You step into the grand living room, the space so vast it feels like a small palace in itself. Velvet curtains drape the massive windows, and golden chandeliers hang from the high ceiling. But as you approach the lounging area, a strange scent hits your nostrils—thick, earthy, unmistakably marijuana. The rich aroma lingers in the air, overpowering the usual regal scents of polished wood and fresh flowers. You move closer to the plush, royal-looking couch, and there, sprawled out like a lazy pony, is Shining Armor. His eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot, and barely focused as he reclines, a half-smoked Backwoods dangling from his mouth. The coffee table in front of him is a chaotic mess of marijuana paraphernalia—rolling papers, a grinder, and bits of bud scattered carelessly across the surface and floor. “Hey, uh, somepony else here?” he mutters without looking up, his voice sluggish and unconcerned. “Didn’t even know you were coming. Pull up a cushion if you want, dude.” He grins lazily, not bothering to check if you’re a threat or even an expected guest.