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My name is Turtlebutter, and Im a pony. Yes, a pony. A cute little thing with perky little ears and a silky mane and tail, but let me tell you brother, there aint nothiní sweet about me. Iím Kelly green with a butter yellow mane and tail and back before I earned my cutie mark they called me Turtle Heart . I was a happy little filly, playing games with my friends and just being a foal. I lived in a small town called Turtle Glen, a sleepy little place nestled in a valley on the edges of a marshy lake.

Every summer my town held a founderís day festival celebrating the buck who discovered our town and oddly enough, turtles. Iím not entirely sure why, it had something to do with how the founder of the town decided to settle here because of an incident with a turtle and his bald headÖ Anyway this festival had turtle themed food, art, music, and even dancing, but the prime event was the turtle races. All the youngsters in town had their prize turtle and would train them for this event from the time they woke up from their winter hibernation. On my part, the racing thing was an obsession and every summer I lived, breathed, and dreamed racing. I had a turtle named Hobart who was a rather average little fellow, not too speedy or streamlined but he had a good heart. One year during training I decided to try something slick, (hah), and greased up old Hobart with some butter to see if that would make him go faster, and damned if it didnít!

That summer at the races I decided to try my little trick and made sure that Hobart was well lubricated for his first heat. He won by several shells, something that would be repeated in every race he ran that day. When it came time for the grand finale I made sure to add one last coating to his carapace before setting him down on the starting line. As he crossed the finish line well ahead of the other turtles, the referee scooped him up to declare him king of the turtles for that year, or at least he tried to. As that ref tried to grab poor Hobart he slipped through his hooves and went shooting into the bushes. If youíve ever tried to pick up a bar of soap in the shower and have it go flying out of your hands youíll know what I mean.

That was the day I earned my cutie mark, a big green turtle with a doofy grin on its face sporting a dripping pat of butter on itís shell. Whatever magic is at work that makes your mark appear, it decided that I earned mine through cheating! Needless to say I wasnít exactly popular around town afterwards. They started calling me Turtlebutter instead of my real name and after a while I stopped correcting them. Their anger over my antics may have cooled over the years but every Summer I was reminded of what I did and how cheaters never prosperÖ blah blah blah... I knew I had to get out of there or I would be reminded every year of my shame when the festival rolled round and a fresh crop of colts and fillies were read the rules. As soon as I was old enough to leave home I packed my bags and headed off to seek my fortunes.

Baltimare is a diverse city. It was originally a small port town but has become a major shipping and trading hub over the years, and because of this many races have come to call it home. As the population swelled the city developed a bit of an underbelly, which is where yours truly currently resides and does her business. I never did get over that little itch that came over me when I would race every summer. I took to gambling; cards, races, fights, and any sort of game of chance that I could throw down a few bits on. Turns out I didnít really need to cheat to win, I was a natural at playing the odds and I (almost) never lost. (Work in Progress, to be continued as I have time)