SteelEagle

Pathfinder would like this.

Valen didn't even see Applejack as she hoisted him from his warm, if constricting, home in the hay. He hadn't had time to hear her great failures at comphrending the seriousness of his fight against the Hens of Ponyville and their sadistic leader Savannahock, nor would he have been able to mutter anything intelligible in response with the hay so heavily plastered on his face. "Ok, Valen, I can see you're having lots of fun, so I've decided to let you so something I wasn't planning on letting you do just yet. Since you're having such a great attitude and all, you get to help me make a batch of grape juice. But first, we need to clean up." He hit the ground with a thud, working his way back up in order to retain a shred of dignity. He had been so roughly handled that if she hadn't been family and if her voice didn't ring with what he believed were his honest thoughts, he would have contacted the authorities to report some form of torture. Was this how farm ponies lived? "Stay right there." He stood there, working the hay off of his face slowly in an effort to actually see what was going on around him. The gag inducing trough odor still hung around his head like a sinister ghost, and his mane, coat, and tail were roughly patched in brown and black and nothing like they should be. He felt battered, bruised, and quite literally pecked to oblivion. He was finally coming to grips with his situation and got a clear look- - "Now hold still, youngin'." A moment later, a burst of water slammed directly into his face. The force was powerful enough to send his head pushing back, but there were some benefits. He could feel the ice-cold water blasting away the hay, the mud, and the dirt, slowly but surely working him into a pony with a less offensive physical form. It came at a price, however. The force was almost strong enough to push him down to the ground and as the water was jetted into different parts, his body moved unwillingly. A blast to the face sent his cheeks wide as water forced its way into his mouth until his cheeks were over capacity. Not that it helped, as bits of hay, mud, and trough-material made its way into his stomach, which stopped any thought of his to protest. His eyes were peeled back as if by high winds, strands of his mane went missing, and his balance was lost as it hit his legs and he went tumbling to the ground, only to get back up and nearly be brought back down again. Valen started to believe this was what farm ponies did for fun. He also started to believe they were insane. "...Sunrise Wisp....Dentist." It sounded like a dream, someone who wasn't a farm pony. He noted the name so he could talk to someone who wasn't going to try and kill him later.

Applejack's orders were received in a haze of fury and disbelief by the foal. His victory was short-lived and the sheer insanity of the entire situation started to formulate inside of him an inner rage that started to boil over as a teapot left on the kettle. The farm mare trotted off to attend to whatever it was that farm ponies attended to after they successfully crushed the souls of foals, but he would have none of it. He placed the basket of eggs down and stared off at her departing form. "Hey now, that's not ri- GAAHHH!" he screeched as Savannahock once again attacked him, this time launching herself at his flank and pecking at him viciously. He jumped due to shock and then haphazardly turned around to face his tormentor. He never got the chance to do what he so desired to do to the hen, as the rest of the hens in a wave of pecking fury rolled over him. He soon found himself on the bottom of a crazy pecking hen-pile, every inch of him not covered by his flailing hooves being pecked at relentlessly. Ina burst of crazed survivalist energy, he finally leapt off and galloped away from the small herd of crazed hens. He ran from cover to cover, resting for a second just as the hens would show up. From one part to the other in the farm, he tried to avoid the herd. And, after a few minutes of frantic, terrified galloping, he was afforded peace. Is this what farm ponies did in their day to day lives? How did any of them survive?! Pig stampedes and crazy hens trying to peck your hooves out, not condusive to a successful life in Valen's mind. That foul, miserable odor from the trough stung deep through him as he gasped for air, every inch of his body full of pecking sores and his body feeling soft, tenderized from the stampede. He had been working a grand total of, what, ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and he already felt like he was worn down. His eyes darted to the road- He could make a break for it! Run to the train, hop on, live on it for a while. he could become a traveling folk artist, spinning yarns about the dangers of pig stampedes and taking chickens for hens. He could earn enough money to get back to Manehattan and from there, never leave the Upper Crust district again. It would be beautiful! He sighed, looking back at the farm. He might have been a foal, but he wasn't stupid. He wasn't good at spinning yarns, he'd never make enough money to make it to Manehattan. That meant he was stuck here and if he was stuck here, he had to do as he was told. he didn't have to like it; he just had to do it. Valen stood up meekly, looking past the hay that he was hiding behind and at the coop. No chickens to be seen. This was his chance. Valen tippy-toed back to the coop, taking his time as he would dive behind any cover that presented itself. He reached the coop and took the basket in hand, peaking inside- no hens here, either. Good. He walked slowly inside and, one by one, put the eggs back in place. He turned to leave- "Bakaw." Savannahock squawked lowly, in front of the other hens who now lined themselves up at the entrance to the coop. She looked like she was processing what she had just seen. "H-h-hey there, Madame Savannahock, your eggs are a-all back now, ta-da!" He said with what enthusiasm and pizazz was left to him. The hens advanced. "Oh no, please, I didn't want to, I DON'T EVEN LIKE EGGS- ARRGH!" Valen could be heard, if rather weakly, from outside the coop. For a few moments, nothing but the sounds of a good old fashioned kerfuffle could be heard. At the end of it, Valen was sent shooting out from the coop like a missile. He hit some stacked hay with enough force to actually pass into a section of it. For a few moments in time, he was content in this rather warm, safe location, until he remembered that breathing was a wonderful thing. Struggling with all the strength he could muster, his head finally burst forth from the bale of hay. And that was all he could do. His body seem twisted and stuck and his face, sticky as it was, now featured hay stuck to it like glue. "Great." He mouthed, trying and failing to blow away the hay on his face.

Valen ended his concerned trot next to the unicorn foal, who seemed to have made it through the crash with te vat majority of her physical form intact. A good sign to start things off. It would have been much worse if her body had been torn up or if her horn was found implanted in a nearby carnival attraction. "Are you okay, Miss...?" He asked, extending his hoof out to help her out, seeing as it was the polite thing to do. There would be time to belittle that foolish Cynogriff later, though the extended claw improved Valen's opinion of him somewhat. Only now did he notice that the bits were slowly leaping out of his saddlebag. It was just money and besides, he was sure ponies were, even now, helping to pick it up.

Excellent application

Valen gave a nearly voiceless eep as Applejack roughly pulled him by his tail and dropped him on his hooves. Never had he been so roughlt handled, as if he were an item rather than well-to-do foal. If it had been anypony else, and if he had been in a more solid mindset not rattled and shaken by the stampede of pigs, he would have fired a few verbal salvos of disgust and angst at her. But as he wobbled behind her, he found his toungue being bitten. Part of it was fear, since these country folk seemed like the type to react negatively to such comments. Another part of it was respect, as he was a guest and it would be rather unkind of him to say anything uncouth. Lastly, his face covered in the muck of the trough knocked him out mentally for more than a few seconds. Applejack started her next round of chore-related fun time propaganda, Valen more than a little unnerved by her excitement. Were all the farmers in Equestria as excited by pigs and chickens as these folk were? Valen certainly hoped not, if not for the sake of the farmers, for the animals. His lack of enthusiasm showed. "Oh, now come on, Valen, this one's gonna be fun, I promise! Just get inside and grab as many eggs underneath the chickens you can and put them in this here basket." That didn't seem fun, but he didn't have time to protest as she tossed the basket at him, his reaction too slowed to catch it. It slammed against his face and temporarily disoriented him even more. "Apple Bloom loves doing this chore. I hope she doesn't get mad cuz I'm lettin' you do it." Apple Bloom was that...little filly, if the letters were true. And if she liked it, then it couldn't be that bad! Valen's smile grew. "Okay, Applejack. I will do this quick and easy, you'll see!" He said as he grew close to the hens. He couldn't smell anything anymore, so he could only assume that the coop smelled like scrambled eggs. He was always a positive foal. "Quick and easy!" He said, approaching one of the smallest hens. There was a nice oval egg under creature, and she looked at him with her head cocked. No doubt, she was wondering who this egg-fetcher was. "Hey there, Missus Hen! I'm just here to take your egg." He said with a wide smile, reaching right under the hen and grabbing- -OWW! The hen had none of it. Perhaps it was because he was rather impudent in just reaching under her and snatching the egg, or maybe it was because he was a stranger and she was expecting Apple Bloom. It didn't really matter, because a moment after he reached under the hen, the hen had made a beeline for Valen's face and now launched a vicious sortie against him, that tiny little beak moving far too fast for him to respond to besides fall back and try to cover his face. "Hey- wh- hen! Chicken-hen-Ahhh! No! No! Get off of me!" Valen said, finally clambering on all fours and running around the coop, that crazy hen following him and pecking his hooves wherever they presented themselves like some demented specter of annoyance. He didn't even have time to process what, if anything, AJ was doing or saying as he flew around the coop like a pegasus. Finally, the hen ran into a pillar and fell unconscious for a second. He sat down and took a deep breath in relief before he looked up around him. All that for one egg? He sighed, picked the basket up, and went about gathering the rest. It was a blur, each hen apparently deciding to use him as target practice for a few seconds of their lives after he stole their eggs. As he gathered the last one and hoof-over-wobbly hoof wandered over to AJ, he decided that he was the chosen warrior of all ponykind against the dreaded chicken menace. Or he was just a walking sore.

Well, so we're all in agreement that Boss can post, and I know I'm ready to move this thing forward.

Maybe you could involve her in your boutique thread since that acts as a sort of 'all things boutique' place?

Stories of stampedes were one of many things even cityfoals like Valen had been read. There was something rustically heroic about a single pony stopping a stampede of buffalo or bulls or whatever else stampeded towards innocents. However, none of those stories included getting ran over by pigs, and was therefore not nearly as heroic a deed. Not that he was heroic at all as he turned around and saw the incoming wave of pink, pudgy beasts as they rumbled towards the trough in all their energetic frenzy. He opened his mouth to finally let out a sound, but was ran over by the swarm of pigs, who seemed to carry him towards the trough with the sheer inertia of their charger. It smelled awful, and Valen was being dragged along in the dirt. Any concerns he had once had about his hoof touching those dastardly apples were dashed when he realized he looked like he had just crawled through mud. His mane felt sticky and rough, no longer pilfered and perfectly attuned. That matched rather effectively the rest of him being trampled over by pigs was a decidely unpleasant experience. He tried to stand up, but found himself pinned against the trough facing the apples he had just placed inside. Behind him, the pigs were jostling for position, their snouts leading their impudent faces as they searched for a way in. One pig tried to leap over Valen, instead landing on him. This forced the poor pony's head into the trough. There was more than just apples inside. Unsatisfactory crops, bad corn and carrots, old, rotten cider, the whole shebang of rotten farm produce. Valen's head was dunked for what seemed like hours, though he guessed no more than ten seconds, in this awful, pungent mixture. The taste, the smell- his senses overloaded and he almost felt a searing numbness about his head. The pig on his back fell off, and Valen pushed off and managed to climb atop the pig behind him. Face drenched in the vile juices of the trough and body both battered from the stampede and dirty to the tenth degree, he stumbled over the backs of the pigs in a comical fashion until he was over them and fell to the earth. His eyes floated inside his skull for a few seconds. "Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiid anybody get the name of that carriage driver...?" He asked in a woozy fashion, stretched out on the floor of the barn facing the front.

I'd be fine with moving on. When he returns we can use the silent participant rule so he doesn't get left out.

Firebolt has been AWOL from a few RPs.

He allowed Rarity to take all the measurements she needed, somewhat used to it due to his time in boutiques such as this one in Manehattan. The biggest difference is he felt no feeling as if the designer was being rushed or looked at as just another customer. He never held it against them- after all, he was just another customer to them- but rarity had a much more personable approach. Her kind words and uplifting attitude certainly made the time fly by, and her confidence was infectious. After she was done with the measurements, he stepped off the pedestal and walked towards the door of the shop. "I am sure that it will be fantastic, Miss Rarity. If you need longer or you need to order more fabric, I would be more than happy to pay for the materials. Thank you for your time, Miss Rarity." He said with a customary bow and left the shop, trotting about town gaily when he spotted a ball being tossed somewhere and instinctively chased it.

Valen trotted behind Applejack, her eagerness infectious even if he believed partially the reason he followed so swiftly was to try and get out from under the spell of seeing Sweet Apple Acres in her vastness. He would later wish he had been less excitable in following her. The smell of the barn hit him like a bag of bricks directly into his face, leaving him bleary eyed and dazed as he tried his best to follow the farm pony further inside. It was the smell of earth, all right, but not the sort of earth that one would actively seek out unless one had a penchant for seeking out foul odors and what he assumed was the aura of sadness. He heard Applejack speak, but could process no response to her words until he heard the barn door close. He turned around as quickly as his dazed head woozily turned around to mutter a complaint. However, the opening of his mouth allowed the foulness to have a taste, and he quickly shut it. He made the decision to hold his breath as he turned around to the barrel of bad apples as if he was facing his executioner. He was barely tall enough to reach in and grab the apples, each one seemingly less digestible and agreeable than the last, their squishy exterior and odd smelling juice launching a one-two attack on his senses as he very slowly started to transfer the apples to the trough. It was evil, evil work- what animal could possibly eat these? He knew no reason why ponies even kept pigs, what good did they serve beyond being pets for some ponyfolk? He made a note to never let one touch him as the transfer continued slowly until he heard Granny Smith's kind, generous, life-saving offer. he turned to the front of the barn to shout out his agreement with the whole, "Get food in the foal's belly" plan, but still had his mouth shut to prevent what he assumed were noxious gasses from entering. He settled on a few muffled affirmations to her offer and, in desperation, jumped up and down a few times and waved his hooves in the air like he really cared, nudging the barn door open- or trying to- with his non-icky front hoof.

Then she is hopeless. If she is *that* against the idea of even watching it, then she'll have her factually incorrect opinion for as long as she chooses to hold onto it, regardless of any effort of yours.

He closed his eyes in ecstacy, satin always doing the trick when he first felt it. It was such luxury and feel, a nice, smooth, almost weighless against him. That was one thing he loved about unicorns; they didn't need to actually get up and push something against you in order to get it on, meaning all you felt was the fabric in all of its glory. It made a sizable difference. "I'll have to take your measurements to start with, then I can begin sketching out the design. Then..." He nodded along until she trailed off, eyes opening and tracking hers for a moment as they pierced through the room towards her workbench, which was more than active, dresses-to-be stacked in an almost comical fashion. "When do you think you want it by?" He nodded along with the unspoken thought process. "Well, you seem to have a lot of orders to complete and I am here in Ponyville for a while. I wouldn't want to bother you, Miss Rarity, so how about three days?" He asked politely, while slowly cantering towards her measuring pedestal. It was truth, he would hate to be a bother when the entire scenario was based on his casual stroll through her shop. He knew how frazzled these designers could be and how delicate their personalities were. No reason to be the cause of a nervous breakdown.

Show her anything even halfway decent from the show. If she doesn't realize that it isn't like old MLP, then the game is over because it is literally that easy.

I understand this sentiment about people needing to take into consideration the thoughts and feelings of the handicapped in this matter. I do. And, shockingly enough, those I know who fit here and are also fans of the show weren't offended. Obviously this is just a personal flavoring and not an exhaustive survey, but combined with what I've heard from others, and it seems to be that even within that specialized community, there was little outrage. Most of it came from where such complaints normally arise: People who see themselves as white knights of justice who must always look out for the little man and strike down anything they consider even remotely offensive in the name of another, regardless of that little man's(or woman's) actual opinion, because they are honorable knights who just know better.

"It isn't that I don't respect business, Miss Rarity. I just find business details sooooooooooooooooooooooooo boring. You make your dresses, advertise them, and are connected to them. My parents don't farm oranges, they tell other ponies to do so. But I do understand your message, Miss Rarity." He said, dropping the point. He understood her view, but all his parents did was sit in meetings, count numbers, and tell other people how awesome they were. Important? yes, but it was dying due to lack of creative influence. Then his mind raced to the real issue at hand. He gave it some thought as he touched his hoof to his chin. There were many choices in the world of fashion, so many excellent fabrics to choose from. Trailing his hand across the floor, eyes swift behind closed lids. Then he clapped his hooves together in excitement and started cantering about gaily. "Ooooh, you know what would be quite fetching? Honey gold satin, in spring casual fashion, something like what Sapphire Shores wore at the red carpet recently." He said, strutting proudly as the mental image of himself in something so fine flowed forth from his mind, stopping just before Rarity.

He continued looking through the dresses, his head popping out from one as he gave her a smile. "Well, that is true. When Manehattan calls, you better answer or else you may not get where you want to go. My mother and father always tell me that, but still, I find business to be so boring. But then again, they compute numbers and attend social functions to discuss the numbers they just put together, you make dresses. I very much prefer your way of going about it, honestly." He said before diving back down. The dresses were much larger than the small pony, though swimming through them was a lot more fun than apple bucking. "Aha!" He squeaked before falling out of the pile. He straightened himself out before he walked up to Rarity. "So, Miss Rarity, let's see if you can make me something." He said with a rather devilishly excited grin, tail sweeping up behind him.

"Rarity..." he muttered, going over all the names he had accumulated over his short lifetime of following fashion. It rung a bell... "Rarities...by Rarity? Aha! So it IS you! Why, I own some of your old line, though as you know the large boutiques tried to make your designs for all ages. The result was stitching that was not up to par with what I see here, though your abilities still shone through." He said, trotting over towards many of the dresses on the racks. All boutiques had to have prêt-à-porter designs in order to make a daily profit, but what he was really looking at was styling. That could be improved upon when it was being hand-stitched in true haute couture, but the base designs were always the jumping off points for someone's quality. "I'm happy to hear you and Applejack are close. She mentioned a dress-maker friend of hers, though we were too busy 'bucking' apples and I couldn't catch the name, Miss Rarity." He said somewhat loudly due to the distance, and the fact he was now somewhat comically pawing through the dresses.

"I am here on a...vacation, of sorts. My name is Valen Orange and I am staying with my cousin, Applejack, for the duration- do you know her? Very kind, though her line of work makes my bones weary. As for you- Your designs speak for themselves, madame. Your reputation doesn't need to be questioned, Miss...?" He asked, poking his snout out from a dress and approaching her to offer her his hand in a polite hoofshake, smile wide and endearing. It was hard being this proper for too long, though. Made him feel like plastic. He could tell from what little he had seen that there was definitely something very familiar about her work, though he could only match it with a few prêt-à-porter designs he had seen in some select shops in Manehattan. Alas, he had failed to bring any of them along, otherwise he would have ran home and brought them back to compare. "Your mane is lovely, by the way." He complimented her, always having a sincere love for curls. Try as he might, whenever he curled his, they always fought back.

The mare who introduced herself surely could not have been from this place. She simply bled elegance and luxury and was stunning herself to boot. He had rarely been overwhelmed so subtly by somepony, as if she was made to put one's head askew. He instantly looked down and pawed at the ground in shyness, blushing slightly. His eyes scanned the shop's side for a few seconds, more than a little afraid to say anything. It was like an oasis in the storm of country life, and while he had nothing against that lifestyle, silk and satin held more charm when comfortable. Than he remembered he was from Manehattan, and he was made of sterner stuff than this. He looked back at the owner of the shop and gave a short bow with his head. "Oh, please forgive me, madame. I am new and i had thought that I wouldn't find a shop like this here, it reminds me of Manehattan's fashion district." He said humbly, being as polite as he could, manners accounting for large portions of one's self-confidence and the image that was sent out. His eyes gave a smile and he walked pensively in, and finally took into account the actual clothing. It was haute couture; fitted, made by hand, made and tailored for a specific customer. And it was of such quality. He couldn't piece it together in a coherent fashion, but this was easily top of the line. "Oh my, this...it reminds me of the Chambre syndicale de la haute couture. Are you sure you aren't from Canterlot or Manehattan?!" He asked excitedly, studying the fine dresses swiftly. The fabric was sublime, the stitching flawless, the styling both extravegent when it needed to be and subtle where the body's boldness was best left to fend for itself. With few exceptions, the work was flawless, and his eyes told the tale.

Valen had gotten settled into his new town- well, at least for a few months- well enough. He had accounted for culture shock even before he arrived, assuming that he would be floored and left scared. There were many stories about small country towns, and some of them were more akin to horror tales than any sort of factual information exchanges. Then again, his friends were all big fibbers and were probably just trying to scare him before he left to the small town. But still, culture shock was a real thing. The food was different, the way of speech was different, the way they interacted...it was too loose and free. He constantly was caught off-guard by how they blurted out whatever was on their mind to their friends, who seemed to be every pony they ever met. They constantly seemed to stop and chat and deviated from their schedules. Physical labor also seemed to be the order of the day and while that was something one could find anywhere, it was something Valen hadn't truly expected to be involved in all that often. He wasn't very good at any part of farm work. He didn't have the physical ability nor skills required. Applebloom trotted past him with buckets of apples while he had to take his time, dropping apples and picking them up as he went along. He couldn't buck; what took Applejack one kick took him almost half an hour, and even then, that was only a handful of apples. Big Mac couldn't help him try to pull the plow, and Granny Smith couldn't teach him any of her recipes. He was all around hopeless, though he tried his darnedest. So when he had a day off, an honest one when this portion of the harvest was done, he most assuredly took it. He had little time to truly explore the town due to the sheer timing of his arrival and work schedule. This was a shame, a true shame! He had never been here and found what little he had seen a little unnerving. There was a lack of class, pizazz, a sense of style and focus. The town had plenty of charm and a certain sense of peace that had an allure, but his sense of Manehattan fashion was being driven to the dust in this farming community. "Carousel Boutique, now open for business!" He heard the word Boutique, face swiveling in place as his ears perked up. Boutique? Ah, it exists in such a town?! Amazing! Curiosity overtook him and he turned to the business and trotted with a rather simple smile on his face. He had always loved these places. Depending on where you went, you could get a nice spa massage, get fitted for clothes(with Valen's parents usually looking biting their lips with small amounts of trepidation), get a well-done makeover, generally a whole lot of extremely fashionable happenings. It usually cost a pretty penny, but it was worth it. Colts like him had a tough time expressing themselves; boutiques were the rare places where they found no trouble in expression. He entered the Boutique, eyes studying his surroundings as if a hungry cat at a milk bowl.

After boss posts I will

Length isn't as important as quality and the effort we see that goes into a post. One paragraph can be fine if it is a really good quality paragraph that contains everything I need to respond to, and does so in a high-quality fashion.