What is a city?
The most obvious answer would be the least interesting, wrapped up in long, plodding explorations of economics and social hierarchies, or the convenience and safety of proximity, or cooperation for mutual defence, or efficiency of centralised administration, or...
Well, you get the picture.
All of which answers the purpose of a city, but none of which really answers the question of what a city is. What it represents to the world about its inhabitants. What it says about their culture.
Canterlot, in the eyes and aching horns of Kairon, represented two things.
The first, by its lofty, needle-thin towers that struck skyward from every crack and spike of the mountain on which it sat, was that ponies mastered all that they surveyed, and were more than happy to let the world know that they were definitely on top of everything.
The second, demonstrated amply by the low lintel that had done such a number on his head, was that they were very small. He wondered if the second might explain the first as he pawed gingerly at his horns, seeking for potential cracks. With noe found, he stepped back, ducked under the door and stepped into the interior of the Broken Jug.
As pubs go, it was fairly typical. An polished oak bar lined the far wall, though its top was less polished than worn sheer by the passing of countless limbs and tankards across the decades of spilled beer and salt and the grease of unkempt hair. He nodded to the bartender, a surly old pony with a notch in his ear that he had always refused to discuss, and held up a finger. The bartender snorted and all but sneered at him in reply, but then set about pulling a pint of the only beer the place sold.
The ceiling was low, too, but not so low that he couldn't stand nearly upright, solong as he ducked beneath the soot-blackened beams that held the ceiling at bay. He reached the bar as his drink was tossed casually before him, adding its own contribution to the ersatz polish. Kairon responded with a pair of coppers, seized his drink and ducked away between crowded tables to a far corner, where another minotaur slouched over a pair of emptied pints while a third, half-full, nestled between his palms on the edge of his table.
"Made your usual entrance," the other said, as Kairon settled in the seat next to him. "I'd have learned to duck by now, if I wore your greaves."
"I did." Kairon pulled at his drink, grimacing at the sour tang of cheap hops, then set it aside.
"Be thankful you're not a Highlander then. You'd have to walk in--"
"Sideways, I know. Your jokes are stale as the piss we're drinking, Petras."
"Least I make jokes."
"The first is always 'Let's go to the Jug'."
Petras leaned back and downed the rest of his drink in two heavy gulps. He set his glass aside with the others, settled into his seat and let out a loud belch. "S'a good one. Always gets a laugh outta you anyway."
"Because it's nonsense, Pet. We could be drinking anywhere in the city, but you always drag me down to this--"
Kairon pressed his lips together and shot a hot sigh through his nose. Not that the pub's patrons would have disagreed with the insult he had been about to hurl, but the owner might argue. By all accounts he had a mean kick, and few scruples about where he aimed it.