<+DaBunnanaKing> Like obama, use enterprise, clenched evil celesta, anti doe

<@Silvertie> "Clenched Evil Celestia" -- a day in the life of everyone's favorite solar tyrant, while she has a case of dysentery and a full schedule of evil to carry out.

<@Silvertie> Okay, yeah

<@Silvertie> This is going to be a thing

Clenched Evil Celestia

By Silvertie

Top O’ The Morning

High Queen Celestia, mistress of the sun and sole ruler of Equestria opened her eyes. The sun did not rise, however, as it is hard for a sun to “rise” when it’s perpetually hanging in the sky. No, the sun did not move. Instead, the sun’s intensity merely shifted as if through a gradient, from “ball of embers in space” to “radiant sun”, as Celestia willed it or slept.

It made life difficult for the citizenry -- as the sun usually only went dim when Celestia slept, it forced everyone to keep up with Celestia’s (frankly unpredictable) diurnal-by-default schedule. There were horror stories of when Celestia had decided staying up for sixty hours was what she wanted, and frequent accounts of those times when Celestia woke up, scratched her eternally benevolent flank, and rolled over before going back to sleep, the resulting solar event causing the sun to pulse “on” and “off” and jump the ponies of Equestria into a false start on the “day”.

And that was to say nothing of that space-rock “the moon” that spun about Equestria without cause or reason. Occasionally, it was visible in the sky. Other times, it was invisible. Once or twice, it contrived to block the glorious sun, and against all expectations, Celestia did not instantly vaporize it like she did with anything else that blocked the sun or her own path. Fears and hopes that she had “gone soft” were assuaged when a stray puppy ran up to her not moments after the eclipse, and was blasted into ashes so hard, a puppy-shaped scorch-mark still remains on Canterlot Boulevard to this day, despite numerous janatorial crusades to remove it from the otherwise pristine stones. In her eternal wisdom, however, Celestia never saw fit to punish the janitors that failed to remove it... not too hard, anyway.

With the sun’s increased intensity, the castle staff knew their one-and-only ruler was concious, and after a moment of tentative work, the sun’s continued intensity confirmed that she was also likely to be up and about shortly. An event that was to be met with breakfast.

“Alright,” the head chef said, itching under a slightly blackened hat with a greasy spatula. “Let’s see, Queen’s breakfast... Scotch Wheel, Wheels Shield and Shimmer Tape, you’re up.”

“Please,” a small foal begged from within the smoky depths of the kitchen. “Not us! Not today!”

“That’s how it goes,” the chef dismissed, waving to more chefs near the ovens. “The Queen won’t wait forever, you know!” The chef looked around and put his hooves on his hips. “And somepony get me Salt Lights, he’s on breakfast serving duty!”

The kitchen sprung into action, determined not to draw the head chef’s attention by failing to perform -- while the chef himself could not punish them directly, if the Queen had issue with her breakfast, the chef was always quick to pass the buck to the first slacker he remembered.

Ovens flared, logs were consumed in flame, and breakfast was crafted with the kind of touch one expected from the Royal Kitchen.

Elsewhere in the castle, a titan stalked the corridors. Head and shoulders taller than any other pony in the world (except Celestia herself, naturally), he clanked as he moved, thanks to the pitch-black armor covering every inch of his body, two pinpoints of light blazing away deep inside the void within, smoke and brimstone seeping out of the armor every time he moved.

This juggernaut of steel and terror stalked the corridors as he liked -- Terminus was his name, and being the Queen’s right-hoof stallion was his game. When he spoke, it was as if the Queen spoke, usually because the Queen was sending him to do something in her place, a totally acceptable and understandable request from the righteous Queen.

Even so, he was not immune to Celestia’s wrath, and he did not just barge into Celestia’s chambers like a tornado. No, he knocked. Delicately.

The soft tap of hoof on wood was barely audible within the room, and it was followed by a whisper so weak as to be almost inaudible to mortal ears.

“My Queen,” Terminus whispered in a low tenor. “May I enter?”

“You may,” Celestia responded.

Terminus didn’t waste time, and with a horn hidden within his armor (not his) he pushed the door open with a pulse of magic. Celestia was well and truly awake, sitting on her balcony with an easel, a canvas, and her artst’s beret, palette and brush. Even this soon, Terminus could see the landscape already taking form.

“I see you are producing yet another work of art,” Terminus muttered, bowing. “You are too kind. If it would please you, be less kind.”

“Oh, you, Terminus,” Celestia chuckled, dabbing her brush in her pallette again (it was all shades of red paint) and adding another layer of foliage to a tree, giving it a fifth upwards chevron. “What news?”

“As you asked me to last year,” Terminus bowed deeper, “I have come to remind you that today is the Summer Solstice.”

“Oh, it is, too,” Celestia murmured, adding some sunlight lines to the smiling sun in the top-right corner of the canvas. “Hmm, what number are we at now?”

“This year would be number one thousand,” Terminus recalled.

“Ah, yes,” Celestia nodded. “You are lucky, Terminus -- this is the year you shall see something truly amazing. Aside from the usual amazing things I show you, like this.”

Terminus moved his head as Celestia leaned sideways so he could see the painting in all it’s dubious (dubiously legitimate, that is) glory. White canvas played host to more shades of red than he cared to count, showing a cluster of semi-circular hills, some with square houses on top, others with circles-with-legs that were meant to be ponies, a few trees, and the afore-mentioned sun, which was smiling as all suns should be, by royal decree. It was truly fortunate that all the nation’s young were permitted to imitate Celestia’s artstyle, but then, Celestia wasn’t a total monster now, was she?

“What do you think, Terminus?” Celestia asked.

“My Queen, it is a travesty,” Terminus said simply.

“Explain,” Celestia snapped, her cheerful demeanor turning to restrained fury in an instant.

“The third house from the left,” Terminus elaborated. “It is missing a chimney stack. And the column of smoke that would rise up from it like all the others.”

“Oh,” Celestia relaxed. “Of course. How silly of me. Where would I be without you, Terminus?”

“Hanging up stiesartistic tragedies,” Terminus replied smoothly.

“As a reward for your help,” Celestia declared, “I shall allow you to take and frame this for your own chambers.”

“That is a generous reward from one renowned in the arts such as yourself,” Terminus said. “But with your permission, I would pass the reward to the Manehatan Art d’ Triomphe Gallery, for my own wall is filled with your prior classics, and they boast a wonderful collection of your macaroni elbow-medium art, but very little of your blood-of-innocents works.”

“Yes, yes,” Celestia nodded. “Very wise. Be sure to have the picture moved by this evening, please, I may wish to paint tomorrow morning.”

“You do the art world a service,” Terminus nodded.

There was another knock on the doors, and Terminus opened them once more with his magic. On the other side, the head chef stood, standing next to what seemed to be a floating patter laden high with what seemed to be barbecued ribs and drumsticks. Closer inspection revealed that the platter was not floating, instead the eighty-kilogram arrangement was being borne on the back of a small foal, who frankly didn’t seem happy about the arrangement, but he was doing it anyway.

“Ah, my Queen,” the chef said by way of greeting, spotting the painting. “Another work of art, as usual. The blood of false gods?”

“Innocents, actually,” Celestia said, abandoning her painting equipment and walking over to her personal dining table, which was bone-white, with a chair made of skulls to go with it.

“Of course,” the chef said, leading the way over to the table for the floating platter and it’s bearer. “I apologize. The nuances of art are somewhat lost on me.”

“It is acceptable, head chef,” Celestia agreed. “You cannot be perfect.”

“If it would please you,” the chef said, “might I beg for it? So that my wall can bear more of your art?”

“You may,” Celestia nodded, “But it will do you no good, for Terminus has already won it and resolved to have it sent to Manehattan.”

“But of course.” The chef stepped back, and waved a hoof at the platter. “Your breakfast is ready -- barbecued orphan, garnished liberally with the tears of grieving widows.”

“Very good.” Celestia motioned to the chef, and the chef kicked underneath the platter. With a yelp, the platter jumped up onto the table, and Celestia leaned forward so she could look at the bearer.

“New, is he?”

“Rather,” the head chef nodded. “I’m thinking he might be better suited on the other side of the platter at this point.”

“Very well. Leave me,” Celestia clopped her hooves together, and with hasty bows, the chef and platter-bearer backed out of the room swiftly. Celestia watched the doors close behind them, and with a dainty application of magic, lifted a drumstick to her mouth and ripped a vicious chunk out with her teeth.

“If I might go over today’s schedule while her majesty eats,” Terminus muttered, pulling a scroll out from his armor. “When she feels like it, Queen Celestia shall look over the latest shipment of bridge materials, as previously requested. Following that, she will decide the menu for the Summer Solstice banquet, before departing for Ponyville for the festival.”

“Mmm,” Celestia mumbled around rib, before swallowing and taking her mouth away from the rib. “Add a note to bring the anniversary gear.”

“My Queen,” Terminus said, inscribing the note on the page with ink as black as his armor. “What is the anniversary gear? Do you wish me to send some slaves to retrieve it from the storage dungeon?”

“No, no,” Celestia dismissed. “Not now. Later. It’s a chest in my closet, all we have to do is bring it with us to the Festival. I shall do the rest.”

“Very good,” Terminus nodded, making a note, slaves carry it. “Finally, the weather forecast -- meteorology is estimating another balmy low of 110 Celestias across the day, with low cloud cover.”

Celestia groaned in pain, and clutched her stomach suddenly, and Terminus panicked a little.

“Your highness, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Celestia waved a free hoof weakly, eyes shut as she clutched her gut. “Just a stomach cramp. I’ll probably be fine.”

“Would you have me summon the physicians?”

“No, I said I’m fine.” Celestia groaned again, and Terminus heard her gut gurgle. “Probably.”

“Very well,” Terminus bowed, dubious of the Queen’s self-diagnosis, but otherwise accepting of her opinion, simply because she was the Queen. “I shall await you at the main doors.”

Terminus bowed, and leaving Celestia to her breakfast orphans and possible bowel problems, departed the room.