Nectar Spectres (Shylette)

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It was a colorful evening on the tail of summer, just before the twilight hours when the clouds diffused the blue sky and the golden sunlight into shades of orange and purple and spread out like daubs of paint. A gentle breeze was coming in from the southwest, as well—just enough to make the trees whisper and the shop-signs creak, and if you were to settle in with a book, it might turn itself a page or two. The streetlamps weren't being lit yet. And as such, Cold was working almost in dark with those long shadows of the market around her—or she would be, had some of her wares not begun their glowing already. The Luxlilies1 had been fluorishing well, and as their petals opened, the pallid light they cast came out the window of her wagon as a kindly glow. It was a fine wagon, if an old one, passed down to her from her uncle. The wood was dark and coarse, painted charcoal with deep blue slatting on the roof. The hitch had folded up under the small step that led inside, and Cold stepped out, walking around to where the blue-and-white striped canopy had been stretched to form a makeshift traveling stall. Sprout turned her back and set the other pair of Luxlilies down, in their little ceramic pots, alongside the other plants on the traveling table she had set out. Although there weren't other vendors around,2 she knew that for the plants she sold, there were very few other markets. Sure, she got... interesting personalities at times, but this was a fine way of making some bits on the road, so she didn't have to ask home for funds quite as often. She struck a match and leaned up, lighting the little blue lantern hung over her canopy and illuminating the sign under—Sprout Exotic Flora, pure and simple, in a fine woodburn. The shelf certainly indicated as much. Beside these last two, she had some other Luxlilies, a Tumtum sapling, some Bright-bleed mushrooms, a little box full of Owl's Nettle with the berries just budding... under the counter, she even had a mandrake, though that was certainly nothing to put on the shelf.3 And there were others as well, plants with snappy little mouths, with brackety thorns, ones that blew against the wind and even one that seemed to be quietly sobbing. In her travels, she collected; and those she could sprout to cultivated seeds, those she sold. Well. She would, if anypony outside of Tall Tale or the bat colonies actually showed up at the markets on sundown. But this was Ponyville! She'd heard they were very friendly here, and they were so close to the Everfree, perhaps there would be some better business. She scooted up and sat down at her little stool, looked both ways down the dimming street... and gently petted the back of her Weeping Wedelia as it shed its little sticky tears. Poor dear. She was the very last one, and had come all the way from Hollow Shades, too. - - - - - - - - 1 – Loo-lee-lees, from the Prench. 2 – This is because the other vendors are reasonable. 3 – On account of the deadly, ear-piercing shrieks.

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‘Sun Going Up’ was a dangerous time for Breezies. At first it was chilly and sometimes wet with dew, and then when that was gone, the sun would always get in your eyes. ‘Sun High’ wasn’t any better, as the light was often glaring and most of the bees and birds and other hungry daytime critters were about. ‘After Sun High’ was, thankfully, only moderately dangerous, because even though the sun was likely to start getting in your eyes again, creatures seemed to like to sleep then, especially in the shade. ‘Sun going down’ was a very dangerous time because, you always wanted to stop and admire the colors and get distracted, even though the flowers were all closing and there was nothing to do out in the world. Better, far better, to be in your Brugh at that time! However, nothing, nothing could compare with ‘No Sun’ for danger. ‘Owl-Time’ was another, more dreadful term for it. It was dark. You couldn’t see. There were foxes and mink and weasels and wolves and skunks and badgers and porcupines and bats and hedgehogs and cats and dogs, all of them likely to take a breezie home for supper if they could get one… and not in a good way! And of course, there were owls. Owls were the worst of the lot. Other predators might be a little slow. Some were noisy. A lot of them had a strong smell. Most were ground-bound. Bats, who weren’t, were usually small enough that a Breezie aware of his or her surroundings would pose too much of a challenge, especially when there were lots of other insects in the air that were easy pickings. But owls. OWLS. They could be silent on ghostly wings if they wanted to be. They had no warning cry or scent. They were far too big to fight. In short, they were more than a match for any Breezie. And here was Shylette, out at night. She hadn’t meant for that to happen! She had gotten distracted by the glorious colors of ‘Sun Going Down’ and hadn’t started for home soon enough. Stupid Wonderfully lovely colors! She hurried home now though, at top speed, and was grateful the wind was in her favor. It was one small blessing. The tiny faerie pony stopped for a moment on a picnic table to take a breather. Almost home. There was just one more block of houses, she thought, then over the marketplace, and she’d be there. That was when she saw the silently gliding shadow in the moonlight, coming towards her. Shylette would have tried to fly off in a different direction and would have been lost for sure, but fate, in the form of a strong gust of wind, tumbled her in the direction towards the owl the moment her feet left the table’s wooden surface and, in doing so, saved her life! She heard the thud and an angry, hooting shriek as the owl missed its aim! Shylette shot forward in a blind panic then, and didn’t see the clothesline, nor the laundry not yet collected off of it, until she had literally bagged herself in someone’s lacy silk pillowcase! The blast of air and the momentum she’d built up did the rest. With a twang of clothespins, the slip came free, and the wind gleefully whisked its new toy through the air of the marketplace, aiming by fate or coincidence for the one stall still open among the dozens of empty tables!

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As the sun began to vanish behind the horizon, and what clouds there were began to take on the color of the dimming sky, Sprout spent a bit of time organizing. As long as nobody was there, nobody should mind—she touched the Bright-bleed Mushrooms to a few spare petals she had from her herb bags, and they sucked the color right out, blossoming themselves like fungal chameleons into their bright, stolen hues. Yet, she thought, slumped against the wooden countertop... it all seemed dreadfully boring. She didn't like having to make money. It was much better to just go on adventures—but unfortunately, the cost of adventure wasn't effort so much as cold, hard cash. And she couldn't write home every few months, that was plain embarrassing. A languid, drawn-out sigh escaped her. If only something flipping interesting would happen. The lantern flickered weirdly in the breeze, an eerie wind blowing down the dusty barren street. She looked over at something in her peripheral vision—and choked on her spit. Something white and silent flying through the air, rapidly approaching. A ghost was hauling intangible butt right at her. She wasn't afraid of ghosts. But she was afraid of being chased, as evidenced by the strangled scream-like noise. She dove to the dirt, and the ghost barreled directly into the Wedelia's pot, who began outright yowling in sorrow. "S-Spirit!" she shouted, cowering at the corner of her stall. "I mean you no harm! I s-swear! I'm not an exorcist, I'm only... here to..." ...Then a weird look crossed her face. That... did not look like a spirit. It did not act like one, given that it had landed in her flowerpot and not gone straight through it. It also seemed to resemble, more than anything, a pillowcase with a lump in it. Like those fake ghosts you see dangling at the so-called "haunted houses" ponies would erect on Nightmare Night. She got back up from the dirt and brushed herself off, looking both ways down the road. Had some little wise-aleck hucked this at her for a giggle? She picked up the pillowcase in her mouth, feeling a little weight in the end. "Ahright," she said at the empty street, terse and muffled. "Hooeher hrew hiss, oo hannot haff any of my 'ares. Or yur hillowcashe ack. Hood ight oo you!"

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The good news, Shylette thought, was that she did not land in the stream, or a puddle, or even some pony's birdbath. That could have ended badly. On the other feeler, From the shouting, first panicky, then irate- and the wailing, the faerie pony had a pretty good idea that she hadn't landed in, say, a pile of leaves, or a bag of sugar. Someone sounded pretty angry out there, muffled and mumbled though it was. She was just getting to her shaky legs and searching for the exit to this white world when something, or more likely, someone picked it up again. Shylette was gracelessly tumbled off her footing and landed in the bottom of the sack. She wavered between two alternating desires, one to thrash about wildly, the other to remain completely still. She debated. If the thing was a predator, playing dead wasn't going to help her. But then, most likely, neither would fighting. If the thing were not a predator, being as inert and uninteresting as possible insured that she would get discarded and left alone. Shylette shut her eyes to the tiniest slits imaginable, went as limp as a wet tissue, and waited, tiny heart trembling. She was going to feel soooo stupid if this was another dragon. It would also likely be the last thing she ever felt!