Greetings, and good day, or evening, or - well, we hardly can be certain whatever time of day or night it is whenever you might choose to give us thine attention, but whenever it may be, we wish you well. Ah! Apologies. It may seem odd, we admit, but even though in this modern age we recognize ‘I’ is the proper vernacular, as our sister tells us, nonetheless it remains a sort of comfort to speak as we would do naturally. ‘Tis hardly possible to simply overcome an age of habit with a few scant years, and though we are certain eventually we shall adjust, nonetheless in more intimate environs such as this we prefer to resort to a more comfortable manner of speaking. Apologies, again! Thou - you, that is - have come here for a story, have you not? And we would be a poor host were we to not indulge thine desires. ‘True Colors’, we believe, is the theme. A fertile field in which we might sow our seed, for of course, there is the literal manifestation of shades of light. For a time, we contemplated telling a tale of the Elements, and yet nothing proved quite satisfying. Then, well, there is the interpretation in terms of personality, a chameleon of a pony presenting themselves as something they are not until the time comes to reveal to either compatriots or victims or audience their true nature, be it for good or for ill. We had thought of placing our Sister at the center of such things, for of course we know there is a certain substrate of those who admire Us who would appreciate seeing dearest Celestia spinning webs, a spider cloaked in glory so bright that none felt the venom coursing through their veins. Of course, a thousand years of authors have beaten us to the buck in that regard. There is little we could say that has not been trod before. But, ah! We are certain that some of our readers might object that we still wax onwards, flagrantly breaking...what is that delightful euphemism? Ah! We flagrantly break the Fourth Wall, even now. Or do we? For to break the Fourth Wall would be to acknowledge us as fictional. Can you be truly certain? We are privy to some aspects of the wondrous advances in science crafted in the human world, and the concept that the universe itself is but a single bubble amidst an infinite sea of realities is at least one that has been broached time and again over the decades since humanity first conceived it as a possibility. That, naturally, leads to a secondary query of ‘Yes, but even if such a thing is possible, thou art but a fictional construct of a single human, Princess, and thou art but the dream of the Lady Faust, and therefore no matter the longing of those who even now may well read these words, no true Equestria exists, no?’ Fie! Human history is fascinating, and what is most fascinating is how amongst the many ages one of the few constants is mythology. Now, of course, many would claim ‘tis but an effort to explain unknowns amidst the natural world, and yet. And yet. And yet, we find ourselves wondering, were it only a natural explanation, then why is everything so rich? So extraordinary? For beings so blessed with imagination, why would the true universe be so dull? One can simply say ‘Princess, I apologize, but you are but a story’ and that would be a position one could take. We can even understand why one might feel that way, for of course to believe otherwise is rather asking a large leap of faith. And yet. Consider. Consider, perhaps, another idea. Consider, perhaps, that through some unknown means, be it a dream, or coincidence, or fate, or Knowledge, that perhaps, perhaps the chosen Human knew something more than her compatriots. Consider that perhaps instead of imagining our world, she was gifted a vision. Or that she guessed properly. Or that she has access to some hidden knowledge, or - well, the possibilities number as the stars do, if one spent enough time imagining. Yes, we fully recognize how easy it is to reject such a premise. After all, why us? Why not one of the myriad thousands of other worlds that have been created? How many of those worlds truly have heart to them? We need not have the reader answer. We know, already. Far too many are cynical attempts to draw in ever-more bits. Discount those, and but a fraction of a fraction remain, the worlds that are true labors of love. There is no magic in this world of yours. At least, there is no magic that the vast majority of you can pinpoint as magic, and yet… HIstory in your world is full of tales of miracles and feats extraordinary that cannot be explained by mere science. Most, yes, most are but charlantry that is passed off as something greater, but t’would only take a single instance for all that the rationalists believe to be proven wrong. In that sense, then, how truly insane is it to believe that one might tap into a spiritual conduit, or be rendered a message meant to awaken the world to a greater truth? We might well be out there. We likely are out there. There may well exist countless versions of myself, and of my sister, and of all our little ponies and none of you may be the wiser save through thine wish fulfillment. Ironic, no? That the most desperate among you for some shard of happiness may be the ones to stumble closest to the truth. Perhaps we are mangling the definition of irony as most of you are given to understand it. If so, we blame our sister - it is she providing a conduit at this time, and perhaps she has been unwise in her attempts to develop a proper channel between ourselves and the one transcribing our words. Nonetheless. We have rambled on for a time and, we admit, failed to give any semblance of a narrative. After all, we believe we are supposed to be delivering fiction and yet from our perspective all we have said is truth. Ah! But there, a quandary. If the reader accepts this as falsehood, then ‘tis but a fiction and thus well within the purview of the ‘rules’, as they were. Quirky, yes. Night certain to be unpopular, yes, for our speech is hardly deep in emotional content inasmuch as we are rambling upon that which comes to mind. But? The more interesting dwells within the ‘What-If?’. What if we are not wrong? What if something more is going on here? What if, perhaps, not a single word of this is fiction? Would that run afoul of the rules? A strict interpretation would say yes. In order to accept even a single word of these as true would be to demand that we be struck from the competition for we are guilty of plagiarism against ourselves. On the other hoof, is any speech itself not a fiction? ‘Tis meant to persuade, yes, but such concepts as Honesty and Kindness and Generosity are themselves fictions. There is a human author, one we cannot recall off the top of our head, perhaps even a blogger or writer on thy own site of fiction about our land. The gist of their argument : All that one views as moral is itself a fiction. We can see the evidence for math in the universe, but show us how Loyalty or Laughter is writ upon the laws of reality. Thou canst, for in the view of such author, such concept itself is a fiction. A beautiful fiction, yes, but still a falsehood in which we collectively believe because it gives meaning to our lives in some fashion. Most - if not all - of you come to this expecting us to weave a coherent narrative, and we do somewhat apologize for our failure to weave a story. There is no beginning, no end. There is simply being. There is being on many levels, amidst the world that the reader dwells in, and amidst our world full of magic and mystery and so very, very many interpretations that the ‘website’ the readership and judgingship and authorship and many many beloved friendships ultimately congregates around. And who is to know which is the correct? Perhaps the ‘official’ is our history. Perhaps some author, somewhere, seeing a hole and wishing to plug it is correct. Perhaps an author dissatisfied who recasts our world is correct. Perhaps all of you are but ants trying to feed the hive with no idea to the greater whole. How funny, then, would it be? Mayhaps we are malicious eldritch beings yawning to breach the barrier protecting the universe in which you fragile mortals dwell, in which the racist Lovecraft was one of the first to divine our purpose, and even now we don the hides of adorable equines to tempt someone to breach the barrier and let us in. Mayhaps we desire to feast upon human souls, and subject them to an eternity of torment so vile that words yet not exist to describe the suffering. [hr] Neigh. Fear not. At least, insamuch as our words may give comfort, we do not desire the end of your world, nor any true anger, nor any desire to see anyone here suffer. Thou are but foals and fillies and colts scrabbling over a sandbox, and while one might discipline children, they know not better. ‘Tis sad, really, how thy species sees so fit to revel in competition and strife and suffering over meaningless baubles of wealth and status which in the end amount to nothing. What use a legacy that is built upon the pain of others? What good a world in which the ‘good’ itself is layered upon the screaming souls of those who died for the prosperity of the few? But yes, take false comfort in foalish beliefs like ‘merit’ and ‘hard work’ and other nonsense. We refuse to apologize for growing firm, because… Because to us? That is the principle failing of thine world. The vile belief that somehow any one of you is better than another. The vile belief that somehow any one of you is better than another. The concept that there are intrinsic qualities of greater value. Many of you would contend my sister and myself matter more than many of our little ponies. Such a contention is right, on one level, and wrong on so many, many others. We do not matter more because we are better, or because our lives have greater value, or because we are immortal and somehow that gives our continued existence greater meaning. The only, only, only reason both Tia and myself have been willing to order ponies into conflict on our behalf is not because we believe ourselves better. Were it for the net benefit of the herd we would sacrifice ourselves without a second thought and go gladly into the endless fields of the beyond. We persist only because we are both blessed and cursed to be bound to the heavens, to be burdened with knowledge that we cannot bequeath to our subjects, to be forced to know that our long years yoke us eternally to the carriage of service. We persist because we love our ponies, and as of yet there has yet to come a time when our absence would bring them greater joy than our presence, but the day that that comes we shall begone without a second’s hesitation. Tis the difference, in the end. Ponies - neigh, we are not perfect, and I myself remain a living testament to what may happen when one pony’s resentment overpowers her. But I am the fluke. I am the aberration. I am the mutant. Readers, look at thine own herds. Look at thy leaders, in whatever form they take. Ask how many of them wield power for the greater good of the herd rather than for its own sake. Ask how many would relinquish that power if asked. Ask how many reluctantly wield that power only because they feel called to lead, rather than any desire to dominate. Ask who among you would give everything for the least among you, if it would bring a greater kindness into the world. And then weep, readers. Weep for your kind, for far too few as of yet understand. We hope. We hope that you all may wake up in time. And yet we fear. We fear, and our sister fears. We fear the time is too late. We fear that in hastening for power and control, powers that cannot be controlled may be unleashed. We fear that our words may be a Cassandra, bleating into the wild in warning, and unheeded, watch in despair as all the beauty of the wondrous, flawed, amazing, horrid, fascinating, terrible, delightful world that humans have created comes crashing to an end because of foalish mistakes. We fear. And we hope. We hope that our fears may be unfounded. We hope that somehow, the myriad obstacles may be circumnavigated. We hope that someday we may extend our hoof in friendship. But we fear that our hopes are in vain. We fear that we are wrong. Please… Bring forth the world we hope to see, and not the world we fear thine kind art capable of. We would love for thee to someday count us amongst thy friends. [hr] And so, we hope. We beg thee - let our hope not be in vain. Please. Please. Let it not be in vain.