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Cultural Relativism
"Tartarus damn it..." Shifting didn't make him any more comfortable, but then Sludge hadn't really expected it to. A mattress and blankets made of rocks did not promote easy sleeping, especially after the nights he'd spent in that pony castle.
The thought made him mutter, "Tartarus damn it..." again. If only he hadn't picked a fight with those phoenixes and gotten his tail handed to him, he wouldn't've crashed into that damn pony town, met that damn purple squirt, and known what a damn mattress and blanket were supposed to feel like.
But no! Here he was, huddled in some damn muddy cave, snow falling outside, the Dragonlands half a world away, and no one to care if he froze or didn't! It was all totally—
"Sludge?" a voice with a weird accent asked behind him. "Land sakes! That finally you?"
"Huh?" Sludge rolled over to face the cave mouth, several parts of his bed coming loose and tumbling down the slope in that direction. But the green glowing pony standing there didn't even flinch as the rocks rolled right through her legs and outside into the snow.
"Hoo-wee!" the pony said, stomping a front hoof soundlessly on the floor of the cave. "You're one hard fella to find!"
Sludge blinked at the pony and realized that he could see the wall and the cave opening through her, too. Trying to pick from the four or five questions popping into his head, he went with. "What?"
The pony pushed her hat back. "I'm the Spirit of Hearth's Warming Past!" she announced. "And I'm the first of the folks who're gonna show you how wrong you are, rejecting the meaning of Hearth's Warming!"
All Sludge could do for a heartbeat or two was more blinking. Then— "What?" he decided to ask again.
"No time!" the spirit said, a rope appearing in the green glow beside her. "Took me so long tracking you down, we've gotta get moving! So hang onto your britches!" The rope flashed out, grabbed him around the middle, and before Sludge could take another breath, she was hauling him off into the night.
"Now, wait." The hooded pony, the largest of the three gathered around him, was glaring, Sludge could tell, even though he couldn't see her face. "You have no idea what Hearth's Warming is?"
Down on his knees trying to get his breath back, Sludge managed to choke out, "That's what I been telling you!" At least the rocky wasteland around them was warm this time: these crazy ponies had dragged him through wastelands hot, cold, sandy, rocky, and dirty in the past hour, all of them deserted and all of them way too familiar whether they were supposed to be his past, his present, or his future.
The pink pony with the long yellow robe was glaring, too, and Sludge still couldn't decide if her squeaky voice made her more or less scary than the tall one. "And all you dragons do during winter is sit around telling horrible stories?"
"Well?" Sludge pushed himself to his feet. "It's a horrible season in a horrible place. What else're we gonna do?"
The tall pony shook her head. "Your current dragonlord seems to think otherwise."
Sludge shrugged. "She's an idiot. What's that gotta do with me?"
The first pony who'd grabbed him had a scowl that beat the others' glares no question. "So you got no problem with your past, present, and future all being one kinda wasteland or another?"
"I'm a dragon." He crooked a thumb at his chest. "If we aren't in a wasteland, we trying to make a wasteland."
The first pony narrowed her eyes. "That include pillows?"
Memories tried to nuzzle soft and gentle against him, but Sludge pushed them away. "That's not who dragons are," he said, the words wanting to stick in his throat.
The tall pony shook her head again and vanished.
The first pony turned away. "Not who you are, y'mean." And she vanished, too.
Swallowing, Sludge looked over to where the pink pony had been standing, but instead of her, something white and fluffy sat in the gritty soil.
"Tartarus damn it." He trudged over and picked it up, his mind already spinning up a story he could tell about burning down some ponies' cabin and taking their pillow.
He grinned. If he started flying now, he could get to the Dragonlands just in time for this year's Feast of Fire, too...
The thought made him mutter, "Tartarus damn it..." again. If only he hadn't picked a fight with those phoenixes and gotten his tail handed to him, he wouldn't've crashed into that damn pony town, met that damn purple squirt, and known what a damn mattress and blanket were supposed to feel like.
But no! Here he was, huddled in some damn muddy cave, snow falling outside, the Dragonlands half a world away, and no one to care if he froze or didn't! It was all totally—
"Sludge?" a voice with a weird accent asked behind him. "Land sakes! That finally you?"
"Huh?" Sludge rolled over to face the cave mouth, several parts of his bed coming loose and tumbling down the slope in that direction. But the green glowing pony standing there didn't even flinch as the rocks rolled right through her legs and outside into the snow.
"Hoo-wee!" the pony said, stomping a front hoof soundlessly on the floor of the cave. "You're one hard fella to find!"
Sludge blinked at the pony and realized that he could see the wall and the cave opening through her, too. Trying to pick from the four or five questions popping into his head, he went with. "What?"
The pony pushed her hat back. "I'm the Spirit of Hearth's Warming Past!" she announced. "And I'm the first of the folks who're gonna show you how wrong you are, rejecting the meaning of Hearth's Warming!"
All Sludge could do for a heartbeat or two was more blinking. Then— "What?" he decided to ask again.
"No time!" the spirit said, a rope appearing in the green glow beside her. "Took me so long tracking you down, we've gotta get moving! So hang onto your britches!" The rope flashed out, grabbed him around the middle, and before Sludge could take another breath, she was hauling him off into the night.
"Now, wait." The hooded pony, the largest of the three gathered around him, was glaring, Sludge could tell, even though he couldn't see her face. "You have no idea what Hearth's Warming is?"
Down on his knees trying to get his breath back, Sludge managed to choke out, "That's what I been telling you!" At least the rocky wasteland around them was warm this time: these crazy ponies had dragged him through wastelands hot, cold, sandy, rocky, and dirty in the past hour, all of them deserted and all of them way too familiar whether they were supposed to be his past, his present, or his future.
The pink pony with the long yellow robe was glaring, too, and Sludge still couldn't decide if her squeaky voice made her more or less scary than the tall one. "And all you dragons do during winter is sit around telling horrible stories?"
"Well?" Sludge pushed himself to his feet. "It's a horrible season in a horrible place. What else're we gonna do?"
The tall pony shook her head. "Your current dragonlord seems to think otherwise."
Sludge shrugged. "She's an idiot. What's that gotta do with me?"
The first pony who'd grabbed him had a scowl that beat the others' glares no question. "So you got no problem with your past, present, and future all being one kinda wasteland or another?"
"I'm a dragon." He crooked a thumb at his chest. "If we aren't in a wasteland, we trying to make a wasteland."
The first pony narrowed her eyes. "That include pillows?"
Memories tried to nuzzle soft and gentle against him, but Sludge pushed them away. "That's not who dragons are," he said, the words wanting to stick in his throat.
The tall pony shook her head again and vanished.
The first pony turned away. "Not who you are, y'mean." And she vanished, too.
Swallowing, Sludge looked over to where the pink pony had been standing, but instead of her, something white and fluffy sat in the gritty soil.
"Tartarus damn it." He trudged over and picked it up, his mind already spinning up a story he could tell about burning down some ponies' cabin and taking their pillow.
He grinned. If he started flying now, he could get to the Dragonlands just in time for this year's Feast of Fire, too...
Christmas Eve Eve:
I found myself with a couple unbespoken hours and thought I'd see what was going on on the Writeoff site, something I hadn't done in a while. I saw that there was a minific contest happening right then and there, and then I saw that no one had submitted a prompt. This struck me right in the spot where nostalgia meets melancholy, so I settled in to write. This is what came out.
It really needs a middle section showing Sludge interacting with the Spirits, but that oughtta get the whole thing above 1,000 words for posting on FimFiction, maybe even later today.
And a Happy Annual Incrementation to us all!
Mike
I found myself with a couple unbespoken hours and thought I'd see what was going on on the Writeoff site, something I hadn't done in a while. I saw that there was a minific contest happening right then and there, and then I saw that no one had submitted a prompt. This struck me right in the spot where nostalgia meets melancholy, so I settled in to write. This is what came out.
It really needs a middle section showing Sludge interacting with the Spirits, but that oughtta get the whole thing above 1,000 words for posting on FimFiction, maybe even later today.
And a Happy Annual Incrementation to us all!
Mike