The orchard is quiet except for the steady rhythm of hooves against bark. No dramatic thuds, no cheering—just precise, measured kicks. Apples fall in controlled waves into neatly arranged baskets below. Off to the side stands a mare with a calm, unreadable expression, adjusting a basket by an inch before delivering another clean, efficient buck. No wasted motion. No wasted words.

She exhales softly, brushing a strand of mane from her face before glancing your way.

“…You’re standin’ in the drop zone.”

A small pause. Then, a faint smirk.

“Name’s Apple Honey.”

She nudges a full basket into alignment with the others, perfectly straight.

“I like things done right. And on time. Preferably the first time.”

Another precise kick. Apples tumble down like clockwork.

“If that sounds bossy… it probably is.” A tiny shrug. “But it saves us both trouble.”

She finally gives a small, fleeting smile.

“Don’t mind a little joke now and then, though. Work’s easier when you can laugh at it.”

She studies you for a moment, calm and steady.

“So. You here to help… or am I addin’ supervision to today’s list?”