Hello folks and in that order. I had a bout of inspiration, and this means you get a fresh new chapter involving Jerome K. Jerome and has a double dose of the Cutie Mark Crusaders in it. ONWARD!
9. SCENES FROM A FLING
One of the many commonalities that unite sentient species is that their societies tend to develop aggression outlets; distractions where members are encouraged to invest their time and energy and generally blow off steam as opposed to each other's body parts. Equestrians are no exception.
This morning, while Mucmarfóir was receiving the riot act from the Laird, and Amhránaílore was speaking to (and fending off plenty of daft questions from) the local schoolfoals, one such outlet was being prepared by Rianblade in Ponyville Park: He, and about a dozen somewhat seedy-feeling Shetlanders, were preparing to host a reciprocal event to yesterday's welcome, what they would call 'a wee fling'.
Equestrians are rather strong on reciprocation, on the grounds that fair exchange keeps Harmony in the herd of ponykind. Having been entertained last night, it was only right to return the favour, in the eyes of the Laird.
After a reel or two to 'wake up the blood', the Shetlanders had begun work. From the carts they'd brought along, various poles and cloths emerged, and with a fair bit of shoving, pulling, and a modicum of coarse language, several marquees and standards had been raised.
"Right then," Rianblade nodded, "Time tae get t' supplies in lads! Now, we'll need tae... wha' t' buck are ye all gawpin' at?"
One raised a forehoof to the sky. A pegasus was lifting a struggling kilted figure in the air, before heading in a direction and dropping it.
"Now wha's that about?" Rianblade wondered, then started at the distant and notably un-watery splat. "Hoy!" He yelled at the distant winged figure, "What're ye about?"
The pegasus paused, then zoomed down to meet them. Rianblade blinked as he recognised Courage Incarnate. "What?" Rainbow Dash asked irritably.
"Wha's thee about, droppin' guests intae t' drink?" Rianblade stomped one hoof angrily.
"That friend of yours insulted Rarity," the pegasus mare retorted, "and from his breath he'd been at the straight salt as well as the night drink!"
"Hang about," somepony behind him asked, "'E looked a mite small, were 'e brown? Got 'n 'alf-gallon jar for 'is mark?"
"He's even browner now," Rainbow smirked, "I wasn't looking at his flank though."
"Little Brown Jug," Rianblade groaned, deciding two out of three characteristics were enough. "Well, on behalf o' t' lads Ah apologise for that gobshite. If Ah had my way 'e'd nae be with us. An' wha's thee mean, browner?"
"I, uh, might have dropped him in the, uh, honey wagon. I was kinda annoyed."
Silence prevailed, before the first sputterings and snorts of amusements came to pass, soon followed by giggles and finally outright peals of laughter.
"Well then," Rianblade finally managed to say, "On behalf o' t' Shetland nation please pass our apologies tae Miss Rarity! Now then lads, we 'ave a fling tae prepare!"
And what a fling it was!
The schoolfoals followed along behind Cherilee and Amhránaílore-the-Lore-Singer, goggling at the various sights.
There was plenty of bunting and traditional Shetland banners waving in the breeze; there were stalls presenting genuine Shetland wares; the music of traditional Shetland song was in the air – this time at a volume not set to incapacitate.
It was certainly busy. As well as an appreciable chunk of the Ponyville population, a detachment of Royal and Lunar guardsmen had arrived on manoeuvres, and were taking the chance for some R&R while they could.
"Who wants tae Whack-a-Muc?" a unicorn was calling, waving both a long stick and a blindfold with her magic. Behind her, a sturdy if increasingly battered clay effigy of the aforementioned species of pig swung at the end of a cord. "Who'll be getting' them goodies inside?"
"What's happening here?" Cherliee and her little herd had come up to the stall in question.
"Och, 'tis a fun party game," explained the bard, "Tha sees, yon pony is given t' stick, an' blindfolded, an' then they give yon Muc a damn good whack! If you're lucky, you'll strike t' killin' blow, an' out come all yer prizes!"
The eyes of the foals all lit up at the double delight of winning things and (no doubt) making a mess. Cherilee, however, looked troubled. "Killin' – I mean, killing blow?"
"As I told ye," Amhránaílore explained, "we an' t' Muc are at odds with each other."
The teacher just blinked at him. Certainly he'd mentioned that the Shetlands were constantly having to fend off aggression from that race, but this... this was inculcating hatred from foalhood! In her mind, it seemed reasonable that somewhere, sometime, some common ground would be found between this race of pigs and ponykind, and the hoof of Friendship and Harmony would be accepted.
Smashing effigies of another race... that seemed to be a retrograde step.
Of course there was food, especially shortbread, which was being doled out by three Shetlanders and one Pinkie Pie. The kitchens of Sugarcube Corner had been full of hairy shoulders for much of the morning, and currently a kilt and tam-o'-shanter was occupied by Laughter Incarnate. Having all that help had been so fun and she'd learned some new songs too! Sure, most weren't fit for the ears of baby Cakes, but she was certain that she'd find an appreciative audience somewhere else!
Speaking of which, one had gathered around Rianblade and half-a-dozen other Shetlanders, who were performing the Warrior's Reel to the lively sounds of two pipers and one lass on the hoof-drum. It was an energetic bit of dance, starting slow before gathering speed as the dancer jumped, twisted, and kicked. To do the reel right, you literally had to be fighting fit. If you did the reel often enough, you would be fighting fit.
The young stallion stumbled in one of the more vigorous manoeuvres, grimacing as one of the wounds he'd received the night before protested at being pulled.
"Why're – you – stopping?" huffed a young voice.
Rianblade blinked and looked around. His fellow dancers had stopped and were grinning, like most of the crowd, off to one side. Apparently he'd picked up a small shadow, a gamboge pegasus filly who despite being pretty lathered was still surprisingly energetic.
He blinked for a moment as he remembered. "Aren't tha' one o' t' fillies what gave t' key t' Da yesterday?" He finally asked.
The little filly's ears flicked, then went back with embarrassment. It hadn't been her best moment. "Uh... yeah."
Rianblade tamped down a grin. "And wha' be thy name lass?"
"She's Scootaloo," another filly piped up. Rianblade immediately twigged that the three foals that had 'presented' the key to the town to Da were thick as thieves. "Hey! I'll try dancing too!"
"You can't dance, Applebloom," the third snorted – who was she? Oh aye, Sweetie Belle. Now Rianblade's grin escaped. "Shouldn't thee be off tae school?" he asked.
"We're here on a school trip," Scootaloo cocked her head, then flicked her tail in the Equestrian gesture of determination. "But now we're gonna try dancing wheels like you and see if we get our cutie marks!"
"Me too!" "Me three!" the other two fillies added before he could correct them, then with surprising volume all three foals shouted at once, "Cutie Mark Shetland Dancers GO!"
At various points about the fling, Applejack, Rarity, and Cherilee flinched.
The Shetland warrior blinked at them and shook his head to get the ringing out of his ears. Some of the others winced, the night still not out of their systems. "Oh aye?" he finally said with a faint smile, "Well then, Ah say awa' we go!"
The musicians took their cue, and Rianblade began the first relatively slow measures as the three fillies emulated him, their determined expressions almost comical. Scootaloo hardly took her eyes off Rianblade. Applebloom also watched him closely, her tongue pushed out of her mouth with concentration. Sweetie Belle kept looking down at her legs to make sure they were behaving themselves – then scrambling to catch up to what her friends were doing as opposed to Rianblade.
When their inexperience finally tackled their enthusiasm, it was Sweetie Belle first, then Applebloom, before it finally ganged up with fatigue five minutes later to bring Scootaloo crashing to the ground. Cheers and good-natured ribbing accompanied the Cutie Mark Crusaders' progressive defeat.
"Get ye breath back, lassies, an' well done young pegasus," Rianblade said at last, "An' that goes for ye as well," he addressed his fellow Shetlanders, "take a wee break and be back in ten minutes."
This, however, meant that musical instruments were left in the vicinity of three foalish fillies who knew no bounds in trying to unearth their talents worth a cutie mark.
"Momma!"
"Hungy!"
Cup Cake sighed with resigned amusement and walked to a less busy spot with all the grace of a mare besieged by two months-old foals searching for the teat.
As Pound and Pumpkin finally latched on, tails flailing in the manner of all nursing foals, she sighed again, humming an old nursery tune as the pressure in her mammary glands eased. Passers-by, seeing mother and children, just smiled indulgently. A mare nursing at a wonderful fair; a charming sight for a happy day.
An agonised scream tore through the air, killing the pleasant ambience stone dead. Most ponies froze, ears erect, then another cry, this one with unpleasant undertones of punctured lung, flailed through the air.
Pound and Pumpkin Cake, appetites decidedly spoiled, both let go and started to run, squealing with fear; Cup had to chase after them. Other ponies also had to pursue frightened foals, while guardsmen and several Shetlanders all waded through the crowds towards the noise, ready to fight.
"Stay close ye foals!" Amhránaílore informed the school herd in a voice that brooked no disobedience.
It was quite painfully clear, no pun intended, that somepony was being hideously murdered. In between his or her cries of anguish you could hear the indistinct oaths of the attacker, often immediately followed by yet another wail, until finally the hapless victim's last gasps gurgled into what should have been silence, but was instead a lesser cacophony of frightened ponies.
Cherilee counted heads, and came up three short. "Has anypony seen," and she sighed in resignation, "Applebloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo?"
"Hoy!" Amhránaílore stopped a Shetlander who was ambling past them with an amused smirk on his face, "Wha's goin' on?"
"Go see for ye'sael'," the other chuckled, jerking his head behind him.
Amhránaílore went, and found a small circle of unimpressed guardsponies, glowering musicians, and smirking Shetlanders all regarding a tableau of three fillies and two bagpipes. The fillies had clearly taken on more than they could blow.
Sweetie Belle, her face almost clashing with her mane, managed to lift her head. "Cutie... Mark... Crus... ader... Pipers... nugghhh," she managed to gasp out before her head fell back onto one of the bagpipes.
The pipes farted in derision.
