//------------------------------// // Leaping from the Steep Slope, Vacation // Story: Without Fear of Wind or Vertigo // by publiq //------------------------------// Spitfire paid farewell to her fellow Wonderbolts and the Princess. Rather, she let herself be summoned under Luna’s royal wing like a foal as the nocturnal monarch bid her farewell. Even after multiple diplomatic trips together, Spitfire still had to correct herself every time she thought of Equestria being under the steady guidance of the Princess. The convoy took off in the mid-afternoon from the makeshift runway. Luna and her guard pulled the ship as it gained momentum in the sky, the Wonderbolts circling in full travel uniform to smooth the air currents. They would return in much the way they arrived: the Wonderbolts circling to navigate and clear clouds during the day; Luna and her guards trading places during four or five decreasingly moonless nights. It is a truly impressive distance from Canterlot when ascending to the rarefied flight levels above the Peaks of Peril would signal to the cavalcade that they were on the home stretch. Once inside her yurt-inspired log cabin, Spitfire reviewed her royal directives in the follow up to the first visit from Canterlot in a generation. With four princesses, Equestria now had the spare royal attention required to re-establish ties with far-off herds. Beyond exchanging universal equine pleasantries, Luna’s drive was to check in that they received adequate sunlight and ask if they wanted any adjustments in their constellations. Now that her boss was departed, Spitfire checked her mission objectives. Take a vacation. The Wonderbolts will just have to manage themselves without you. Be a guest, not merely a visitor among your own kind. Forget about Equestria. Weather-permitting, begin flight home early in the day before the night of the full moon She sighed. It was that obvious that her vacation was also a test run for the inevitable day when she was no longer the capital-C Captain of the Wonderbolts. Blaze repeatedly made it clear she prefers being second-in-command. Fleetfoot would make an absolutely worthy successor—too bad they were in the same rookie class. Same problem with Fire Streak: that stallion had a head for logistics that earned respect from the senior ‘Bolts while keeping a low profile that kept him out of the rookies’ orbits. Too bad both of them had even odds of being retired by the time she could no longer stay Captain. Rainbow Dash was the next obvious choice. A superstar rookie. An objectively risky bet, but the natural victor of a power vacuum among pegasi. Spitfire scribbled something about putting Dash under the tutelage of Fire Streak and Blaze. It’s one thing to lead the local weather team by being the best, but being merely the best flyer… Papers flew around the non-yurt from a sudden flare of wings. Spitfire opened her door and trotted with resolve toward the cliffs to her east. She needed speed, and her best option in this thinner air was a drop start. Her flustered snort echoed off the cliff face. She’d have to fly to the spot she saw the hawks launching. It was not her snort that echoed. Spitfire had not yet learned those were all names for the various life stages of the same creature. One of her host villagers stepped away from the rocks that disguised him, his cremello belly and brown topline blending in with the sandstone. At least, she assumed he was one of the stallions. The ponies here were unlike any herd back in Equestria. To start, they universally shared the coloration of perfectly roasted marshmallows. She still got confused when trying to tell them apart from one another. If she were meeting for a greeting, she’d look up—yes, upward—for their cutie mark. Not to be confused with kirins, niriks, or qilin, the kiang hosting her were ponies as tall as Princess Luna with the conformation of donkeys and short, erect manes. “I’ve seen one of you tending to the birds. How do you get there?” Spitfire’s question was met with another snort and head bob. “Follow me.” She followed him up switchbacks fit only for goats and mules, the rock blocking one of her wings making her feel unsteady the whole time. Soon enough, they reached the flat grassy top of the escrapement. Spitfire peered over the edge. Not a place to dive. She stepped back and saw her escort breathing heavily. Nopony could see them here. She was safe in thinking that. Gingerly, she flared her wings and stepped toward the panting stallion before beginning her slow, rhythmic flapping. Within ten wingbeats, he had mostly subsided back to regular respiration. “Thanks,” he said with a nod, “I wasn’t expecting exercise so soon in the season. Still had my winter coat on.” Wings retracted, Spitfire backed up even more before heading for the precipice at a gallop. Two steps before her hooves no longer had ground, she spread her feathers and beat hard against the wind. Legs outstretched, she flapped to climb higher before relaxing to soar in broad circles. Eyes focused downward, she pivoted her remiges up for a full-speed dive. Wind brushed her mane and tail better than any mane & makeup department at a Wonderbolts show. Earlier than usual, she applied her brakes to pull back to horizontal flight and returning to climb. The following fortnight passed in a blur. The tricky flight parameters among the kiang guaranteed a redirection in focus whenever her mind fast-traveled home. Fanning the kiang with her feathers, a practice which had once seemed so insulting when they were more interested in pegasi as personal air conditioners instead of aerial acrobats, became a ritual of care and friendship. Despite pegasi being effectively a new sight to them each time an Equestrian delegation visited, kiang proved much more adept at learning to how preen than the earth ponies back home in Equestria, not to think of the unicorns. Spitfire returned their favors the best she could, her relatively diminutive stature meaning she could only bite at the tufts near the point of her host’s shoulder instead of grooming each other’s withers as equals. Given how had the kiang loved to dance, it was no wonder they valued the flapping abilities of pegasi. On festival nights (or days, there were many of each), the freshly-bathed and perfumed kiang would dance until the sun rose (or set, if it’s a daytime party). Her feathery presence allowed them a respite to recharge and not have to be the first to stop from heat exhaustion. The pounding of drums and wafting incense picked up after the perfumes dissipated. Even still, some nights (or days) got called in early when too many of the musicians were distracted by the scent of sweaty donkeys to stay in beat (or slowed tempo from heat stress). After partying, it was time to plunge in the frigid creek, shake it off, and sleep. If the weather stayed day—they did appreciate a pegasus who could report on distant clouds—, one or two would stand watch while the rest of the herd, Spitfire included, slept (and ate) in the fresh spring grass.