Chapter 11: A Pony Meets a Pony

Mucmarfóir's excuse was that he needed some air after all the excitement, but he wasn't daft enough to believe himself. What he really wanted was to get away, get some time alone after being on those terraces with such a herd. After so many years alone, the sensation of being part of one was still alien to him.

For two hours, he'd managed to forget his mission to save the Shetlands from the Muc, or that he'd been thwarted the previous night by the Laird's son, and now the Laird and the local guardsponies knew who he was. Not tae mention...

He shook his head and blew in derision. That wasn't it. 'Twas the way Rarity had looked at him when she'd asked if he had a place to sleep. He'd been looked at by mares before, but something about Generosity Incarnate scared him.

His thoughts wandered back to the organised violence that had taken place on the hoofball field. That was a game for stallions, true enough! For a moment his head lifted as daydreams of charging through the opposition ranks, ball in teeth, to win the match flitted through his head. Aye, 'twould be grand wouldn't it? Mucmarfóir, captain of the Shetland team, an' after t' game I'd go hame tae my bonny red-eyed wife –

He stopped dead, looking into but not seeing a shop window. Fluffy! He thought to himself, nose crinkling with disgust. As if t' Laird would let thee have his filly's hoof in marriage!

With a shake of his head, he continued his aimless journey through Ponyville, unaware of his white shadow.

Winterberry had given Carousel Corner's windows a cursory glance: more fake Shetland tat and more ruffles and fluffy stuff than necessary. All grand for a fling but not to do the housework. However, her interest was in the close-cropped brown fellow setting a good clip away from the building.

He was worked up about summat, that were clear in the way he seemed to be muttering to himself, almost arguing. He also wasnae aware of the glances some of the mares he passed were giving him; not surprising. Her eyes tracked the athletic contours of his flanks, before she blinked hard, trying to pull her mind out of his plot. Daft nellie! We're to find out who he is, not kick it up wi' strangers!

With a toss of her head, she resumed her tailing, and trying to ignore a wicked little thought in her head that suggested she could do both. A flash of inspiration struck her as she passed a street vendor, and after a brief pause she resumed her stalk, this time with a paper bag slung around her neck. As Ma always said, the way to a colt's heart was through his stomach.

The Everfree Forest is, of course, informally forbidden, thanks to the dangerous creatures and wild nature of its terrain. However its danger and wildness are unevenly distributed, as yearlings will attest.

A stream emerged from the forest, and there was a path of beaten-down grass alongside of it. Mucmarfóir's hooves found this trail, which led to a small glade held in the crook of the running water. It was the sort of place where one could dare the Everfree and still have a clear run back home; just follow the water.

The brown Shetlander nosed at the grass here and there, poking a hoof now and then at the occasional discarded bottle; the odour of long-gone night drink clinging to their mouths. This was definitely a place where yearlings came. The glade was half in shadow, the afternoon sun sinking into the foliage over the far side of the stream. All in all, the perfect place to engage in a bout of existential angst, heavy petting, or anything else you wanted to keep private.

With a sigh, he lay on his belly beside a hollow log, which shifted when he rested his chin on it, and something inside sloshed. Curiosity pricked, Mucmarfóir got up, peered inside one end, then pulled out a whiskey jug. A wee dram sounded just fine to him, and thus at least one colt's plans for engaging in adult pleasures were ruined.

Mucmarfóir settled himself against the log again, jug by one forehoof, and tried to pick a path through the bog of confusion in his head.

"Gi' it over," Mucmarfóir said to himself at last, "Thee's a Shetlander, not some short-haired southerner." He snorted. He might be shorn now, but his coat would soon grow out again. And what would the summers be like here? Damn miserable, he'd bet his plot.

"An' what would yon Rarity want wi' a neddie like thee, eh?" he warmed to his topic. "Aye, she be Generosity Incarnate, but she didnae give thee t' chance to object, did she?" A sympathetic twinge came from his ear and was met with a sympathetic pull from the jug.

"What's thee tae do then?" he asked again, feeling frustration rise. He couldn't challenge the Laird again, the local guards and the Laird's own retinue would make sure of that. And he couldn't just slink awa' hame either, that would admit failure – and in his current state of dress he'd be getting' horseapples for the rest of his life, no doubt. Aye, defeat would mean nopony would do anything about Them Under Stones...

He looked down at the leatherfish sporran that held – hid – his own. His shoulders shifted with irritation under his vest. He stood and began to worry his way out of it, then stopped when he saw a white shape emerge from the trees.

"There ye are," the mare was clearly not Rarity. Her mane, like her eyes, was a deep berry red that made her coat seem all the brighter. The Shetland accent, sporran and kilt were also dead giveaways. With a shock, Mucmarfóir recognised her as the Laird's filly. Winterberry, that was her name. What was she doing here?

"I wanted a word with thee," the mare said, approaching him, not noticing the glance he shot over her shoulder, eyes and ears checking for vengeful brothers. This place would be ideal for hiding a body, after all. "I... where'd ye get that from?"

Mucmarfóir blinked at her, then at the jug she was eyeing. "Found it hidden in this log," he said carefully, "Ah think this is a place yearlin's come."

Winterberry snorted. "Sounds right," she replied, "pass it over?" As she did so, she worried a paper bag off her neck, tearing the paper to reveal a pair of stuffed baked potatoes. "I brought summat to share."

Mucmarfóir blinked again, utterly confused. If he was being set up for an ambush, it was a damned strange one if sharing food was involved. His stomach eventually made up his mind for him.

"Here thee are," and he picked up the jug in his lips and brought it over to her, then lowered his head to take a bite of potato. There were baked beans in it, as well as mushrooms and cheese. Only the heat stopped him from trying to devour the whole thing at once.

Winterberry took a respectable swig, grimacing at the roughness as it went down. "Ah saw thee with Rarity at the hoofball," she started carefully, then took a bite of her potato. From the way the lad was hoeing into his spud, he was hungry.

"Aye," Mucmarfóir was still uncertain. She didnae seem to recognise him from last night, else she'd have stayed away, and she'd brought lunch. Perhaps this was no trick after all.

"But I dinnae ken thee from our retinue," she added, looking thoughtfully at him. "Goodness knows I had enough time sittin' in that cart to look at everypony's face!" She grimaced. If it had been up to her, she'd have trotted along with the rest of the herd, but Ma wouldn't have it.

Mucmarfóir took a hasty bite, and juggled the hot spud in his mouth by way of stalling. Winterberry took another pull of the terrible whiskey, but the colt didn't talk.

"Now I'd remember a fine strapping colt like thee," she finally said, attempting to ignore the faint buzzing in her head. If she'd had more of a head for drink she'd have reined herself in. "Wha's thee doin' here?"

"Umm..." Mucmarfóir hesitated. There was no bucking way he was going to tell her he was the madpony who'd challenged her Da! "I was... bringin' the Laird a... a message! Aye, a message, that were it." He could've bitten his tongue at that. Spoken with a limp it was.

Winterberry frowned. She didnae remember no messenger! Then again, she and Ma had gone into the clinic – and she'd been played the fluffy in there! – and Da had been outside, hadn't he? Must've, they'd been talkin' about mare's matters. For all lads might discuss the plots of the ladies, they couldnae stomach what...

"What were t' message?" she asked, her Shetland accent thickened by the night drink.

"Ah... about t' threat o' Them Under Stones an' t' Muc," he replied, his own accent somewhat heavier now. His pulls had been longer than hers. "Summat has t' be done! Lost ma family tae 'em," he added, head drooping as memory surfaced.

"Wha' happened?" Winterberry stared at him.

Mucmarfóir looked away. "The Muc," he said at last, "I were away roamin' the hills, an' from the Seven Barren Sisters they came a-callin', an' took..."

His voice trailed off as he remembered the devastation that grim finger of smoke had pointed to. "I could see their trail, an' I found Da's old spear, an' I followed 'em back an'..."

His eyes glazed and his ears dropped as he remembered. His sister had still been alive, he'd heard her screaming over the Muc's celebrating.

"I saw..." He began to shake. "Sweet Epona help me I saw it... I saw it!"

"Ye saw one o' Them," oh, Winterberry understood now. She'd heard truly hair-raising stories of Them at Nightmare Night, or half-remembered snippets of reports carried by tight-faced ponies to her Da, heard through doors; the Laird rightly believing such things unfit for a young filly's ears.

"Ah – ah saw it eatin' – Equus help me –" Mucmarfóir's ears folded back and he began to shake as the alcohol floated him back to that ghastly night.

Winterberry just stared as the stallion shrank in on himself, the potato turning to ash in her mouth. She knew there were ponies who'd lost comrades to the snouty bastards, but she'd never really met anypony who'd lost family to them. Without thinking, she heaved herself to oddly rubbery hooves and went over to him, resting one foreleg over his shoulders and nuzzling his cheek as he began to cry.

"Dinna fret 'bout them, their pain's over," she mumbled, "We'll know how to deal wi' all of 'em, especially the Great 'Un, one day, an' we'll..."

Mucmarfóir choked, her words sliding sideways into his ears. "Great 'Un? Wha's tha mean? I dinnae ken o' any Great 'Un."

Winterberry pulled away, her face expressing embarrassment. "Well... sometimes Ah'd be listenin' at t' door to what were bein' said in council," she finally explained, "when Da were chosen to be Laird. An' I heard... um... it were like when Galloper firs' met them Lilliponies."

Mucmarfóir evidently hadn't read Galloper's Travels from his expression. "Wha's Lil'ponies?" confirmed it.

"Well..." Winterberry looked away, trying to remember. "The story goes, Galloper were shipwrecked on a far land, an' he were washed ashore," she explained as well as her intoxication allowed, "An... while he were still uncon... uncle... unconscious, these wee tiny ponies who lived there found him, an' they were all afeared, an' they tied 'im down wi' lots o' rope an' stakes."

She shivered against Mucmarfóir. "An' that's what them stones are like for th' Great 'Un."

The stallion just stared, sloshing this lesson in his head. For years he'd assumed that if you destroyed the standing stones, you'd weaken Them, since the Muc wouldn't know where They were to worship. The idea that the stones were actually holding down something worse than those things that sat on stones in the night horrified him.

Winterberry shivered again, her slightly drunken brain registering that she was next to a stallion, and a warm, fine-bodied one at that. Without thinking, she absently nibbled at the nape of his neck.

Mucmarfóir's head jerked up in surprise at the sensation, his gloomy train of thought derailing spectacularly. He turned his head, bumping first noses, then lips with Winterberry. Grown bold with night drink, Winterberry pursued a kiss with this mystery stallion, who was now aware he was alone with a fine bonny young mare – from his hindquarters onwards.

As a result the amateurish yet thoroughly enjoyed gymnastics, giggles, squeals and sighs of the following half hour or so were reasonably inevitable; the same could be said of their following exhausted, soon to be rudely interrupted slumber.

AN: /me lets his head fall on the desk with a thud, and drools slightly from the effort of getting this chapter not just out, but broadcast quality. Probably three more chapters to go, I think.