Ah, Emperor Sprout. Cursed by the Gods for his arrogance and drunkenness, he was cursed to sleep for over a thousand years, and yet remain pristine, as a mocking reminder of the price of ruining the nation. His ponies were very lucky that he only ruled for three days, before he was put to sleep. Then, they happily brought him out of his throne into a tomb, where he slumbered for a millennium.

A thousand years passed, and the nation moved on without him. Although the day he was buried was marked as his death day and a day of mocking celebration, he still lives, trapped in deep eyes and a stuck body.

The only thing that woke him up was a crow — it was from a blue rooster, the very creature that he harmed coming back to laugh at him. Before him stood a beautiful mare, clad in regal robes as dark as the twilight sky, and crowned with a wrathful little sun. She said only three words, with a sneer: "Time's up, Sprout!"

The poor red tyrant never knew joy again, and he was never seen again. Pipp Pipp Hooray!