Halide

"Yo! What's the big idea?" she yelled to Ignition. "You owe me fifty bits of groceries!" Okay, hm. The bird was worried about groceries, while she was clearly trying to fly away from a couple cops? That threw the spitfire pegasus for a bit of a loop. A brief glimmer of disbeleif shot through her cranium - fifty bits? This chick was carrying around fifty bits worth of groceries? Man, somebody was eating expensive. But that didn't really matter - after all, it wasn't Ignition who'd bought them, and it wasn't her who'd dropped 'em. [colour=#ff0000]"Hey, you dropped 'em, lady! Now keep up, those idiots'll probably think you're with me! Right, then drop, then left! There's a little tunnel they probably don't know about!"[/colour] They could squabble and squak at eachother later - why was everygryph she met liable to go off at her? Oh, yeah. She kept firing cannons at them or using them as springboards. Whoops. Either way, the pursuing billyclubs hadn't quite missed the turnoff Ignition had used Miasma to make, though they had to lose rather significant amounts of speed to make the corner, putting them even further behind the irate gryphon and the silver-eyed troublemaker, the junior of them blowing his whistle incessantly as if it was somehow going to help. The pegasus managed half of a tight corkscrew, then dove down an alleyway on her right, her wingtip just barely dusting the side of the building before she took a nosedive. Of course, a little acrobatics would do the trick, but if Miasma didn't have that - well, she had talons, and those were much better at grabbing edges and corners than hooves would ever be. Not that Ignition was watching her back too carefully to see what she'd pull off. She was more concerned with getting into the barely-visible service crevice on ground-level.

Just as Spike thought he was more subtle than he actually was, well, the same went for Twilight. Perhaps someone else would've completely missed that faltering tone of voice, and the slight tremor in her sigh - but he was a clever young dragon, and one did not spend years upon years with someone who needed an eye kept on them without picking up on details like that. Not only was she tossing and turning, but she was an audiably upset princess, too. [colour=#800080]"Yeah... me too."[/colour] Was Spike's reply; it was dumb, it was obvious, it was pointless, it was short. It was the best he had to fill the otherwise awkward silence that ensued as he tried to figure out what to say next. Still, Spike had spent the last six hours curled up in a ball, trying to rest - he was stiff, and so he arched his back in a somewhat cat-like stretch. Slowly, the young assistant rose, approaching Twilight quietly, his feet padding across the floor. Of course, he'd been up with his own troubles. The very question of the disparity between his expected life and Twilights was one he had previously avoided like the plague - he'd developed his own little way of shoving the questions of mortality out of his mind if they ever cropped up. For good reason, too - Dragons lived many, many, many hundreds of years longer than Unicorns, and he thought of Twilight growing so very old just as he began his adulthood was more than he wanted to bear. That had changed, of course, but it had only changed for Twilight, and truth be told there was more than one pony on the face of the planet he liked. Facing those sorts of thoughts had kept him uneasily awake, but the idea of at least having Twilight and Celestia to rely on for presumably ever at least helped. Still, Spike didn't know for certain why Twilight was upset and restless, so rather than asking 'how come' directly and thus forcing issues out of her, Spike decided to try and bring up his own concerns. If it turned out that Twilight had different reasons for being upset, after all, she had a tendancy not to bottle them up. At least they'd have one-another; hopefully, touching on that would at least make the ensuing conversation a little easier. A glance towards a lonely, slightly scorched bird's peg gave Spike all the more reason to realise that things just didn't last because he wanted them to, and those that would last he should be grateful for. [colour=#800080]"So... Dragons and Alicorns live for a really long time, don't they?"[/colour] Spike murmured, taking an uninvited seat on the corner of Twilight's bed.

tadaaaaaaaaa

Welp, I fell asleep halfway through the re-write on the new forum applications, and then windows reset itself while I wasn't paying attention to it. So I wrote some more stuff on his personality. That good, or d'you still need more?

... Okay, moving on!

...wait hold on let's derail ourselves for a second here while I go rewrite this with these newfangled forms that changed sometime in the last year without me paying any attention whatsoever. http://www.canterlot...s-open-be-nice/ Last post. That happened. So are the special events not considered mane...?

Aaaand this is the part where I make a nuisance of myself for the sake of explaining my choices. With John Arcudi's The Mask, the central character is empowered literally and directly by the mask, which is said to be a relic of Loki, God(sic) of mischief. The Mask is also noted for imposing a total lack of inhibitions towards all impulses and stripping the wearer of sanity, as well as filling their heads with thoughts of violence, mayhem, property destruction, vengance, anger and cruel irony, all in a sardonic and whimsical tone. Coupled with reality-bending superpowers, superhuman strength, practical invulnerability and evil genius, the original mask was actually a frighteningly dangerous sociopath, which would be horrifying and also absolutely unacceptable for canterlot play. As such, the ideas involved have been toned down and altered quite a lot. Because, quite honestly, the last thing canterlot needs is a character even remotely akin to that. That aside, the backstory is completely original writing, his passions are largely original to the character - namely those of music and dance instead of wealth, anarchistic freedom, revenge and attractive members of the opposite gender. At this point the only direct paralells between Sandley Bronzehoof and Stanley Ipkiss are that both work in boring financial jobs (an extremely common trait), and that they have a duality of personalities - one of which is humble and amicable (something found rather often in both classical and contemporary works). Oh, and the fact that masks and suits are involved, which could be said of a staggeringly vast repetoire of characters, including Batman, The Hamburglar and The Phantom of the Opera. I wouldn't say this is really a ponification of either the movie or comic versions of The Mask, so much as a character inspired by the premise behind it.

BEHOLD! MY ABILITY TO FALL ASLEEP HALFWAY THROUGH THINKING UP A NAME, AND WAKE UP HAVING FORGOTTEN IT! Ten days later, I've changed it to 'Sandley' because that's still sorta close and sand could be the colour of his coat. I'm a staaaaaar.

It was late - the sort of late that hung between being far too early to start the day, and far too late to get a good night's rest. Being awake wasn't a problem, really - there weren't usually pressing matters in the morning, not during the cold, short days of winter. Spike didn't really want to be awake, it would make him all the crankier the next morning, as those around him would surely expect that he be every bit as useful on half an evening's sleep as he would be on a full night's rest. 3 o'clock, said the enchanted little glowing hands of his trusty mechanical clock. Something along those lines, anyhow. 3 was generally just a bad hour to be awake, unless a really good party was involved. Nobody he knew wanted to be up past 3 in the morning, it just wasn't healthy. But, that wasn't the problem either. What was bothering him was the noise. The twisting of sheets, the quiet yet distinctive huff of frustration, the tiny little tells that said something was awry. Twilight was either having a bad dream, maybe even a nightmare, or something was keeping her up. He didn't think it was her wings; she was getting used to those, or so it seemed, and that wouldn't have her kicking every now and then at her increasingly-wrinkled sheets. Of course, Spike was used to Twilight being restless, but usually he was able to point out the reason with easy precision. Tests, finals, overdue letters, mind-teasers she'd been working on all day, puzzles she was still solving, spells that had eluded her considerable repetoire during the day... those, he'd heard her toss and turn over. But she hadn't really been working on any of those things during the day - or if she had, she'd been uncharacteristically silent about voicing her frustrations with them to him. Not that she was the only one with something hanging on her mind, if that was indeed the case - Spike couldn't sleep either, though with a much smaller stature and fewer limbs, he'd been quieter about it. Things were on his mind, too, and if Twilight was awake enough to continue her stirring, then the odds were that she was cogniscient enough to tell that maybe Spike was similarly restless, not that he'd be aware of it either way; Spike thought himself to be much more subtle than he actually was. The young dragon ended up deciding to break the slightly uneasy silence between the newly-realised princess and her draconic assistant, choosing his words and his tone carefully - he kept his voice low and hushed, his ennunciation clear, his words slow, and most importantly he avoided calling her name, as it might subconsciously alert her if she was sleeping. [colour=#800080]"You still awake?"[/colour]

Rain was a sort of funny thing. It could clean some things, while making other things dirty. It could uncover something lost, while washing away something else. It could wash away small things, or it could carry in newer ones.But, most importantly, it could muffle the sounds of a high-speed pegasus chase until it was right around the corner, which it did. A soaking-wet fireball of a pegasus was powering her way between buildings, throwing her head back now and again to see how much distance was between her and a pair of whistle-blowing patrol wings. Ignition had said made some rather cheeky comments, fabricated a few somewhat incriminating boasts, and generally pestered the irritated cops who were trying their best to keep hot on her tail, the spring shower only throwing water and shade in their eyes. Aposemati would have, perhaps, all of three seconds to notice that there was a bright red, soaking wet pegasus headed straight for her, and even if she were to move a bit out of the way, the feathered missile would simply re-adjust; there was no cry of 'gang way!' or 'watch out!', there was just a bit of adjustment from her hooves and wings, getting ready to stop, then go once again. The plan was to land on the gryphon briefly, spout a short but useful statement, then use her as a living springboard. It had worked before, a number of times, as it gave her both an obstacle for her pursuers to avoid and a sharper turn than wings could normally manage.And, three seconds later, Ignition's hooves would meet with the gryphon's side, not colliding in a sharp kick, but rather applying pressure as the entire pegasus went from 'quite fast' to 'stopped, but spring loaded', though her tail followed with a wet 'slap', spraying rainwater over the gryphon's back. [colour=#FF0000]"The guys behind me are changelings![/colour]" Ignition blurted out - an outright lie, of course, but it'd give the gryphon perhaps a bit of reason to slow up the approaching pega-popo. And, with that message delivered, Ignition kicked off of Aposemati, shooting down a narrower alleyway and quickly out of view, the winged cops just coming into view as she shot off. It would really be up to Aposemati as to how to respond - whether she'd sit there, dumbfounded and slack-jawed like some sort of simpleton, whether she'd run with the red pegasus' redder herring, or take the paragon route and point the irritated patrol down the alleyway. Or maybe she'd do something completely different, like burst into song, or perhaps suddenly open a boutique, but the obvious choices were there plainly enough.

The Everfree forest had once been home to a rather impressive stronghold of unicorn study and ruler-ship. A grandiose stone castle, erect and proud amidst a scintillating scene of greenery and bloom, had once been fondly called 'home' to scores of stabled families; it had sheltered a great many visitors and scholars alike, and it had held some importance in the development of Equestrian history. Ponies came and went freely from it, the magical power of the forest both easily seen and easily experienced, and all was well. As one might expect, very little of this was true several hundred years later. Who knew why or when or even how everything went awry, but the cold and unrelenting reality was that the Everfree Forest wasn't all happiness and sunshine and adorable bunnies anymore. It had eaten most of those things, and spat up shadows, intimidation, and all sorts of twisted constructions of magic and malice. However, there were those that sought the magic behind the malice, so that they might properly understand the powerful chaos in question. One such individual had found something significant, though the significance of the discovering individual was indeed rather questionable. Amidst the trees, the moss, and the unnatural undergrowth of the Everfree, a stone vestibule had been found and cleared of the forest's detritus. Once, it had been the entrance to the basement of an old wooden trove, a few stone pillars of which still stood nearby. Now, it was simply a stairway down sitting conspicuously amidst the dirt, the remnants of the fallen tree that once hid it lying in splinters nearby. The clearing about the stairway itself was unremarkable, save for the glow of magic and fire that lit up the area. A single coal-coated pony stood at the top of the stairway, with a makeshift torch held aloft next to him, trying to fit it into one of the few remaining sconces of the nearby pillars – He hadn't exactly taken any dungeoneering courses before, but somehow it seemed like a good idea to leave some sort of sentient notification announcing his presence within the stone basement. He'd only be a moment longer, and once the torch was securely placed, he started making his way into the chasm itself, the sound of his hooves tapping distinctively against the stonework that led it's way into the depths below. A quick set of eyes might see him vanish down into the stairway, but those who were cautious, patient, or perhaps simply just later to arrive would still find the torch lit and standing above the sullen, long-forgotten entryway, while a faint green magical glow throbbed in the stairway down. It would, of course, be up to any given individual as to whether or not they would decide to make any sort of entry, but the fact that it remained as some remnant of a history long since past and forgotten would likely intrigue more inquisitive minds, should they happen to arrive. ​

[Pegasus] Sandley Hoofkiss Name: Sandley Hoofkiss Gender: Male Age: Stallion Species: Pegasus Pelt Colour: Light brown / sandy Mane/Tail/Markings Colour & Style: Eye Colour: Blue Cutie Mark: Lock Physique: Thin/lithe Origin: Fillydelphia Roleplay Type: Mane Occupation: Banker, moonlighting musician Motivation: Figuring out who he's supposed to be, then doing his best to be that pony. Likes: Being prepared, organized, and secure. Secretly : loud music, letting loose, dancing, applause, saxophones, parties. Dislikes: Getting called out, conundrums, complex mathematics. Character Summary: What happens when you get two proper, quiet, orderly ponies from Manehatten, engrossed in stocks and business and propriety? Well, you certainly don't get any wild house parties or outings to any of the good speakeasies, you'll get a completely ordinary and perfectly boring pair of ponies. Eventually you'll get a foal from the mix, and of course the parents will try to raise that foal in the way they think is best. They'll raise him or her to be proper, productive, polite, practical, preferential, possibly pious and a pinch of a party-pooper. This, too, is all well and good, save for that two particular ponies made one terrible mistake – they tried to raise their proper little foal in the wildest, liveliest block of up-town Fillydelphia. This particular product of simple equations is named Sandley Hoofkiss - In central Fillydelphia, born and raised, in his parent's apartment he spent his earliest days. Learning to be proper and upright like them, Sandley was a fairly ordinary young foal, if not a bit of a dull one. He learned the basics of finances and accounting rather early on, taking after his father in a way, having a certain knack for keeping series of numbers and equations straight in his head while figuring out how to make them all fit. His mother, a rather reserved individual, taught him how to behave in a completely inoffensive, predictable and polite manner, the two of them quickly working to stamp out any hope he might of had of being a rambunctious or overly energetic young Pegasus. Despite his wings, he never did much in the way of flying or gliding around, instead being taught to keep his wings tucked in neatly and his hooves on the ground whenever he was indoors, which was most of the time. Unfortunately, this monotony of a foal-hood didn't really end – it carried on into his colt years, his parents sending him to a rather well-to-do private school that held every promise of being completely safe and utterly without diversion from an orderly and well-mannered education, fitting in rather keenly with their plans to raise him to be a productive, respectable, and proper young pony. This carried on rather smoothly, or so they thought. The fact was this : Sandley wasn't the same pony as either of his parents – he was restless. He knew he wasn't truly happy, but at the same time he'd never really been taught (or fully allowed) to express his dissatisfaction in any meaningful way. He knew better than to get into trouble, nor did he have nearly enough gumption to start rebelling. So, rather than do anything directly problematic, he pretended to join an after-school chess team, which he attended for exactly eight sessions before figuring out enough about chess to pretend he was good at it. After that, he wandered uptown Fillydelphia largely alone, taking in the sights and the scenery. The music of the clubs moved him, the liveliness of the dance clubs enthralled him, the big-band musicals delighted him, and the promise of the nightlife intrigued him. Perhaps if he'd learned of it all before his parents had drilled propriety and risk-free lifestyles into his head, he might have run off to join the proverbial circus of performers then and there. But, he did not. Rather than risking his future potential as a well-to-do accountant, Sandley simply kept of studying, attending school, and pretending he was an entirely upright individual, while secretly attending what few swing and dance sessions he could get into during the two hours between school's end of the day and the beginnings of the sunset. However, there was one problem – he had told his parents he was in the chess club, and he was not the only young pony from his school that enjoyed the up-beat splendour of Fillydelphia. There were others from his school that did rather the same as he did, except without lying to their parents. So, he took on an alter-ego, wearing an outfit and a mask to try and keep his fellow classmates from recognizing him. After a few weeks of being hidden from those who might know him or inadvertently rat him out to his parents, Sandley realized something – he wasn't Sandley anymore, not to those around him. He was whoever he wanted to be. He was free, in a way, underneath his costume. Soon enough, he began to abuse this freedom, learning how to play and how to dance in secret from everyone, never really revealing himself properly to the livelier individuals he began to meet. It was in eighth year of school that fate struck – he'd joined a band, very much in secret, and had taken a real shining to solos and performance. It just so happened that the very same band he'd joined – a somewhat unremarkable jazz ensemble of youthful players – had been requested to play at a banker's party in the evening, one that his parents were slated to attend. They, of course, left early to make sure they were punctual, leaving Sandley at home alone, completely oblivious to the fact that he was not going to stay home and practise his economics. They travelled by carriage, but the minute they were out of sight, Sandley was travelling by wing, adorned in his mask and costume as a stranger to everyone. He arrived just in time to walk on stage with his troupe – right under the collective noses of his parents and their many dull associates. He played, and he played well, taking a few improvised solos during the night. He did not wow the audience, for they were barely listening to the music. They did not become impassioned by the music, for they were not ponies of passion to begin with. But, Sandley Bronzehoof did something completely brazen – he lied straight to his parents, he showed off his second life with nothing more than a mask and an outfit on him, and they were none the wiser. It was there that he earned his cutiemark, unbeknownst to him for the time being, as it was rather hidden by the outfit he wore. A closed lock, to represent how he locked up his inner desires, opening them only in 'secret'. There were a few more instances of his audacity, but none quite matched performing in front of his own parents so discreetly, and yet so brazenly. He grew up just the way he was told he should, ending up as a respectable accountant at a firm his father was about to retire from, making a few friends whom he seldom opened up properly to. However, not all ponies are dulled to suspicion, and when he was eventually found out by a pair of his closer co-workers, Sandley swore them to secrecy, still not bold enough to properly embrace who he wanted to be over who he was raised to be. Speaking for his personality, Sandley is actually a pretty decent guy in both respects. When he's acting proper and reserved, he's polite and considerate, very stable and reasonable around others both pony and otherwise (though larger gryphons have always made him a touch nervous). His love of music and dance is largely centred around livlier genres, with his favourites being jazz and swing - he's never had much of a knack for classical or baroque genres, and at best he finds slow, soft music to be calming, if not somewhat tiring. That aside, he's also got a bit of a head for jokes and comedic over-exaggeration, and he possesses a fairly wide variety of voices and accents he can apply on a whim. In spite of this, comedy and improv entertainment have never really been his venues, though it does make him a little more entertaining around the office when he's in an energetic mood. When he's cutting loose, he's vivacious and enthusiastic, usually acting in a somewhat selfish, egotistical manner for brief performances, capable of getting more than a little carried away with his desire to be treated like a star, though he's never really without some semblance of shame. He's a little more easily persuaded into trying new experiences and meeting new people with the mask on, simply because he feels a lack of social consequence should he overextend himself. As for his living arrangements? A small apartment in eastern Fillydelphia, where he lives alone amidst any number of associated tennants. He keeps to himself when he's not at work or out during the nights, and for the most part he remains reasonably respectable, up until he feels the need to dress up and have a night on the town. He's always had a love for dramatic exits and entrances, and as such often flies out the window with a 'Geronimo!' on his lips whenever he's up for a night of energy and motion. As much as he loves a good night out though, he'll feel embarrassed or abashed by his rowdier behaviour, and so he continues to live something of a dual-life, now a stallion living on his own, free to stay out as late and as wild as he likes, but still having to deal with the consequences in the mornings to come after his partying.. He's also afraid of personal commitment due to his perceived duality of personalities, often pessimisticly beleiving that those ponies who like his costumed performances will be put off by the dull practicality of his daytime life, and those who find him amicable during the day would be frightened off by his perceivably wild night-life. Character image :

I'm aware I'm 4 months late to posting this. I don't care.

Have fun, Helix

This hurts to read. [colour=#ffffff]I suspect that was your goal. Well played.[/colour]

As I am leaving this site, this project is now null and void, and further applications will be wholly ignored. Those who had no response to their applications, best of luck figuring it out for yourselves.

It is with no remorse whatsoever that I hereby make official my lack of interest in ponies. I no longer find the show all that entertaining, nor have I any plans to watch the upcoming third season. Everyone else is free to enjoy it to their heart's content, as they have always been, I just have no ingressed draw towards the series at this point. Furthermore, I have lost my desire to roleplay in the setting, save for a few small exceptions here and there, none of which are affiliated with Canterlot now that IRC chat has been wholly removed from association with this website. To the majority of you I leave a wholly inert farewell, and to the select few of you who are pretty awesome I leave a fond 'until we meet again'. Also ignore anything Allura says about my passing as he is about as reliable as mashed potatoes for such information. Cave Johnson, we're done here.

"Spike.... Fluttershy has her? When did you give PeeWee to Fluttershy? Because I didn't give PeeWee to Fluttershy and I thought you've been with me this whole time! Oh my gosh, she's gone isn't she? this is all my fault I should have been watching her! How could I just LOSE her!" Full-on panic attack. Classic Twilight Sparkle. This was, when Spike was in more speculative moods, why Twilight had been given a baby dragon in the first place - smart, intelligent, high-durability helper that would be able to actually withstand a magical maniac's genius, in times of both tenacity and turmoil, through sanity and a mild lack thereof. Would anything else be able to actually withstand a full-out Twilght Sparkle Panic Attack? He liked to think that the answer might be no, if only to boost his own sense of self-worth. “You need to calm down! We can find PeeWee, we just need to look. Can you remember where you were when you last saw her?” That was someting that both Shining Armor and Spike agreed on. But, the Canterlot Guard was assuming that Twilight did, in fact, have reason to panic. As far as Spike was concerned, he knew something that they did not, and thus felt there was no cause for alarm. "Jeez, Twilight, calm down for a moment, wouldjya?" Another stifled yawn from the tired baby dragon - he wasn't panicking at all. "I didn't bring Peewee to Fluttershy. I told her to fly to Fluttershy's house - she knows the way by now, after all." This was, unbeknownst to Spike, a falsehood. The Baby dragon had conferred quietly with his pet phoenix, and the conversation had gone thusly : However, Spike was not a psychic, a mind-reader, or an omniscient creature, and thus he held what he thought to be true as reliable information in which he could find comfort. "Seriously, Twilight. If I went off to... yaaawn, Fluttershy's house after all that and you thought I'd gone missing, I don't know what you'd do. I had to... haaaawhn, stay behind." Spike's voice was getting progressively sleepier, his eyelids fluttering quietly. An infant or small child requires at least ten hours of sleep a day - Spike currently was running on just over two, and his body demanded he sacrifice his time to the lords of slumber. He didn't even catch what Twilight or Shining Armor had to say in response - his senses had gone fuzzy and dulled by the time they'd even started talking again. Halfway through Twilight's response, whatever it might have been, Spike lost consciousness, slowly slid down from the chair, and simply turned into a curled-up pile of sleeping dragon. That was it for him.

After the pathetic lack of content or satisfactory play in The Old Republic, their total abandonment of such series as Jade Empire and MDK, their somewhat slipshod writing and badly-forced 'plot points' of Dragon Age 2, and the completely lackluster writing brought forth by Mass Effect 3, it feels like Bioware is more of a shambling puppet than the enchanting team of writers, artists and programmers alike that brought us Baldur's Gate and Knights of the Old Republic. That said, it really feels like this recent bit of fanart was more of a publicity stunt than any sort of promotion of a fandom, and this response similarly lacks in any real reason to cheer on a development team that has long since lost its charm, wit, and brilliance. The use of the picture was not so much a whim as it was a move approved by Bioware's PR department, given it's place on the official Facebook page. Their lack of forethought as to MLP's volatility amidst the common market was a mis-step, and the so-called 'haters' are quite free to express their dismay that Bioware decided to unload upon them that which was unwelcome and wholly unrelated to the reasons they 'liked' bioware in the first place.

"Please note: The moderator will be made aware of the link to the page you are reporting. This form is to be used ONLY for reporting objectionable content and is not to be used as a method of communicating with moderators for other reasons." This is still the message shown when reporting a post, as I found out just a little earlier today. I wouldn't actually be surprised if there isn't an option to change this, given how minor it would be for the majority of users, but I'm still genuinely curious as to whether or not it can be changed.

It was, all in all, a fairly cool August afternoon in Stalliongrad - not that this meant much, it was still warm enough for clothes to be entirely optional, depending on one's trade and social standing. A bit of a quiet day, though, but such was reasonably normal for a Thursday afternoon this time of the year. After all, one tended to get armor in the spring or the fall, and leave the adventuring for the warmth of summer or the chill of winter. There were a number of trades-mares and stallions open for business - one business in particular, though, stood out. A smithy, a somewhat small one, in the merchant district - a bit out of place, but it had done well enough there, for the time being. From the outside, it seemed sturdier than most of the shops, a fairly stocky-looking stone wood and metal affair, centred around a thick stone chimney. A bit out of place, perhaps, as most of the forges were in the somewhat distant Kuznitza district, but nevertheless there. Outside, a small and empty cart waited next to the doorway, nearly hiding the sign that proudly announced, in both Stallian and Equestrian, 'Metalhoof Smithy - Made-to-order and custom armour, jewelry and more available here'. A fairly reputable establishment, if anypony thought to check, though it was in the hooves of a relatively new owner, passed from father to son upon the former's retirement. But, for all of its outer appearances, the interior of the smithy held an altogether different atmosphere... "Stolen? AGAIN!?" A heavy sigh, and a deep breath. "This is being, what, second shipment where you are bringing no silver, no gold, no gems, and only half of iron or steel I have ordered! What am I supposed to be forging with this?" The budding blacksmith shook his head, pacing slowly about behind the counter, his prosthetic metal hoof clanking with every fourth step he took. "I ran out of precious metals before start of last week, was telling customers I would to be starting on their orders as soon as I had shipment. But, nyet, at this rate going to have to melt down money for precious metals!" Indeed, things were not all well at the Metalhoof smithy, and given by the fact that the deep, somewhat raspy voice of the blacksmith working there, it was starting to get on somepony's nerves. It had indeed been some time since precious metals had been in stock at the smithy, and it was starting to have serious impacts on Hammerhoof's ability to make anything that required the special bit of shine that silver and gold offered. Robberies weren't really the fault of the delivery-pony, he'd just been taking the routes into Stalliongrad that were available, and it so happened that a pack of Diamond Dogs decided to mug him for everything they felt like carrying. The first time, he'd let it slide, simply complaining about the loss at the quick-footed, dark-green pony who'd been mugged - after all, it made sense that the delivery-pony would learn from the mistake and change habits accordingly. Second time, though... this was a problem. He advertised armour, utensils, weapons, tools and simple jewelry for sale in his shop, and ye he lacked the materials to fill the most expensive orders, which meant that his most profitable work was all on hold. The brown, somewhat sooty blacksmith simply sighed. He knew the shipment was important, he knew the delivery-pony knew the shipment was important. Getting overly cross wouldn't solve anything, so he lowered his voice, nodding slowly. "I can't even use these gems yet. Is not often somepony wants gems set in iron, copper or steel. I will take them, da, and you will still be receiving some pay, but... I am not sure what to be doing. A third time of this, and you will be costing me enough to put me back in apprenticeship. I do not want for this. Am already going to have to dig into own savings to keep from being broke..." For all that this was causing him difficulty, Hammerhoof didn't really feel like foregoing the payment of somepony else over conditions that were likely out of their control. After all, the delivery-pony had to eat and sleep somewhere - the blacksmith wasn't going to scrooge him out of that. The fact of the matter was simple – somewhere, there were a pack of diamond-dogs that were responsible for a rather harrowing predicament. He had a lot of missing materials to try and work around, a reputation teetering between success and a lack thereof, and he wasn't entirely sure of how to solve this issue. Yes, it was a theft, but through official channels, solving his issue might not come soon enough for him to stay in business. What he needed was a plan, and volunteers. That, or for the majority of his customers to suddenly be overwhelmingly happy with steel and iron in place of silver and gold for their jewelry – no, that was a silly and entirely improbable thing to hope for. So, with the delivery-pony half-paid and on his way out the door, the blacksmith began to ponder. He'd put up a few notices of his need for help on the larger advertisement boards, more of a desparate hope that he might recover his first lost shipment. "Blacksmith in need of expert treasure-recovery, adventurers, or trackers re : stolen shipments. See Metalhoof Smithy", written in slightly clumsy Stallian and Equestrian. It was all well and good to use the native tongue, but this was a big city, with enough trade and travel through it that being bilingual was nearly a must. But now, more than ever, the hope that somepony might come to his aid felt like a rather despnate wish, whimsical and as uncertain as a shooting star. Peraps this was how the gambler felt when buying his last lottery ticket? What a depressing situation. Though he held hope for perhaps somepony to come by looking to aid him, he started trying to figure out best to hold out financially. Maybe, just maybe, he could work through this regardless. Only time would tell.