It was hard to believe it all sometimes, looking back.

Only in his wildest dreams was such a life ever possible. A life of adventure, long winding roads and secluded groves. A life of wonder, mystery and legends, things seen once in a lifetime — and maybe even less than that. A life of good company, nights spent singing and telling stories, and some damn fine cooking to cap it off.

A hunk of celery lay on the cutting board. He appraised it, sharpened cutting knife gripped in his mouth.

Coconut was a simple pony. He’d never pretended to be anything but. The only thing even remotely refined about him was his palette, which was almost as exotic as the many stories he kept tucked away for the campfire.

The knife flashed, as fast as thought. It blurred across the cutting board, reducing the length of celery to a pile of perfect slices.

He didn’t have a knack for subtlety, and he certainly didn’t have the desire to practice it. No, let the shakers and movers have their games, he was more than content to sit in the shade, pipe in mouth, soaking up an afternoon’s warmth.

An onion was placed down next. One stomp of a hoof was enough to launch it into the air. With the grace and ease of natural talent, honed by years of practice, the blade flicked out again, almost lazily to the untrained eye.

Coconut was partial to daydreaming as he worked. Today’s menu was a powerful vegetable stew, with big hunks of venison served on the side for the dogs. The stew had been simmering for an hour, soon developing a taste of rambling fantasies and half-baked story ideas. Every meal was a different tale, filled with different characters and conflicts.

The celery and onion were dumped into the pot. The slide down turned them into boats on the river, plunging over a waterfall and into a boiling sea. Tossed and battered by waves, the brave little boats bobbed about the ocean. Were they a fleet of merchants? Pirates? Explorers, lost at sea? A pinch of salt became a light snow falling over weary sailors.

He decided he needed some sea serpents, because no good sailing story was without a few.

A few babar roots were plucked from where they hung from the rafters. Pale, gnarled things, they had a tendency to melt, dissolving in broth to lend them a creamy, yet spicy tang. He tossed them in, and the little ships weathered the mighty waves they caused.

He sniffed the release of fragrant steam, humming an old shanty under his breath.

An undersea volcano had opened, an island was beginning to rise beneath the waves.

Just as predicted, a large drifter gourd rose to the top. Filled with drifter gas, the gourds grew in low, muggy places, breaking free of the soil on hot days when the temperature caused the gas inside to expand, and they would float away on the summer wind, eventually settling down someplace far away. He plucked it out and poked a small hole in it with the knife, taking an inhalation of the of the small jet of hot, yellowish gas it gushed.

He smacked his lips. Tangy, with a hint of citrus.

Back into the pot went the leaking gourd, seasoning the stew as it deflated. Some of the ships had clumped together, forming what seemed to conclave, a floating city of boats.

He suddenly became aware of a wet nose inching over the side of the pot. He reached for something to hit it with. Hopefully not something too sharp.

WHAP!

Spatula. Horsefeathers. He’d hoped for at least the meat tenderizer.

Chance held his throbbing shcozz as he hopped a painful dance around the pot. “Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow! My dose! Why sdupid pody hid me od tha dose!?” he wailed.

“Why ya stickin’ yer sniffer in my grub?” he laughed. “Beggin’ for table scraps?”

Chance, the youngest diamond dog of the pack, wasn’t even fully grown yet. Short and stocky, he wore only a simple, though filthy, belt around his waist — crooked cudgel shoved through this — preferring to go bare-chested. One of his ears was permanently limp, and flopped around comically when he moved. A large brown spot covered half his face, the single amount of color on his short, milky white coat.

The pup scrunched his muzzle around, going cross-eyed as he tried to inspect the sensitive appendage for damage. “Dat hurt,” he grumbled.

“Suck it up,” Coconut advised him, before tossing a small strip of venison his way. “Here, ya puffed-up furball. Just don’t be tellin’ the others.”

Chance caught it in his teeth and happily scampered outside, tail wagging as he went. The chef watched him go, slowly shaking his head.

When he turned back, there were three more diamond dogs around the cauldron, suddenly frozen by his glare. One spotted black and white, one silvery grey, and the other a filthy yellow. Each held an armful of stolen food.

Coconut spun the spatula like a baton, so fast it caused an audible hum. “OH NO YE DON’T!” He lunged. “THERE BE NO THIEVING VITTLES IN MY GALLEY!”

Ten steps forward.

About-face.

Glare.

Ten steps forward.

Lather, rinse, and repeat.

The master of the kitchen strutted imperiously by the three sorry diamond dogs huddled on the floor, muzzles bound by rope and each sporting a group of painful-looking welts. Coconut leveled a rolling pin at them, and they flinched. He grinned maliciously.

“Now... what ‘ave ye learned today?”

There was an assortment of muffled whimpering.

Coconut put a hoof up to his ear, eyes wide as he looked around. “Whuzzat? I couldn’t hear ye, over the sound of stealin’ food from my kitchens.”

He had to admit, they were getting better at this. Every day, it was something new. Last week, he’d caught them rappelling Vixen down through the skylight. Today, they’d even gotten Chance in on it, raiding the cupboards while his back was turned.

Did he enjoy thwarting their plans? Playing the part of the greedy villain, hiding his wealth away from the starving peasants?

Coconut straightened, sticking out his lower lip and tossing a long rag about his shoulders. A strainer soon found its place on his head as his crown.

You’re damn right he enjoyed it.

The Dark Lord of the Sink scowled ferociously, fondling his rolling pin as he stared fire and brimstone at the unfortunate prisoners.

“Time and time again, I catch ye tryin’ ta swipe me vittles. Ye know very well that ye can’t just stuff your faces whenever ye feel! This ain’t no grocery store!” He grabbed Spot by the scruff of his neck and held him up, eye to eye. “You! Does it look like I can pull vittles outta me bunghole? Eh!? DOES IT?”

Spot whimpered something incomprehensible.

“DARN RIGHT IT DOESN’T!” Coconut roared, dropping him back down again with a meaty thwunk. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t share ‘em with the likes ‘o you three.

“Now... git!”

He threw a glancing kick at them as they tore out of the wagon, tails tucked between their legs. They’d be back... tomorrow, and with some other new scheme to make off with his pantry.

The Dark Lord of the Sink giggled to himself.

Late morning had bled into midday, the hot summer sunbeams coming down through the ironwood pines created small patches of warmth to lie down in.

The Cinderwings were lazing about the caravan, taking advantage of the rest they’d been granted. Coconut watched them as he hauled a bucket of trash through the camp. Diamond dogs were peculiar creatures, he thought, but not so different from ponies. Not so different at all.

Some of them simply sat and rested. Curled up in the shade was Spot, one of his legs kicking as he dreamed a doggy dream. Over by the fire was Shadow, whittling away at a small block of wood with his claws. It looked like it was shaping into an animal of some kind. Chance was busying himself by rolling around in the dirt. Luther, the only skilled metalworker of the group, had some of his inventory spread out on the ground, and he was busy inspecting it, simply eating the scrap that offended his standards. Waste not, want not, so it seemed.

Wait a tic. Where's the others?

Balto should have been around somewhere. Ginger had put him in charge, after all. Now that he thought about it, Boxer was missing as well. Why had the surly diamond dog gone missing? Coconut snorted to himself through the bag. Some leader that one would make.

The dump was a short walk aways, over a small hill next to the latrine, which was nothing more than a deep, foul smelling hole in the ground that was filled back in when camp was broken. Coconut emptied the bucket, rotting food and other rubbish spilling out into the hole. He was just about to turn back to camp when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a twitch of movement between the trees.

He squinted, detecting two biped figures slipping through the shadows, heading this way. One tall and lanky, the other massive and muscular. It looked like Balto! Another shaped loomed behind him. That must be Boxer, the giant female who hung around him so much.

Coconut scratched his chin. Why were they sneaking about? Balto wasn’t exactly the one to be much afraid of anything, not with that she-hulk of his on his tail. Ginger had told them all to remain in camp, awaiting her return from the dragon hunt.

Something was up, and he intended to find out what was what. When his chocolate hoof returned to the forest floor, the stallion had once again slipped into character. There was a story to tell had here!

Agent C struck a heroic pose. There was no finer hardboiled ace detective to have on the case.

Crackling in the brush. They were coming this way! Agent C trotted in place, panicking. “Gotta hide gotta hide gotta hide...” There was no cover in the immediate area, a notable feature of the mighty ironwood forests. You could see quite a ways underneath the sea of pines, thanks to the sunlight being vastly choked out from the canopy. The shadows wouldn't hide him for much longer, not from the keen senses of the diamond dogs.

The resourceful spy turned his gaze to the only option left.

He swallowed.

“Should not have fed them beans last night...”

Nevertheless, he plugged his nose and hopped right down the latrine. He hit the bottom with a sickening squelch and a splash, sinking down a foot through a combined mess of waste and trash. Gagging and dry-heaving, he proceeded to hunker down and push more of the disgusting ooze over himself.

He would never look at the brown of his coat the same way ever again.

Up above, though, the diamond dogs had reached the scene.

“...Huh. What’s this bucket doing here?” he heard Balto say. There was a vague grunt in reply.

Horseapples! His slop bucket! Agent C cursed his clumsiness.

“Anyway. Are you ready, Boxer? This not going to be easy.” He sounded nervous about something.

“Still don’t get why,” was the grumbling rasp of the enormous female. “Just take money and run.”

There was an exasperated sigh. “Because, stupid, we can’t do anything else until we do what the Mistress told us. Once we do that, we can buy our freedom back with the profits from the stripeys and the blood price.”

“...Still don’t get why.”

“Look, it simple,” growled Balto. “First, we take over the camp. Beat the others. But gotta do it quick, we don't have much time before stupid featherpony finds the dragon. Gotta get to her first. That hard part. Everything else easy. Dragon explain this to us last night. Made us repeat word for word or she kill us good. Why you no listen!”

A large bubble exploded in front of the brave agent’s face, splattering him in filth. He choked on the noxious fumes, stifling himself in the crook of his foreleg as best he could.

There was silence from up above.

“...You hear that?”

A gurgling rumble was the reply. “Stomach. Bad beans.”

“Well take care of yourself, the dung hole right there. Meet me back at camp, and we begin our rise to the top. We’ll call ourselves... the Frost Fangs.”

“That stupid name.”

“You’re stupid. Just do as I say. I’m going to be the Alpha. You gotta listen to me.”

“Okay boss.”

The dim light filtering into his hiding place was suddenly blotted out. Agent C looked up in mounting horror.

His eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen.

“...Oh, sh—”

Some time later, a brown hoof planted itself on the edge of the hole. Groaning laboriously, a stallion followed it out, wheezing and rasping as he dragged himself out of the cesspool of filth. He was a dripping, slimy mess of... unspeakable, hrk... terrible things.

Blrrgh.

...Excuse me.

...He was sprawled across his back, sucking in huge gulps of air and trying not to think about the squelching noise he made whenever he moved. Fresh air had never tasted so good. He vowed, in that moment, to never make a bathroom joke for the rest of his life.

Or to eat beans.

Fighting to his hooves, he staggered off in the general direction of camp. There was a plot afoot, and only the handsome, intelligent secret agent could put a stop to it. “Here I come... to save the daaa-aa-aa-ayy...”

One hoof in front of the other. It shouldn’t be this hard. He felt wretched.

“Da-na-na-na-na-na-na-na Coconut... Coconut...”

Probably from breathing in so much methane.

He paused, turned his head to the side, and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach. When he was done, he felt much better. The smell, however, remained. He broke into a gallop, hoping the quick sprint would shake off the worst of the offensive debris.

Where was the camp again? He could have sworn... there! The small rise!

He thundered over the small hill, around the tree, and stumbled onto a scene of carnage.

The camp was in shambles, and howling, fighting diamond dogs filled the clearing, battling hammer and tongs in a mosh pit of violence. A thick cloud of dust had been kicked up by the battle, obscuring the finer details. Only vauge shapes hurtled back and forth at each other.

It would take a mighty hero to put a stop to this nonsense. Somepony strong, and fierce, and brave to the point of stupidity. A secret agent wouldn’t cut it, not here, not now. He needed...

Somepony like...

Conut the Barbarian?

Yeah, that had a nice ring to it.

The warrior’s ears twitched as something whistled overhead. He ducked as a broken barrel passed by the space his head had occupied a second before. He turned to see who’d thrown it.

Chance looked at him sheepishly, putting down a second barrel. “Eh-heh-heh-heh...”

“Pup, what’s going on here?” he demanded.

“I’unno,” said the diamond dog. “One second, we all standing by fire for Balto speech, next everybody going at it tooth and claw. Don’t know who to fight, so I’mma sit out.”

“Ohhh, no ye don’t!” the stallion grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “I need your help, pup! Balto and Boxer are the ones we want. They want ta break up the pack! Me and you, we gotta stop ‘em!”

“‘Kay, I help.” The diamond dog sniffed the air. “Wait, what that smell?”

Conut sighed. “...Victory, pup. That’s the smell of victory.”

“Victory smells a lot like sh—”

“Chaaaaaarge!” Conut the Barbarian dragged his unwitting accomplice into the heart of the battle, wielding his trusty spatula of doom.

They were almost immediately bowled over by a large, furry shape that tumbled out of the dust. Conut was squashed flat beneath the beast, and he savagely kicked up at it, hooves striking soft belly. The weight disappeared, and he sprang up upon his fallen foe, pinning him with his spatula.

Shadow snarled up at him, then, upon realizing who it was, relaxed. “Foodpony?”

The brave warrior slapped him across the face. “No, I am Conut. Conut the Barbarian! Now listen! What in seven savory spices is going on here!?”

The diamond dog frowned. “Balto. He told us he was going to take us up north. Said he was Alpha of the Cinderwings now. He wants his own pack, and said anyone who doesn’t come with him as a packmate was going as a slave.”

The Barbarian cast his steely gaze around the chaos, picking out nothing but clashing silhouettes and the occasional roar or smashing object. “I take it ye refused him?”

“Aye, most did. Spot tackled him into the fire and then everything just went to Tartarus.”

“Who didn’t?”

“Luther. Me, the pup, and Spot aren’t gonna do it.”

Conut smiled grimly down at him. “And with me, that makes it four against three. The odds are in our favor!”

A massive shape loomed out of the stinging dust cloud in front of them. Boxer, rearing to her gargantuan eight-foot height, lifted her weapon of choice high above her head; a small tree, ripped right out of the earth by her freakish strength and carved into a terrifying war maul. She roared at them, spraying spittle and bad breath everywhere.

“...Right. Forgot about her. Nevermind then.”

The hulking diamond dog sent the end of her maul screaming towards earth. He rolled to the side, and it instead slammed dead center into Shadow’s chest, which promptly collapsed with a sickening crack of ribs.

“G-haak!” Shadow gasped in shock, blood and spittle flying out of his mouth as he convulsed and went limp.

Boxer didn’t pause for an instant, stepping over her fallen packmate and lifting her bloodied weapon high again.

Conut bucked up with his rear hooves, landing a solid kick right between the junction of her legs. She grunted in acknowledgement, as if he had tapped her with a feather.

“Why are you such a bitch!?” the Barbarian exclaimed in exasperation. “Seriously! That’s just not fair!”

But before Boxer could land the final blow, a tiny ball of fury cannoned into her chest, actually knocking her flat on her back. Little Chance straddled her, hammering at her blunt face with his cudgel as he yelled;

“YOU—”

Wham!

“— BIG —”

Pow!

“— UGLY —“

Crack! “

“—FAT STUPID BULLY!”

Thunk! Whap! Phoom!

“Ho-ho, way to go, pup!” Conut cheered him on. “Knock her teeth out the back of her skull!”

Boxer calmly caught the weapon in her jaws and snapped it like a twig.

Chance looked at the stump with a blank expression on his face. “Uh-oh.”

She grabbed the now-speechless pup, smothering his face with a single paw, and simply threw him high into the air. Smoothly rolling back upright, she spun her giant maul like a propeller, before bringing it through a vicious uppercut just as Chance’s flailing form cut back through the dust. His body bent at an unnatural angle as it took him in the side. He let loose a weak gurgling yelp as his body spun bonelessly through the air, crumpling to a heap some ways away. He tried to rise once, trembling, then collapsed.

“Pup!” cried Conut, making to move towards him, but Boxer jabbed at him with the maul’s head, slamming it into his forehead and sending him skidding backwards. The Barbarian’s teeth rattled in his skull, but he did not fall. Instead, he flexed his legs and pushed back, hooves digging hard into the soft needles of the forest.

Boxer rumbled with laughter, then proceeded to reach out with her free paw and seize him by the neck. Meaty, powerful fingers wrapped themselves tightly, immediately crushing his windpipe. She squeezed, and lifted him right off the ground, so tight he felt his neck would shatter. Away went the Conut the Barbarian in an instant, followed swiftly by Agent C, the Dark Lord of the Sink, and most of his oxygen. There was only one pony left to finish this story: Coconut. The Cook. And he had only begun to fight.

Boxer sniffed at the air. "What that smell?"

"Your defeat..." he gasped, and hit her in the face with his spatula, "...by my bean casserole!"

She blinked, more in surprise than pain, looking first to his weapon, then to the pony in her clutches. Her grip had slackened off a bit, allowing him to suck in some air.

“Don’t bite the hoof that feeds ye!” Coconut wheezed. “Come on, then! Ye want some more? It’s leftovers night, an’ I’ve got extra an open can of whoopass that’s about to go bad!” he brandished his weapon again, flailing in her grasp.

Boxer simply flexed her arm again, cutting him off with a comical squeak, not unlike that of a chew-toy.

Coconut could feel darkness closing around his vision. His lungs burned for air.

The last thing he saw was Balto, a bloody lance cocked over his silvery shoulders as he strolled out of the dust to pat his minion on the back. The wolfish diamond dog was all smiles, his eyes dancing with contented ambition.

Coconut opened his eyes.

Something cold was perched atop his muzzle. He squinted. Something white and fluffy. Having lived his whole life in the sweltering heat of the rainforest, it took him a full minute to figure out what the thing was.

A snowflake.

Having only seem them in books and pictures, or whenever the Mayor had put on his yearly magic performance, it was understandable as to why he was so confused. They were still less than a hundred miles from the equator. Why was there snow on his face?

He realized he was lying on his back, on something cold, metal, and currently moving. There were bars everywhere, the snow was drifting in through this, along with a biting wind.

Coconut groaned and sat up slowly, aching and feeling as though he’d been through a thousand-mile race. He stretched, suddenly yanked to the side as his leg caught on something. Dumbly, he stared down at the manacle the bound him to the bars that made up an impenetrable prison.

He was in a caged wagon. He was in a caged wagon that was currently traversing a frozen bridge in the middle of a wintry wasteland. As far as the eye could see, snow and ice covered the world. No mountain, no valley, no pebble in the road was not coated with whiteness.

A shuffling came from behind him. He whirled, again jerked back by the chain.

Chance was sitting against the back of the wagon, head lolling with every bump in the road. By his side, Shadow groaned and rasped with every breath, clutching painfully at his shattered chest. Over his bloody shoulder, Coconut could see the Shagwagon following close behind, Luther plodding on in the harness, clad in snowy rags and winter goggles.

Even more surprising was the presence of two zebras in the wagon, huddled against each other across from him, in a fitful sleep. They looked terrible; cut and bruised in many places, some dripping wounds frozen solid.

But there, slumped against the farthest corner, was Spot, arm in a filthy, bloodstained bandage. The diamond dalmatian’s yellow eyes met his, tinged with grief.

“What the —?” began Coconut, before halting; his voice sounded harsh and grating, his throat felt as if it had been clenched in a vice.

“We lost,” Spot answered quietly. “From the start, they knew. They knew about the dragon. Ran into it on a hunt the first night we enter forest. They start the fire. They bait Ghostclaws and Cindercorn with the stripey ponies.” He shook his head sadly. “And then they run to her before the others find her. Use dragonfire to send us here to be sold. Balto tell me everything, explain it like he were right and we were wrong.”

“Where’s... achk... here?” Coconut managed.

“Roam,” he whispered fearfully.

Coconut didn’t think he had it left in him to scream. But there was more horror and loss in that wordless cry than any other sound he’d made in his life. When the sound — and the breath — left him, he, too, slumped against the cage and gazed hollowly outside as the frozen world trundled by.

“Are we gonna d-die there?” asked Spot.

Coconut gave him a defeated, mournful stare.

“Aye.”

Acheivement Unlocked! - "Biting the Hoof That Feeds You"

Character Unlocked! - Coconut Fronds, Head Chef of the Cinderwings

-- Perk(?) - Ghost of Wethoof (-93.2% willingness to strike): After the Battle of Wethoof, Coconut swore

to never take another life. Insult his cooking, however, and that's an entirely different story.

Level Up!

-- New Perk - Epic Meal Time (+20 dmg with all kitchen utensils): Many years of training has given

you a unique understanding of all the ways ordinary culinary tools can be used to smash faces and

take names. What 'chu know about spatula-jitsu, player?

-- New Spell - Spontaneous Comboozetion: At any time during the game, you gain a chance to receive

a special, limited edition bottle of Applejack Daniels. Putting said beverage in your cooking will not

only make it twice as healing to your party, but you also get a pair of free sunglasses while it lasts.

Region Discovered! - The Roaman Wastelands

Author's Notes:

mfw when chap releases

Feels good to be back at doing what I do best...

...THROWING EVERYONE FOR A LOOP.

Surprised to see a new perspective? Don't be. You're going to be looking through the eyes of some good mutual friends of ours... including somepony who is most definitely getting too old to deal with this shit.

Anyway. Right. So, this series now has a TV Tropes page, courtesy of the very sexy Vaughnd22. Go help him out and stuff if you're feeling generous. And stuff.