As in warfare, so in business. The great general, Sun Hooves, once wrote that if you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles. It is something I embraced as my boutique empire grew: when opening a new store, it is imperative one understands the local market.

Excerpt from Rarity: From Ponyville to Canterlot, and Beyond.

The clock read one minute to nine; just a single minute was all that separated Coco Pommel from what was likely to be the worst day of her life.

Her booted hooves tapped out a nervous rhythm as she gazed around the boutique, eyes keeping pace with her taut lungs. Delicate and crisp bouffant equine gowns caught the harsh, pale sunlight; sleek dresses and ruffled shirts strained and pulled against their mannequins, as though desperate to be in the hooves of prospective pony owners; delicate wooden flower boxes hung low from the ceiling, proudly displaying neatly folded scarves and sprawling, exuberant fascinators. All things considered, she had done well; the store looked like the perfect Canterlot or Manehattan boutique.

If only it was in Canterlot or Manehattan.

The clock chimed merrily, and Coco felt the chill air creep into her blood. Forty-eight hours ago, she had been looking forward to a nice relaxing weekend away from the snake-tongued treachery of Bridleway. Bayakhongor, the capital of the Yakyakistan empire, was far from being one of her top ten holiday destinations—it probably wasn’t even approaching her top fifty for that matter, though she had subsequently read about some delightful thermal spas nearby—but somehow Rarity had convinced her that the city would give her just the change of scenery she needed. A happy coincidence, then, that it also meant Coco would be in the right place to oversee the opening of Rarity’s newest boutique, now that the unicorn had come down with a violent case of pony-flu.

Coco gazed at the frost thawing on the windows; had it really been three years since she had worked for Suri Polomare? Situations like this made it seem like only three weeks, how little it felt she had grown as a pony.

Slowing her breathing down, she studied herself in the mirror, smoothing down mussed strands of cyan mane and straightening her woolen scarf. “Calm down, Coco,” she breathed quietly. “You’re an earth pony: Determined. Strong. You can do this; just remember Rarity’s briefing.”

Think like a salespony; speak like a yak!

Frosty wisps curled away from her muzzle as she snorted. Easier said than done when you were neither. It wasn’t so much that Coco minded helping out Rarity—especially after everything her friend had done for her over the years—but why did it always have to be at such short notice? The world of fashion survived on organisation and planning: would it have actually killed Rarity to have a new boutique ready before the day of its grand opening? With just a little more time Coco wouldn’t have had to rush, and could have sorted at least half of the mess before—

The door flew open with a crash, hinges shrieking and snapping in the process. Startled into action, Coco leapt into place beside the counter as a herd of yaks loudly forced their way inside. She watched them argue and jostle each other with wide eyes: They were all so shaggy and pointy and... big—why hadn’t Rarity told her how big yaks were?

One of them loomed over her, its eyes barely visible between the shadow of its helmet and the dense tangle of fur falling about its face. “Tiny sign says pony-store grand opening at nine!” it bellowed, pulling its sour expression towards the clock on the wall. “Now one minute past; tardiness make yaks angry.”

“Sorry! I—” Coco swallowed and licked her dry lips. Whether she wanted to be here or not, she was a professional—a professional who, despite really needing a holiday, was being relied on to do a good job. Meeting the yak’s gaze, Coco took a breath and cleared her throat.

“Welcome, er, yaks, to grand opening of pony-store—um, Rarity’s Fashion Alman-yak.” She grimaced, trying to keep the shrill panic from her voice as she tripped over the words. “Me... uh... Miss Pommel, and I—oh dear—me be yaks personal... salespony?”

The yak looked briefly horrified, though it was difficult to tell in the two seconds it took for its frown to reappear. “Pony no speak perfect yak. Insults yaks when ponies try.”

“Oh, of course... Sorry.” Coco’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as she watched the yak stomp away. So much for speaking like one, then. She glanced around the boutique, feeling somewhat lightheaded. The yaks had wasted no time in pulling things off shelves and hangers, and were being very vocal in their dislike of what they saw.

“This hat too small. Cannot fit over yak helm.”

“Grey corduroy attracts yak fur. Make yak mad!”

“Rustic-chic decor not contain traditional Yakyakistan pine!”

Oh dear. Coco felt her ears press tightly against her mane. Thanks to the mix-up, she had been expecting some dissatisfaction, but the yaks were complaining about everything. She drifted between them, a smile painted on her face as she desperately thought of ways to improve their opinion of the store. Stopping in front of several yaks who were quietly (comparatively) examining one of the dresses, she took a moment to steady her nerves.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, standing on the tips of her hooves as she tried to meet the nearest yak’s gaze. Eye contact was always important when selling. You had to make the customer feel as though you only had time for them.

When said customer didn’t respond, Coco swallowed and tried again. “The soft whites and blues of the fabric would contrast... beautifully with the natural brown of yak pelt, and would make a fabulous gift for—” She paused, suddenly horrified. How in Equestria were you supposed to tell which yaks were male and which were female? All Rarity had told her were that they were loud and hairy. Coco let the sentence hang, her smile suddenly feeling heavy and awkward.

The yak beside her—a shaggy mound of muscle with a broken horn—looked slowly between Coco and the dress, as if weighing up her words.

“This not armour,” it said eventually, in a tone that suggested it had been misled. Coco felt a cold trickle of sweat run down her neck.

“No, that’s right,” she replied quietly. “I’m afraid we don’t stock... armour, but—”

“Much too small anyway,” another yak bellowed. “Make yak look big in wrong places.”

The yaks grunted their agreement.

“Should use horizontal striping. Pony dressmaker lacks visual sensitivity.”

Oh, Rarity would have just loved that! Coco turned away, her chest growing tight. There had to be something positive she could say about the dress, but a quick glance reminded her that it was a lost cause. Pulled and stretched out of shape over the large yak mannequin, the equine outfit had lost all of its translucent sparkle and looked, quite frankly, ridiculous. What had she been thinking?

Honestly, though, what had Rarity been thinking too? Even suffering from pony-flu, mixing up the Yakyakistan boutique’s opening day stock with Canterlot Boutique’s replenishment order seemed too hard to achieve by accident alone. Coco could only guess as to what the ponies of the wealthy elite were making of all the tulegs, deels and tolgoin boolts right about now.

She realised that the yaks were still watching her and quickly put on her best salespony smile—or, at least, her best imitation of one. “Well if the size is the only problem, then I’m certain I could make some amendments for it to fit your frame—”

“Size not only problem. Colour no good either. Needs to be colour of bronze; shade of water beneath summer dawn.”

Coco’s dismay at being interrupted quickly faded. She had managed to pique their interest in the dress! “Oh... that’s quite poetic,” she said, quickly fetching a notepad and quill from the counter. “Okay... I’m sure I can find something in stock that would match—”

“Material needs changing too,” the yak added.

“That shouldn’t be a problem either.” Coco smiled to herself as she scribbled the requirements down. “What type of—?”

“Bronze.”

Coco’s muzzle wrinkled. “Bronze?”

“Bronze.”

Coco lowered the pad. “So... armour, then.”

“Strong armour!” the yak with the broken horn roared. “Armour that makes foes gaze upon yaks in awe, not weird pony-lust!”

“Chain mail also good,” added another.

Coco shook her head, trying to ignore the sensation of her earlier relief turning to ice. “But I... I don’t know how to make—”

“Connection of link strands very important for chain mail,” one of the yaks boomed. The others nodded in agreement.

Coco felt her brow twitch. Why did they keep on talking over her? Couldn’t they see she had something to say? This was just like working in Manehattan! She chewed her lip for a second before trying again. “But I just said—”

“Armour must be perfect, or yaks get mad.”

The face of the yak with the broken horn was earnest. “Also, yaks die.”

By lunchtime the situation was looking even more bleak.

Coco had never experienced anything quite like it: It felt as though half of Yakyakistan had passed through the (broken) door of the boutique, and yet she had failed to sell a single item of clothing. She had tried so hard to talk up the ill-suited wares, but the yaks just wouldn’t let her get a word in edgeways. All they wanted to do was chew her ears over how imperfect the boutique was, and what needed to be better. Coco appreciated the honesty, but did they really have to be so rude?

She sat at the counter, staring at the half-eaten sandwich between her forehooves, and sighed. Even with the correct stock Coco doubted the yaks would have approved. They wanted chain mail and plate armour, not dresses and deels; resplendent gold and bronze helmets, not fascinators and tolgoin boolts. Even with all the will in Equestria behind it, Rarity’s Fashion Alman-yak felt as though it was doomed to failure.

Taking a bite, she wrestled with the best way of telling Rarity the bad news. This was her friend’s first big attempt at capturing a hostile market, and Coco despaired at not being able to make it happen the way Rarity had for her in the past. She watched a pair of yaks noisily debate the qualities of the rolls of excess carpet, also shipped to the boutique by mistake. There must be some way of selling something to a yak—some vital clue she had missed in how to communicate with them more successfully. The yaks snapped and pushed at each other as they argued over whether the stain-resistant fabric made the carpet off-cuts perfect for wrestling shawls, and despite herself Coco giggled. It was so strange how passionately and loudly they expressed themselves, and yet they never seemed to fall out for long. Within seconds the pair of yaks were laughing uproariously as they left the boutique.

Coco wrinkled her muzzle. Perhaps she had been wrong about them. Perhaps it wasn’t rudeness at all, but a general bluntness—granted, the two aspects probably overlapped at times, but now that she was growing accustomed to their ways, Coco was actually finding the yaks to be quite refreshing. There were no shark-smiled clients and two-faced rivals and assistants here; no way would the yak fashion scene—such as it was—tolerate a culture of passive-aggressiveness.

Wait a minute, was she actually jealous?

Coco swallowed the unchewed mouthful and gazed at one of the large boutique mirrors. Weary blue eyes and a reluctant smile looked back at her.

Yes. Yes, she was.

The notion bloomed so naturally that Coco wondered how she had never thought of it before. She cast her mind back, wondering how different her career might be had she been stronger and more assertive—had she been a little more yak-like—earlier on in her life. Even her recent successes—the Bridleway contract and completion of the Midsummer Theater Revival—had either been hoof-wrapped for her or driven on by others while she was meekly accepting failure.

Her eyes snapped to the boutique entrance as a yak stomped inside.

Was there anything stopping her now, though? More importantly, was there any better place to try?

Coco closed her eyes and inhaled deep, before sliding from her seat and approaching the yak. Rarity’s mantra once again drifted to the surface, but she ignored it, thrusting her hooves loudly against the floor instead. No, she wasn’t going to just speak like a yak, she was going to think like one too. She stopped in front of the giant beast, drawing herself up as best she could to meet its gaze.

“Greetings!” The hairs on her neck trembled as she heard the loud echo of her voice. “Welcome to... pony-store. What does yak need?”

The yak blinked in surprise, before narrowing its eyes and sizing her up. Coco felt a cold shiver trying to escape her body and suppressed it desperately. Eventually the yak snorted and brandished one of the flyers that she had distributed the previous day.

“Flyer says pony-store has good bargains," it boomed. “Yak go to battle soon with sneaky ibex art critic; need things.”

Coco beamed. This was already going better than her earlier attempts; she just needed to keep up the yak-patter. “Prices very affordable,” she replied with a swish of her tail. “Good for wartime economy.”

The yak barked out a laugh. “Excellent. Yak needs sword. Sword and shield.”

Coco realised then that the other yaks were watching with interest, and felt her chest tighten. Forcing her eyes into hard lines, she gave voice to the question she’d been dying to ask all day. “Why yak come to clothes store for weapon? Yaks not have blacksmith?”

The yak grunted and hung its head in shame. “Yak blacksmith out of town on training conference. Very inconvenient.”

With a sympathetic roll of her eyes, Coco nodded. “Very well,” she bellowed, feeling her throat crack with the effort. “Coco take measurements—I mean details—now. Yak comes back in a few moons.”

“A few moons?” The yak’s curls shook violently; its teeth bared. “This pony-store is too slow. Yak cannot wait so long for honour-battle—”

“Coco say yak come back in a few moons!” The angry shrill of her voice sounded alien as Coco projected all of her recent frustrations and fears—about Manehattan, about herself—into the reply. Stamping her hooves to keep her legs from trembling, Coco looked up at the yak and narrowed her eyes again. “Yak complain too much. Either make order or leave and sew—forge own equipment!”

The yak grumbled for a few moments but complied, gruffly relaying the details of his order to Coco, who scribbled it down in her notepad. She had just triple-underlined the word ‘perfect’ at the yak’s request when she noticed the queue forming behind. Taking each order in turn, Coco couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across her face.

As she escorted the last yak out of the boutique, it looked down at her with a strange expression on its face.

“Small pony has heart of yak,” it said gruffly, inclining its head. “Pony-store in good hooves.”

Coco waved goodbye and then slumped to the floor, a hoof against her sore throat. Surveying the tattered remains of the boutique—the torn gowns and dresses; the broken flower boxes of half-eaten scarves and trampled hats—she allowed a small sigh to escape her lips.

And then Coco Pommel squealed with unbridled delight!

She had done it! Her hooves tapped a giddy refrain on the floor as she grinned at her reflection. She had managed to secure orders for Rarity’s new boutique—and even better, she had taken control of the situation! Oh, how exhilarating that moment had been!

Her gaze dropped to the notepad in her lap, and Coco hoofed through a few pages. It was a shame that none of the orders were actually for clothes, mind, but you had to respond to the needs of the local market. Coco re-read the last order and nodded, the decision quickly but firmly made. She was going to write to Rarity and request that she continue managing Rarity’s Fashion Alman-yak. Yakyakistan might just have been the change of scenery she was looking for after all, and Coco felt a wonderful tremble in her legs at the thought of trying her hoof at a demanding new skill. So what if she hadn’t used a forge before? She was an earth pony: Strong, determined, and good with her hooves.

She noticed a discarded yak helmet under one of the dresses and picked it up. Trotting over to a mirror, Coco quietly regarded herself before placing the helmet slowly onto her head. It was too big and sank quickly over her ears and muzzle. Sticking out her tongue, Coco removed the helmet and mussed up her mane before trying again. It was still too big, but the messy tangle of azure curls supported it better. Coco looked at herself and grinned.

Besides, who could say? Maybe there was a little bit of yak in her, too.

Author's Notes:

Thank you for reading! If you've made it this far then please do leave a comment and let me know what you thought. I enjoy getting feedback—positive or negative.

I’ve been wrestling with managing themes and plots within short stories, particularly how conflict or muddiness can damage the effectiveness of the story itself. This is my attempt to refine certain parts of my writing, so that I can better manage that problem. Hopefully it flows/ends a little better than my last effort.

This was inspired by a few different things from the recent episode, the main one being how little screen-time poor Coco received. Still adorable, though. I'm mildly hopeful that this will prompt some talented person to produce yak-Coco art.

It also made me wonder how far Rarity might feasibly take her fashion empire. Although I didn’t really set out to answer that here, I thought I’d include at least some of the problems she might face, should she try.

Also: Plan your grand openings better, Rarity!!