so very hungry Mareinette makes her way in.
Until she is looking down at the soft face of a precious sleeping foal. Awash with all the smells, and all the tastes, and something new besides upon her flank.
"[MOTH]," she whispers to the object she is carrying.
And with hoofs as gentle as they are hard, she pulls up the covers around the foal… and places the intricate pony-shaped toy, the new shape of the clock, between her forelegs.
The filly, innocent and asleep as she is, hugs and huddles up to the toy almost immediately. Completely unaware of the bony hoofs that are once again tucking her covers. And completely ignorant to the muted tick-tock-tick of the unique toy that she will start playing with come tomorrow.
And then, she crawls back into the storm and the night, where monsters like her belong.
Leaving the filly, and her confused new friend, to the warmth and safety of civilization.
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