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Description
"Long ago, before we sailed across the endless sea, we lived in a land made of myth. There were beasts of all kinds, forests that stretched on far beyond the horizon and ponies that could fly like birds. Some ponies sprouted horns and had powers once reserved for gods. It was a beautiful land, beautiful and captivating and terrible.
That is why we had to leave."
The Journal of Grandfather Barley I

The birds sang as the sun came up. They always did. As soon as the night sky began to break they burst into song, as if on queue. Blue birds chirped, cardinals whistled and sometimes, if a pony listened carefully, the soft call of a dove floated through the fields. It was quite magical, the colours of a burning sky atop a plot of golden wheat and surrounded by the music of birds, or it would have been, if it didn't happen every single day.
Baker Pony Spelt sighed. Another day, another few dozen loaves to bake, and another mess to clean up. No use in doing anything different, she'd learned her lesson last night. Looking to her left, she caught sight of the disaster, a large pile of dusty, black globs stuck on her favorite tray. Never again would she attempt cookies. Spelt shook her smokey blue head, sending a puff of flour from her grey mane into the air. Enough day dreaming for now, it was time to get back to business.
Most days passed this way on the Isle of Rye. Ponies woke up to the sound of birds, had bread for breakfast, began work, had bread for lunch, finished their jobs, came home, had bread for dinner and went to bed. Sometimes, if a pony was lucky, he could get bread for dessert. The Isle wasn't the land of Wheat for nothing.
Spelt's day was no different. She had her bread for breakfast, and began baking as soon as she had licked the last crumb off her plate. Once the last star in the sky had faded, Spelt set aside her apron and opened her shop, Baker Pony Spelt's Fine Breads. Her patrons began to arrive exactly fifteen minutes and twenty three seconds afterword. First came Farmer Pony Sourdough, who bought two loaves of her finest mixed grain baguettes. Then, Miller Pony Crumpet who purchased his daily selection of buns. Then came . . . . Oh.
Spelt didn't recognize these ponies. One was short, orange, sturdy thing with a double chin and a belly to mach. The other was purple, tall and strong with most of his, or was it her, body covered by a cloak. At first, Spelt felt a small thrill curl up her spine. This is it, she though to herself, a change! Finally, something exiting happens here, even if it is only new customers. I wonder if I have enough flour, I wasn't expecting anyone but the usuals. . . Exited thoughts rushed through her mind, but as the ponies drew closer, Spelt became less and less comfortable. There was something off about them, the way they walked, the hunger in their eyes. It wasn't the buying bread type of hunger either, it was something else, wild and fierce and coming straight at her. Spelt swallowed. Now was not the time to think such stupid things, especially with new shoppers waiting for her services.
Spelt tasted something bitter. "Hello," she squeaked, "welcome to-"
But before she could say another word, there was a knife at her throat.
"Fill the bag" growled the purple pony in a feminine voice. A mechanical arm came out of from under her cloak, ending not in a hoof, but a blade. Spelt began to choke out a question, but before even a syllable passed her lips, a second arm shot out from under her captor's side. Unlike the one before it, this arm was attached to a rough woven sack. Spelt decided she liked this one much better.
"Well!" chimed in the fat pony "You could say please." She walked around the counter and began rooting through a rather handsome selection of whole grain bagels. Spelt, with a deadly contraption pressing against her skin and two ruthless cut cutthroats in her store began to do something most ponies would have thought of as mad, but then again, most ponies don't live on Rye.
She began to worry about her bread.
It was her life's work, her art, the closest she had to children. She couldn't just stand by while roughens stole it. She had to act, and quickly. A plan began to form.
"Wait!" she called "You don't want that stuff, it isn't finished yet." Both ponies looked at her in confusion. Spelt closed her eyes, praying to Grandfather Barley that they would believe her. "That stuff is horrible, it's only for display. I keep the really good bread in the back." The two thugs exchanged looks.
"All right," mused the purple pony "Munch, the wench has told you were to find the booty, go get it."
"Still no please!" huffed the chubby pony who must have been Munch. She grabbed ahold of the sack with her mouth, and waddled off into the kitchen. After several bone numbing minutes of smashing noised and squeals of joy, Munch returned, a full bag in hand. "Looks like we're good to go boss! The, um, wench was right! The best stuff really was in the back!"
A few moments later, Spelt was alone. The purple pony had taken one look at the old sack bursting with food and disappeared, with Munch dashing straight after her, leaving nothing but a slightly disheveled basket of baked goods and some hoof prints. Spelt slowly stood up, and dragged herself behind the counter, and through her kitchen door. It was a mess. Bread pans were strewn about on the floor, bowls littered the table, and there were even a few spoons stuck to the ceiling. It was disgusting, but everything was there. Almost.
Spelt's cookies were gone.
She grinned to herself. It had worked. It was over. She was relieved.
Or was she? Spelt had never felt so alive then she did when she was trying to save her wares. It had been horrible, but it had also been thrilling. Maybe . . .
Spelt shook her head. There was work to be done, and Teacher Pony Pita would be through her shop door any minute now looking for cornbread.
Still, she would be free again as soon as the sun set. Perhaps she could try making cookies.

Description
"Long ago, before we sailed across the endless sea, we lived in a land made of myth. There were beasts of all kinds, forests that stretched on far beyond the horizon and ponies that could fly like birds. Some ponies sprouted horns and had powers once reserved for gods. It was a beautiful land, beautiful and captivating and terrible.
That is why we had to leave."
The Journal of Grandfather Barley I

The birds sang as the sun came up. They always did. As soon as the night sky began to break they burst into song, as if on queue. Blue birds chirped, cardinals whistled and sometimes, if a pony listened carefully, the soft call of a dove floated through the fields. It was quite magical, the colours of a burning sky atop a plot of golden wheat and surrounded by the music of birds, or it would have been, if it didn't happen every single day.
Baker Pony Spelt sighed. Another day, another few dozen loaves to bake, and another mess to clean up. No use in doing anything different, she'd learned her lesson last night. Looking to her left, she caught sight of the disaster, a large pile of dusty, black globs stuck on her favorite tray. Never again would she attempt cookies. Spelt shook her smokey blue head, sending a puff of flour from her grey mane into the air. Enough day dreaming for now, it was time to get back to business.
Most days passed this way on the Isle of Rye. Ponies woke up to the sound of birds, had bread for breakfast, began work, had bread for lunch, finished their jobs, came home, had bread for dinner and went to bed. Sometimes, if a pony was lucky, he could get bread for dessert. The Isle wasn't the land of Wheat for nothing.
Spelt's day was no different. She had her bread for breakfast, and began baking as soon as she had licked the last crumb off her plate. Once the last star in the sky had faded, Spelt set aside her apron and opened her shop, Baker Pony Spelt's Fine Breads. Her patrons began to arrive exactly fifteen minutes and twenty three seconds afterword. First came Farmer Pony Sourdough, who bought two loaves of her finest mixed grain baguettes. Then, Miller Pony Crumpet who purchased his daily selection of buns. Then came . . . . Oh.
Spelt didn't recognize these ponies. One was short, orange, sturdy thing with a double chin and a belly to mach. The other was purple, tall and strong with most of his, or was it her, body covered by a cloak. At first, Spelt felt a small thrill curl up her spine. This is it, she though to herself, a change! Finally, something exiting happens here, even if it is only new customers. I wonder if I have enough flour, I wasn't expecting anyone but the usuals. . . Exited thoughts rushed through her mind, but as the ponies drew closer, Spelt became less and less comfortable. There was something off about them, the way they walked, the hunger in their eyes. It wasn't the buying bread type of hunger either, it was something else, wild and fierce and coming straight at her. Spelt swallowed. Now was not the time to think such stupid things, especially with new shoppers waiting for her services.
Spelt tasted something bitter. "Hello," she squeaked, "welcome to-"
But before she could say another word, there was a knife at her throat.
"Fill the bag" growled the purple pony in a feminine voice. A mechanical arm came out of from under her cloak, ending not in a hoof, but a blade. Spelt began to choke out a question, but before even a syllable passed her lips, a second arm shot out from under her captor's side. Unlike the one before it, this arm was attached to a rough woven sack. Spelt decided she liked this one much better.
"Well!" chimed in the fat pony "You could say please." She walked around the counter and began rooting through a rather handsome selection of whole grain bagels. Spelt, with a deadly contraption pressing against her skin and two ruthless cut cutthroats in her store began to do something most ponies would have thought of as mad, but then again, most ponies don't live on Rye.
She began to worry about her bread.
It was her life's work, her art, the closest she had to children. She couldn't just stand by while roughens stole it. She had to act, and quickly. A plan began to form.
"Wait!" she called "You don't want that stuff, it isn't finished yet." Both ponies looked at her in confusion. Spelt closed her eyes, praying to Grandfather Barley that they would believe her. "That stuff is horrible, it's only for display. I keep the really good bread in the back." The two thugs exchanged looks.
"All right," mused the purple pony "Munch, the wench has told you were to find the booty, go get it."
"Still no please!" huffed the chubby pony who must have been Munch. She grabbed ahold of the sack with her mouth, and waddled off into the kitchen. After several bone numbing minutes of smashing noised and squeals of joy, Munch returned, a full bag in hand. "Looks like we're good to go boss! The, um, wench was right! The best stuff really was in the back!"
A few moments later, Spelt was alone. The purple pony had taken one look at the old sack bursting with food and disappeared, with Munch dashing straight after her, leaving nothing but a slightly disheveled basket of baked goods and some hoof prints. Spelt slowly stood up, and dragged herself behind the counter, and through her kitchen door. It was a mess. Bread pans were strewn about on the floor, bowls littered the table, and there were even a few spoons stuck to the ceiling. It was disgusting, but everything was there. Almost.
Spelt's cookies were gone.
She grinned to herself. It had worked. It was over. She was relieved.
Or was she? Spelt had never felt so alive then she did when she was trying to save her wares. It had been horrible, but it had also been thrilling. Maybe . . .
Spelt shook her head. There was work to be done, and Teacher Pony Pita would be through her shop door any minute now looking for cornbread.
Still, she would be free again as soon as the sun set. Perhaps she could try making cookies.