They come, from nowhere and everywhere at once. Appearing from the dark, moon-lit night like bats from their cave. You're still not sure you're supposed to be here and you're getting ready to leave, when you see her. Lace-face. At least you know you belong now, but it's no wonder you didn't recognize her. She's covered in filth... she looks just like you, a vehicle for mud and murk and anything else that she may have walked through. Did you do this to her? You rack your brain, thinking back. Surely she led you from the forest to here, or else you would not have found this forsaken stench-hole. But what happened after that? You took one of your plants out of your bag and ate it, secretively so she would not be inclined to ask from one... everything after that is a hazy mess. You let the thoughts go, knowing you will not find the answers you are searching for in your drugged mind.

You don't have much time to think, anyway. Some fool in white is sending angry words your way. I would suggest you watch your manners here, newbie, and he continues on. You laugh, and then you laugh again. The sound is gravely and deep, unsettling, perhaps. What a clown, you think to yourself as you look over him. His flowing locks and shining coat make you think he's nothing but a pretty boy before your voice rumbles forth again. “You gonna talk me to death or you gonna come do somethin' 'bout it?” You issue your challenge without a second thought, voice commanding and billowing. You're a little arrogant when it comes to fighting and you have no qualms about taking this stallion on. He's half a foot shorter than you, as far as you can see in the darkness, and somewhat lighter of build. He would hit faster, but you would hit harder. Your tail swishes behind you in aggravation. You left your home to leave the judgment and you find it here worse than ever.

Everything about this little meeting seems to be centered around some unicorn mare, anyway. The one that is black of hue and spattered with white. You're pissed off, ready to walk out of this gathering you couldn't care less about, then lace-face says your name. Oxy. Your ear flickers and you look at her as she comes up beside you. Somewhere in the depths of your drug-numbed soul is a shred of loyalty. Lace-face has won it, perhaps because she dealt with your initial chaos with such class, perhaps some other reason. Whatever it is, you turn to look at her. Your dark brown eyes are cold, but not for her.

In the distance, the pretty boy stallion calls lace-face darling. Your ears flick backwards and you whirl your head to glare at him- a second warning. Your patience is wearing thin, but she's not yours. Why do you care? Your hooves step apart widely as you turn, so that you do not topple over, then you speak again. “Lace-face,” your voice is quiet this time, for lace-face only. You still don't know her name (not that you care for names) and among all your shouting you miss the glass-horned mare saying it. “You didn't tell me there'd be a pretty boy begging for a beating.” Your voice is still quiet, for the mare only. You've already told the stallion all he needs to hear.

It's then that you remember the glass-horned mare was just shouting at you as well. You almost forgot in all the chaos and you still haven't answered her. You suspect she'll be waiting for your words, though again you don't care if you answer her or not. You bob your head as you turn to look at her, your black horns glinting in the moonlight. You're so close. It would be so easy to walk over to her and shove them down into her spine. You grumble, pleased at the thought. There's too many here, though. Even you, massive in stature as you are, cannot take on 10 others (or however many there are here) at once.

“I'm fine. I don't need your help,” you growl to her as she calls you a bumbling buffoon. Your words don't exactly make sense, as she's not talking to you. You're just tired of getting treated like an outcast fool again. It's like you're back in your fathers herd. You left there because you hated it. You're getting the feeling you're going to hate it here too. “Pretty boy's offer extends to you too,” you finish. The thoughts of home combined with the effects of the plants are too much for you and they're clouding your judgment. You can only hope lace-face will forgive you. Then, out of habit, you glance at your bag and touch your nose to it. A few of the stems peak out from underneath the flap that covers it. That's why you're here. You're here because the plants grow here and keep your bag full. But then you look back to lace face and you wonder if you're not here for something else too.