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Found 5 results

  1. Rackenhammer: The flyer had gone out to most towns and villages in Equestria: "IMAGINE a future where war is a thing of the past. IMAGINE a world where there are none starved or oppressed. IMAGINE yourself, making this dream come true..." The opening lines were a fair sample of the content. There was a little about the history of the organization, how it was founded after a Viking attack on the Crystal Empire, with a blurb on how the scarcity of resources in the Caribou lands bred fighting and war, and how much more reasonable it would be to make their land richer than deal with periodic attacks and death. That was about it for substance, but it did direct those interested in joining to Blueblood Manor to apply... Honeywing: Honeywing tapped his chin as he read over the flyer. This was certainly intriguing. He had missed the first few round of these, apparently, due to one of his missions. And of course he was always on the lookout for ways to improve his standing. The notice lacked substance, but it was a flyer, not a novel. And every Courier in Equestria knew exactly where to find Blueblood Manor. It was something of a hazing tradition to post newbies to the manor to attend the staff's demands. One short flight later and Honeywing was knocking on the servants entrance. Rackenhammer: Answering the door was the kitchen maid, a mare formidably stiff with propriety. Very few outside of Canterlot knew this, but the higher-ranked servantry had a hierarchy every bit as exact as the nobility itself. The Kitchen-Maid was ranked under the Cook, but not very much far under. Say, #4 or #5 overall. "Here to deliver a message? The master's-" And here she hesitated, "A little indisposed." Honeywing: "Not today, ma'am. I saw this flyer at the headquarters." he said, rolling a wing to shift a satchel forward, out of which he pulled the IMAGINE advertisement. He straightened his shoulders and tossed his mane over to the other side, drawing himself to his full height in the process. It wasn't terribly impressive, really, but he knew how to bear himself, at any rate. "Honestly, came to this door out of habit, but I'm confident you'll get me where I need to be. You seem a capable mare." Rackenhammer: The maid peered down at the flyer, suspiciously at first, but then her eyes opened wide in recognition. "Oh, you're here about that. Usually recruits come through the front door." She looked around, thinking. On the one hand, the Prince had requested no visitors. On the other hand, recruits were in a different class altogether. Maybe it wouldn't hurt. "Look, if you'll go up into the foyer, I'll pass along that you're here, alright?" Honeywing: Recognising a failed attempt when he saw one, Honeywing bowed his head gracefully and trotted off toward the main foyer. It was another room a courier was usually well acquainted with. He didn't recognise the décor, but that was Blueblood, of course. Honeywing was well aware of the prince's reputation. The art was usually the most interesting thing about the room, so Honeywing took his time examining it while he waited. Rackenhammer: The art was... odd. Not in of itself, no, everything was generally of good taste... but it looked as if someone had stopped halfway through in redecorating. There were a mixture old family portraits, and classic collectors pieces... with a set of new paintings, all from one artist of growing talent. Including, oddly enough, a painting that looked like a female version of Prince Blueblood, lying in a bed of roses... Honeywing: Honeywing lingered on this one. He'd heard of gender-reversing effects, usually in hushed whispers around the headquarters as something that had happened to a friend of a friend of a friend, but generally he discredited those as urban legends, not unlike those that said the zebras could bend the workings of a unicorn's spell mid-cast. Instead, he was assuming the artist was either quite imaginative or had found a near-double who happened to be a mare. Although given how masculine the prince was, it was odd to think of any mare as being considered a 'near-double'. Rackenhammer: Indeed, in terms of figure, there was a great contrast between the overall quite masculine sculpted shape of the Prince's body, and the exquisitely feminine curves the painter had captured. but the eyes... the eyes were the same, along with the cutie mark. And over all expression, of a habitual haughtiness covering an inward vulnerability... "Ahem." Behind him was a soft cough, and turning around, Honeywing would see... the mare from the painting. "You were here... as a recruit, am I right?" Honeywing: Nope. Honeywing's brain couldn't accept that. Had to be a trick of the lighting. No, her voice was off, too. Was he having a daydream? No, he wasn't that into mares, and he REALLY wasn't that into Blueblood. Another nightmare? No, he was pretty sure he was awake, and besides, he could track a clear line from the flyer to the foyer. The stallion closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out, then opened them ag-nope, still a mare. Well then. He had just lost sixteen bits on a bet. "Recruit? Yes. My name is Honeywing, I'm a courier with the Diplomatic Courier Corps, your grace." Rackenhammer: Bluebell had apparently been waiting for ancillary questions. Things like, "What happened to you?" Or "How long has this been a thing?" or even "Did you fall in love when you looked in a mirror?" But no, this stallion seemed to be on point still, and for that, the mare was grateful. "A messenger? And with experience in the corps! Well, we would be glad to have you. If you'll just follow me to the study, we can go over the details." Honeywing: Honeywing clicked his hooves professionally and drew himself up behind the prince...ss? ready to follow. How did that happen? How long was that a thing? She probably spent hours in front of the mirror, if she was half the pony her reputation said she was. Then again, maybe being a mare changed her? Was this a voluntary thing? Honeywing's mind raced from one question to the next, but he'd have to wait for a more polite time to find answers, or a more diplomatic one, at any rate. One did not join a diplomatic corps without learning tact. Leastwise, one did not stay in one for long. Rackenhammer: However many personal questions the courier may have had, the answers would have to wait, either until the Princess was ready to answer... or until he figured them out for himself. From the sheen of her coat and mane, Bluebelle certainly took no less care of her appearance, however long it took her to get ready in the morning. Still, one could hardly blame the royal person from using their main advantage; after all, Blue would have to rely on brains otherwise, and Faust knew the Prince had shown precious little evidence of those before. In any case, she took a seat behind a desk, looking at Honeywing across it. "I suppose you might want some more information on what you're getting into, if you came from the flier. Wordsworth Psmith has a way with fine words, but he packs so many syllables into so few meanings sometimes..." Honeywing: "I hadn't noticed, your grace." Honeywing lied, blatantly. "But I was curious, yes. Your organisation sounds very philanthropic, but the flyers are sparse on details. Or even the proposed goals or methods, if you'll pardon my bluntness." He had taken a seat and crossed his legs in a very formal pose. Not perhaps the tense eagerness usually found in a servant, especially in a glorified mailcarrier, but certainly not with any undue familiarity with the mare or the situation. Rackenhammer: "Well, there aren't many details. At least, not details set in stone." The Princess had settled down into a practiced explanation, though she managed to deliver it naturally. It didn't sound like a mechanical repetition of rote phrases, as sometimes happened when the upper class talked about their philanthropy. "The three founders, that is, Miss Snowfall of Northern Storm Industries, Countess Frostlace of Stalliongrad, and myself decided to pool our resources and influence to make the world more peaceful. Essentially, we want to look for non-violent solutions for potential or past conflicts. Usually this has to do with scarcity, which can be solved with development and trade. We are currently starting two efforts, one in Whitescar with the caribou, and in Griffonstone, with the, well, griffons." Honeywing: Honeywing listened intently, nodding every now and again. "So you're establishing trade routes, looking for stable merchant relationships, and developing the regions' own industries?" He asked, organising thoughts in his head. He did note that she didn't seem to be using rote or that really annoying voice aristocrats liked to use when talking about 'helping the peasantry'. Maybe her reputation had been inflated, or maybe being a mare had actually changed her. Or maybe she was just really good with the political game. Honeywing wasn't sure yet, but he was also willing to play his cards close to the vest, not that he wore one usually, and find out. Rackenhammer: "More or less. Essentially, if you can't get oranges, we'll make sure you can." The off-hoof, and somewhat cryptic remark was followed up by a question. "Do you know what it takes for you to get an orange in this city?" This was apparently some kind of test, gauging from the way that the Princess was looking at Honeywing, waiting for the answer.. Honeywing: "Foreign oranges or domestic, your grace? Domestic come by way of the train, with the proper produce procurement papers and licenses, I believe the Orange family owns most of the orchards? Foreign requires an additional set of tariffs and a waiting period while Customs examines them to ensure no foreign parasites or diseases are present. As such they're usually not as fresh when they reach the merchants or buyers, unless great care was taken to preserve them, either magical or through carefully controlled temperatures, and therefore most merchants and suppliers charge a premium for their strains." Honeywing says, offhoof. He then coughs and offers "My father's a restraunteur, your grace." Rackenhammer: After listening for a bit, Bluebelle nodded. "So, you have some idea of everything that needs to happen in order for a caribou have orange juice with breakfast. Well, IMAGINE is meant to facilitate all that. Setting it up and getting it running, so to speak. It's a hard task, and we can use all sorts to do it." She got up, lifting a few papers out of the drawer. "There are multiple options, depending upon whether you wish to join us part-time or full time. I can make arrangements with the corps for your transfer, if you wish the latter." Honeywing: Honeywing paused and considered the offer. He could always use the extra bits, and the prestige, of course. Oh, and...wait, why was he hesitating again..? "Hmm...I'll need to consider that, your Grace. Though I may be able to offer some assistance even within the corps if need be. My primary concern is my coltfriend, honestly, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind having me out from under-hoof for a while at any rate." He was going to accept one offer or the other, the only question was how much time he could devote to things. Rackenhammer: "Well, as far as personal considerations go..." Bluebelle looked down at herself, betraying a consciousness of her transformation for the first time this meeting. "Well, I can't say we will be any less demanding than your current position. More so, actually; you'll be applying for hazard pay more often, for one thing." The Princess sighed, and leaned back, rubbing her eyes. "I don't want to sound like I'm dissuading you at the last minute, but frankly I didn't know what I was getting into when I started this. So... I suppose you shouldn't feel frightened if you're unsure yourself." Honeywing: Honeywing shook his head. "Oh, I'm not afraid of either hard work or hazards. My father is a restrauntuer, I mentioned, so I learned early on how to make myself useful. And my mother's family has been guards since as far back as they can trace records, up until my uncle's passing." he said. He considered for another moment before adding, "To be quite frank, your grace, I was expecting to work hard for the position. The Diplomatic Corps favours the silver tongue, but you don't get far without learning how to get things done. Even your household typically has a Courier or two running errands, I would wager." Rackenhammer: "Hm? Well, yes, I suppose so. I have ponies that take care of those sorts of details for me..." Blueblood had been born into a household where there were so many servants that there were servants who managed the servants. IMAGINE probably represented the first time he, or she, had actually been in charge of other ponies in a real position of leadership. "In any case, as you seem up for the work, I don't see why we can't sign you on today. Ah, which sort of shift were you looking for? We'll have more important things for you to do full-time, setting up appointments with high-ranking Caribou for our first big investment meeting." Honeywing: "Most likely part-time for a month or so, to get everything in order, and facilitate a transfer. There were a couple of assignments I really should finish myself if only because the recipients are particular about how their documents are handled, and I can train a replacement more easily than the corps can find somepony else to." Honeywing replied. In truth, he was probably going to spend most of the personal time studying the Caribou, but a good diplomat never let on to either party how long research took. "In the mean time, if there is work that needs doing in the capital, I'm more than willing to do it." Rackenhammer: "Excellent! We'll sign you for a month of part-time, and I'll have Psmith talk to his counterpart in the Corps to co-ordinate your out-processing." Bluebelle selected a few papers from among her stack, and presented them to Honeywing. In truth, he hadn't committed to the long haul quite yet, but the Princess had an instinct about him. Or was attempting to manipulate him in a desperate attempt to get sufficient personnel to accomplish her mission. Honeywing: Honeywing took a few moments to scan through the documents, reading over the finer points and trying to get a sense of the minutiae contained therein. He actually didn't have much of a head for legalese, so tended to overthink contracts, but even still, this one looked fairly straightforward. Salary seemed fair, hazard pay, insurance, everything looked to be in order. "Is there somepony to ask about budgeting?" He asked without much preamble, "I recall you mentioning facilitating trade and tariffs, and I was curious as to how that was going to work, and whether agents needed to work from their stipends." Rackenhammer: "Budgeting?" The question seemed to catch Bluebelle off-guard for a moment, before she heard Honey's explanation. She blinked a bit. "Well, I suppose that'd be me, at present, unless you know an accountant with higher ambitions than dying a bean-counter. At the moment, the founders are funding everything out-of-pocket, pay-as-we-go. We don't actually know how much money would be needed to do these sorts of things yet, so setting a hard budget would be rather pointless. Just... don't be extravagant in your expense sheet, and I think you'll be fine." The Princess let out a whoosh of breath, settling back. Altogether, that had gone well. She'd given the information, practically acquired a recruit, all without the elephant in the room being addressed. Honeywing: Honeywing signed the necessary portions of the application, then separated out his copy and started rolling it up to put in a document tube he had in his saddlebags. Time for the elephant in the room, he supposed. "Your grace, how public is the knowledge of your current condition?" he asked. It wasn't his personal business, though he was extremely curious, but if he was to be working as an attaché of the Princess's political work, he did need to know if he'd need to deflect questions about it, he reasoned to himself. Rackenhammer: Well, there it was. The other hoof, dropping. It wasn't exactly welcome, but it was expected. Though, when it did come, it came slantwise. Bluebell raised an eyebrow at the question itself. "You don't read the tabloids much, do you? It was all over them last weekend. It was as much as I could do, in my position, to let my friends know before the rest of the world." That was no doubt annoying, but if you were a royal, journalistic attention was just part and parcel with the work and rank. Honeywing: Honeywing actually didn't. He'd also been out of town though, so even if he normally did read tabloids he probably wouldn't have known. He cleared his throat and deflected the issue by replying, "May I rephrase it then, to 'How would you prefer any questions asked of me be answered?'? It's likely none of my business how you ended up this way, I mean, but if I'll be working for you..." Rackenhammer: "Change the subject. If they insist, refer them to my calendar. If I don't want to see them, I'll tell them. If they continue to impinge upon my time, I will leave them to what remains of the tender mercies of my butler." From the flatness of her tone, it sounded like the stories last weekend had been produced at the cost of much irritation. Honeywing: Honeywing dipped his head in acknowledgement and resumed securing his copy of the offer in the document tube. "Understood, your grace." he said as he popped the cap on and slid it back into his bag. He went through a mental checklist of things to go over with Glitzen as well, aware that he'd pushed rather past the line of propriety already and more than willing to drop a clearly touchy subject. Rackenhammer: Bluebelle had been, perhaps, a little brusque in dealing with the subject. Then again, this was not the sort of thing she was prepared to talk about with near strangers just at this very moment. Perhaps, when the two of them were better acquainted... the whole story could be told. In any case, once the subject was dropped, her expression softened. "Welcome aboard, Honeywing. I promise you, that by the end of this, we'll have made the world at least a little bit better." Honeywing: Honeywing didn't doubt that, and bowed graciously. "Thank you, your grace. I'll go see to some of my preparations. May I excuse myself, your grace? I can remember the way out." He couldn't, but he was a Pegasus, all he really needed to do was find a balcony no pony was watching and he'd be on his way. Rackenhammer: Bluebelle nodded assent and smiled at Honeywing. "Alright then, go ahead. I'll know where to reach you when we need you. Good day." If the Princess knew he was flying out, she didn't care. She did get up and reach over to shake his hoof. "Until next time." Honeywing: Honeywing was unaccustomed to royalty using the gesture, but he took the princess's hoof and shook it, then bowed again and made his way out of the room, out of the building, and off to his possibly last assignments with the Couriers.
  2. On the far eastern shores of Whitescar, where the High King of the Caribou was a king in name only, stood the grand, savage walled city of Saarvergerg. Ice and fire, blood and iron made and ruled this city, and the spectacle and true center of it was the Arena, where any could fight, but only the strongest survived. But it was survival that was the key, rather than victory. The youthful, foolish, and hotheaded came here for glory and riches, and sometimes succeeded. More often, they were left as a mess for the crew to clean up. No, the wise remembered why such arenas could be found in every clan hall and every trading town in this frozen continent: as fighting was the key to survival, there was only one way to sharpen and maintain this essential skill. That was why Halvard of Clan Breen had come here. The lands of his clan were in the far west, though their members were scattered across Whitescar as guardians and guides of the roads. The traveling caribou had to be ready for anything, so this one particular traveler had come here. While the Caribou made still the dominant portion of the gladiators, the combatants and audience had greatly diversified of late, which suited the heavily-armored buck just fine. What better way to test one's fettle, than to fight a skirmisher one day, and a wizard the next? *Klanksh, Klanksh, Klanksh* Out of the doorway on one side of the arena came an ambulatory heap of metal, fashioned in a shell around the form of a caribou warrior. The visor of the helmet was up, revealing a face dyed blue, as all were in his clan. He surveyed the audience, already cheering one who had seen victory here before, before fixing his eyes on the doorway opposite. An Equestrian challenger had arrived, which was unusual. They were rumored to be a peaceful people. But then again, the High King had technically outlawed what was about to happen among the caribou, so that just went to show how much the "official" version of truth should be trusted. Planted in the earth beside Halvard was the signature weapon of his clan; a warhammer-shovel. There was nothing quite like it anywhere else on the planet, but woe betide the fighter who failed to take it seriously. "Well, are you coming out? This is not an audience that likes to be kept waiting."
  3. An aura of golden glow enveloped the large roll of parchment, along with the inkwell and quill that would soon mark it, the two were stowed away in a carefully made saddlebag, along with food and healing supplies. With a satisfied look, the stallion closed the clasp as well as possible, given the rather long scroll inside, and trotted towards the door. Flaring up his magic once more, he lifted a long, beaked mask to his face, slipping the strap over his head and carefully adjusting it to a comfortable fit, lastly shrouding himself in a black hood, giving him the appearance of a strange bird.The stallion intended on exploring his forest home, in an attempt to further map out the landscape, plus it always provided a possibility of stumbling upon a lost or wounded traveler, and his hoof was always extended to those in need. As it were, he was going into a mostly unknown side of the forest, one that up until now he'd put off exploring. But it needed to be mapped as well, and he was just the pony to do it. Shutting the door behind him, and slipping the hoof-made map from his pack, he began trotting in the direction not yet marked on the parchment, where his map currently ended, and an expanse of empty space followed after. He glance around him as the light seemed to be sucked out of the very air around him, the darkness enclosing him and giving him a thrill of anxiety, though he'd explored this forest for most of his adult life, it still gave off a strong sense of foreboding, and the creaking of trees and animal sounds often seemed to warn him to stay away. Except it was dead silent right now. He stopped, perplexed as he strained his ears to listen, hearing nothing but his own heartbeat. No birds. No rustling. Nothing. Swallowing down the lump of fear that this complete lack of sound brought on, the unicorn continued onwards, doggedly determined to completely his mission, which was...What exactly? "What am I looking for..." His own voice almost spooked him in the utter silence, but he shook it off and chuckled, "Stop being silly." But his voice wavered with nerves as he pressed on. Eventually he found the air becoming less stifling, the darkness became an ethereal glow. What was this place? He couldn't tell whether the place made his anxiety lessen, or grow. The surrounding trees seemed to dance with lights that didn't seem to be there, and each light was multiplied by the strange reflective pools that surrounded him. And it was so still. Not a single leaf or ripple disturbed the quiet. He couldn't suppress a small shiver as he glanced around, seeing his own visage reflected in the many pools. And he couldn't tell whether or not it was a trick on his mind from the strange reflections. But somehow he felt that he was not alone. ​
  4. Canterlot, the city of the rich and glamorous, was bustling down its main street. People across Equestria have come to watch the races. These flying-aerodynamic races were an exciting and uplifting event for the ponies of Canterlot. The masses of ponies were the largest audience the racing games had in years, possibly because this was the supposed race of a century according to Canterlot daily presses, in which most of the community would read and depend on for any of its local news. If it wasn't the encouragement of the newspapers to bring about pony folk to the games, it might have been the appearance of rather well-known celebrities. Diva Daffodil, Top Knot, and even the famous Peppy Peppermint; just to name a few. Among the stars that made an appearance to watch the spectacular race, Fimble Harmonia. Fimble poked her head out from the giant blue balcony, looking at the scene of flyers prepping themselves for the race. She tried keeping her excitement to herself, her hooves shaking. Fimble was never a sporty type, but, having a clear view of everything with the comfort of champaign and the luxury of comfortable chairs it made it hard for her not to try and go to these events on a daily basis. The only downside of this is having to keep a reputation around her civilized friends/company that rather talk among each other than sit back and watch the actual game. She always thought it was silly and pointless they'd do this. Almost disrespectful really for the hard working athletes that try and put on a show. Fimble laid herself slouched in her side chair. her pink sunglasses nestled on the top of her head, bracelets dangled on her hooves, champaign close to her; she was now comfortable for the game. [colour=#808080]"My, my Fimble."[/colour] an unfamiliar stallion, coat white but hair a dark brown slicked back. his curled mustache tweaked by his hoof. Fimble gave an absent gaze at him, but after a sip of her drink she smiled and waited for the possible senator/duke/actor/whatever he may possibly be to speak to her. She mentally prepared herself for the usual boring conversations that stallions seemed to only want to talk about. The key thing she recognized to do, no matter what they are saying, is to just smile and nod in between every break of their sentence. This has saved her from coming off as rude when she never knew what to say/do. He tweeks his mustache again and takes a few steps towards her. [colour=#666666]"It's quite a surprise a mare like yourself comes to these games often. Hmmmmm. Do you have a charity fund for these games? I mean, such a generous pony like yourself that has donated to the filly-colt orphanage must have a said charity in many places, hmm?" [/colour]His accent was obviously fake, his Hoofington tongue cutting in and out. Fimble having to meet many, upon many ponies in her line of work could catch where a pony came from just through speech. It made her giggle a bit this stallion was trying so hard. She thought back to his question and looked up to the sky to think, rubbing her chin. She has donated so much in the past year she had forgotten. She wouldn't be surprised if she did, considering she came her often. She did her signature nod and smile to confirm his question. A sip of her drink once again. She felt uncomfortable that she did not know this stallions name, especially since he addressed her out of the blue. [colour=#FFD700]"Oh, may I ask your name?" [/colour]she said, trying to lean in with slight interest. A brow raised and her glass set aside. [colour=#808080]"Oh, pardon me, I am Duke le Ensemble. I make the finest of stallion suits in Canterlot." [/colour]a smile and another hoof graze of his mustache. Fimble nodded but glanced away with already disinterest, her interest back to the race. It was now about to begin. The Pegasuses lined themselves at the line. Snorts and hooves kicked the plank they had to stand on, wings lifted up, preparing for speedy flights. The announcer called out the count down, everypony became quite, well the ones that sat in the stadium, along with Fimble which eagerly gritted her teethe. [colour=#808080]"Have you placed a be-"[/colour] [colour=#FFD700]"Shh"[/colour] The stallion flared his nose at Fimble's shushing. He turned away with head in the air, commencing towards the crowd of mares that were eating at the small snacks. Fimble smiled that he was finally gone, she now could allow her hooves to rattle at the edge of the balcony. The unicorn announcer fired light into the air with his horn, and now the games were off. It has been 5 minutes and the head of the race by a long shot was a pure black mare. Fimble's tail was shaking with happiness. She didn't care who won, she didn't even bet. The fact alone that the flying itself was becoming more and more intense is all that pertained her interest. She could smell the excitement and disappointment the crowd below her were bellowing out. She giggled loudly, Ponies behind her glared from a distance, she caught herself quickly, a hoof over her mouth, cleared her throat and tried watching the race with collective calmness. She winced at herself for being a bit rowdy and uncivilized. Letting the excitement get to her around company like this wasn't the greatest for her rep. Another 20 minutes in and the mare has won the race. The crowd went even wilder, flags shot into the air. The announcer announced the mares name proudly, a medal is placed around her neck. Another good game won. The gentlecolts and mares that were on the balcony finally glanced at the race as the excitement down below could be heard clearly from atop. A few mares would absently say "Oh that was a good game." or another would say as their snout still stood in the air, "I say, wasn't that thrilling". As for Fimble she kept her commentary to herself as she felt her insides jumble with excitement, refraining from prancing about and singing. This was impossible for the young mare. [colour=#FFD700]"Oh~ ♫ What a game, a race of honorable steeds~ ♪"[/colour] she now twirled in her chair, the others tried walking away slowly. "Oh no, not this" a pony remarked before ducking their heads away from the musical scene that was about to bestow. [colour=#FFD700]"Oh~ What a game, what a game~ ♫" [/colour][colour=#000000]her voice sang gracefully out towards the spectators and athletes, which all became startled and looked up at the balcony where they find Fimble twirling and singing. Lots of ponies below whistled and enjoyed her rhythmic voice.[/colour] [colour=#FFD700]"Dashing and thrilling the game is to mee~ ♫ Oh what a game indeed~♪ the winner takes their rightful place at the wonderful game~ Oh~ What a game, what a game~ What a race, what a raaaccceeee~♪~♫" [/colour][colour=#000000]as she twirled past the staring civilized company she danced and twirled about as if she was in her own setting. She jumped and twirled mid air on the edge of the fountain that was displayed on the balcony. The ponies around her began to watch her in awe, as if this was the entertainment... [/colour] [colour=#FFD700]"Look around and you will seeeee~ ♪the awe that transpired from the great race before theeee~♫ What a game~ Oooohhhh What a gaaammmee, a race fit for meee-"[/colour] Suddenly as she does a graceful step off the fountain and to the steps down below, a camera flashes in her face. She stops in mid step and almost tumbles over, before her were journalists and a long stretch of reporters. She stood frozen, she gasped. The immediate thought that raced through her mind as her eyes focused in and out of the powerful flash. [colour=#FFD700]"Oh no...! I probably look terrible! I-I can't have pictures now! I'm an embarrassment!"[/colour]
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