//------------------------------// // Foreign Imports // Story: Trixie & The Haberdasher's Dungeon // by SneakyKGB //------------------------------//  Chapter Three: Foreign Imports Later that evening Knee Socks had relocated to his shop in the center of Canterlot. There was an undeniable skip in the earth pony's step as he tended the shelves of the small haberdashery. Normally it was dreary claustrophobic work, reordering the jam-packed store, but his mind was in a far-off place. After his fateful encounter with Trixie he’d been able to think of little else but their upcoming game. It was strangely fortunate that he’d had no business that day. The bell over his door merely collected dust as he bounced from one end of the shop to the other, muttering ideas to himself and grinning at the thought of them. The haberdashery had been passed along to him by a friend years ago, and he’d never really enjoyed running it. It was a decision of necessity long before desire. In those days he’d been anchorless, completely broke, and had ambitions far beyond his wallet. Gold Hemming had gone on to a larger store in Manehattan, and left his old shop to Socks as a charity. Knee Socks had little doubt that he’d be in a gutter somewhere if he hadn’t taken over. Still, the work wasn’t awful, and he was good at the craft, owning his own store gave him the free time to keep pursuing his other interests. Perhaps his shop wasn’t the most popular in Canterlot, but it kept him in a warm home with good food. Having finished cleaning the place up, Socks was left to his own devices. It just so happened that he’d brought plenty to entertain himself with. Between planning for his game of Nightmare, and designing concepts for Trixie’s new costume, entertainment wasn’t at a premium. The teak counter at the back of the shop was abnormally burdened with stacks of old tomes, dusty maps he’d pulled from the shelves of the Canterlot library, and an ever-growing stack of documents written in his own mouthwriting. A small blue folder sat to the side of all this, Socks’ design book, along with a mug filled to bursting with drawing utensils. Socks approached the counter and flipped the folder open at random. The stallion could only sigh as he stared at blank pages. A rainbow of fabric squares rested against the inside cover, testament to Socks’ indecision on color. Whilst the notes and ideas he’d scribbled for his fantasy adventure had grown exponentially over the last few hours the only evidence of progress on his designs were the crumpled balls of paper steadily filling his trash bin. There were a few promising prototypes he’d kept, but he was convinced that he’d lost his mind the moment he began adding frills to Trixie’s cape or drawing a hat with white lace around the brim. The result was clown-like more than anything else, and disheartening to boot. In contrast, the success he was having with his game planning made the stallion feel almost guilty. Socks had pulled out all the stops in order to make sure the weekend would be a spectacular event. Everything had to be planned and executed with scientific precision. He’d compiled an extensive list of snack choices, and gone on to detail pros and cons. Celery was healthy and slimming, but many ponies didn’t appreciate the fibers getting stuck in their teeth. Everypony enjoys an assortment of baked goods, but it was important to cater to ponies with dietary habits as well. Pizza was pretty much a requirement for any role-playing event. It was no use. Socks knew he wouldn’t be able to draw anything. The stallion closed his design book and turned back to his notes. Reluctantly he took a pencil from his mug and began looking over what he had so far. Where the actual adventure of his roleplay was concerned the storywork practically wrote itself. In his years as a Game Master he’d stockpiled tons of unused stories, plot devices, and puzzles he could use. Socks really was never more in his element than when he got to put all of these together and watch the game unfold. All that he really needed to do was revise things so that he wasn’t just hashing out old ideas. A few minutes later when the haberdasher reached for his coffee he found himself choking on only dregs. Socks blinked dimly at the bottom of his mug for a moment or two before clutching the handle in his teeth and getting up to refill it. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t healthy to down a half-dozen cups or more throughout the course of a few hours. Maybe that was why he was shorter than his brothers? Although he considered such things old mare's tales—told in gluttony, most likely to save their coffee hoards—he gave the mug a mistrustful stare. It was short-lived, soon the cup was filled once more and their relationship had since mended. Back at the counter Socks noted that very little had changed. Shop still empty? Check. Designs still awful? He didn’t dare to look. Perhaps a few more iotas of dust had landed on the register’s keys. Socks rested his head atop his hooves and slurped noisily at his barely-even-warm coffee. Closing shop early and going to find Topstitch was starting to sound like a good idea. As if sensing his boredom the bell above his door jingled. Halfway through tediously turning the pages of a book with his nose, Socks looked up sharply. Every bit of his body flooded with tension, as if the possibility of another pony’s presence had woken up all his joints. Probably the coffee, actually, he thought. The door opened painfully slowly, but it only took a short glance to set the haberdasher tittering. The newcomer stepped gingerly into the store, his hooves giving an unexpectedly loud thump with every landing. Socks threw appearances to the wind as he leaned perilously over the side of his counter to catch a glimpse of the stranger. In terms of description there wasn’t much to see, the pony wore a gray cloak that covered all of his features besides his hooves clad in ragged boots with metal soles, the source of his noisy movements. In terms of size, however, there was quite a bit to see. The pony-like figure was tall and broad, if not massive then at least large. The haberdasher quivered with curiosity as the stranger paused to take in the store. Try as he might, Socks couldn’t see under the figure’s hood and he was soon flitting about the shelving with arbitrary glances at the shop’s supply. Something told him that the stranger wasn’t looking to buy some thread for a torn seam. So what did he want? Was he on the lamb? Being chased by the lamb? Socks recalled reading something about a supposed sheep syndicate forming in the Canterlot underground. Despite his apparent interest in a selection of bow-ties it seemed unlikely that he was on his way to a formal dinner. Every so often the stranger’s hood shifted just slightly towards the register, Socks made no attempt to hide his interest. Much to the haberdasher’s delight the figure seemed to have given up his ruse. Now the pony approached the counter directly and spoke, “Soft silk ties, many stout threads, I am impressed by your supply.That said, and while I mean no disrespect, my intent was not to buy.” “Wot?” the haberdasher squeaked, suddenly speaking in an accent he hadn’t known existed. The stranger, undeniably a stallion, had Socks enrapt with his sing-song speech. On the other side of the counter, feelings were not so eager. The stranger looked away before continuing, “Apologies, my speech must sound strange, it is a tradition from my tribe. The old habit has yet to subside.” He couldn’t help it, Socks giggled. It was the most feminine noise that had ever escaped his muzzle. The stranger was noticeably taken aback, but it was all Socks could do to stop himself from prancing around the newcomer like some schoolyard game. Even so close he could only just make out the outline of the stranger’s face, the shine of his eyes, and the dark stripes wrapping around them. Nevertheless, he had a pretty good idea of the stranger’s origins. The idea of a foreign visitor - possibly on the lamb from the lamb - only served to ramp up his excitement. The stranger cleared his throat to stave off an awkward silence. “I am Mwali. I’ve stayed in Canterlot a while, and heard rumor that you meant to host a game soon, and would be looking for players. If these words are true, I was hoping I might join in,” he spoke more slowly now, apparently held back by his attempts to speak plainly.   “You mean Nightmare?” Socks asked, still processing the situation, and prompted a nod. “Age of Nightmare, you wanted to join my group?” he clarified. Again Mwali nodded, pleased to be getting somewhere. “...marvelous,” Socks muttered, unable to form a full sentence. The haberdasher slumped his head on his upheld hoof like a filly contemplating her secret crush. Celestia had lumped all of his eggs into one basket. Where had all these ponies been when he'd been struggling to find Nightmare fans two or three years prior? The game had undergone a heap of scrutiny over the years. It had only gotten worse as time went on. Having been based on the myth of Nightmare Moon, there was a bit of a stir in the community when Princess Luna returned. Suddenly a game based on the supposed corruption and evil conquest of one of their sovereigns seemed a bit like heresy. There was a prolonged period where the game wasn’t even sold in stores for fear of unintentionally slandering the lunar alicorn. The self-imposed ban had lightened up, if only a little, as more ponies accepted that it was harmless fiction. “I'm sorry,” Socks said, managing to recover before his well-meaning chuckles evolved into a cackle. “That would be fan-tas-tic, you have no idea. Oh, I can't wait to tell the others... please, please, please, come have a seat!” The haberdasher led the way into the break room, Mwali following hesitantly. The break room was more of a storage closet, filled to bursting with order receipts and boxes of extra merchandise or clearance items. A small oval table sat in the middle of the room, wedged beside a wall of cardboard boxes. The small coffee maker Socks relied so heavily on sat on the edge of the table, pot steadily growing colder. Both of them settled onto a cushion on either side of the table, Socks elected to take the more cramped of the two. “You can call me Socks, I'm a haberdasher extraordinaire, but for your purposes...” Socks beamed, “...a dungeon master.” he clacked his hooves together, grinning madly at his own applause. Mwali eyed the peculiar merchant nervously but made no mention of his actions, “Pleased to meet a pony who takes pride in his work. It’s an honorable quality...” he trailed off. “Something the matter?” “No,” he said quickly, “merely homesick. I have been away only a short time, but it feels like many more moons have passed.” It’s as if he has a direct line to my curiosity! Socks thought, barely able to keep himself together. It was just too much. Where was he from? What made him leave? Was he being chased by a mafia of wooly monsters or not?! Meeting Trixie had been a blessing in and of itself, Socks couldn’t have been more pleased with the egocentric mare, but egocentric was just the icing on the cake compared to mysterious and foreign. Maybe he could even share some ideas for Trixie’s costume, inspire Socks’ designs with a little international flair. “I see, I see, so you must be from far away. Is that cloak a part of your customs?” Mwali was quiet as he shook his head. “It is a recent choice,” he said softly before explaining, “There are worse sorts abound to find, but Canterlot’s elite have not been very kind. It was rude of me to think you might be the same.” With his booted hooves Mwali pushed back his hood. His eyes were a dark orange hue, standing out against the white of his coat and the dark grey stripes that covered him from ears to hocks. The zebra's mane was mostly dark gray, comprised of two braids on the side of his face and a short mohawk that gave way to a ponytail. Mwali’s gaze was locked onto the coffee maker, his features were strong but he appeared very unsure. In the few seconds it took for Socks to look him over both of them were silent. “...marvelous,” Socks said, again too awed to form a sentence. “Have you ever considered a bowler? Maybe even a stetson? I think it'd suit you, in a strange way.” The haberdasher's hoof was halfway towards a box on the wall opposite him when Mwali shook his head emphatically. In his mind Socks swore, angry that his attempts at dress-up had been curbed so quickly. It was clear that he was making the zebra uncomfortable, but he was having a hard time even being that reserved. It was taking most of his restraint to stop himself from asking fifty or more rapid-fire questions about his guest's origin and experience with Nightmare. Socks was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t known Age of Nightmare was ever popular outside of Equestria. “I trust it would be an impressive headpiece,” Mwali replied apologetically. Socks winced and bobbed from side to side, “Back to business then, I guess.Technically we have a full group already, but if you’re set on playing we could make some room.” The zebra didn't look reassured. “I would be gravely disappointed, but I don’t wish to be a burden.” “Psh.” Socks gave a hollow laugh. “It’s no problem, barely worth the mention. I just want to make sure you’re good for it before I start setting things up with you in mind. Do you prefer celery or carrots?” “Celery, I think...” said the zebra, nonplussed. Socks retrieved a small booklet from his counter, scribbling another point for celery. Besides vegetable scoreboards the book would soon contain the final draft of Socks’ script. The entirety of the roleplay’s planning would be stored within it. Right now, however, it was just a bunch of scribbles. Still, to put his striped friend’s mind at rest he flipped through it unceremoniously, pretending to trace lines with his hoof. The zebra leaned forwards, trying to see over the top of the book as Socks made appraising noises and finally snapped it shut. “No problem,” Socks repeated, “Barely even have to make any changes. It’s a good thing actually, I was hoping to use a few nasty encounters that the party might need an extra for.” “So, it's no trouble if I play?” “Nope, the game’s on Saturday,” rhymed the haberdasher, grinning once again. Mwali smiled for the first time since he’d walked in the store. The zebra still seemed somewhat somber as he spoke, “It’s been a long time since I was able to sit and enjoy a game.” Socks paused, poking his coffee mug thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll just have to make sure it’s worth the wait then.” The zebra nodded, pausing quietly before reaching for his cloak. Socks had thought him about to leave and hurried to stand up. A protest was nearly off his tongue as Mwali pulled a small green sack from the folds of his garb and placed it upon the table. The zebra settled once more, silently monitoring his parcel. Socks regarded it with some skepticism. The last time a mysterious foreigner had handed him a bag he’d found himself being questioned by Canterlot’s finest about a salt smuggling ring. Then again, it was impossible for Socks to resist the allure of a container with unknown contents being offered freely to him. If curiosity had indeed killed the cat then Socks could only hope that he didn’t have any latent feline DNA that just happened to be swimming around his veins.The haberdasher put a hoof down on the bag to hold it still and tugged at the string holding it shut with his teeth. It came loose easily. Socks flipped the bag upside down and prayed that it wasn’t imported salt lick or something equally illegal. Several small objects poured onto the table. It took Socks only a second to recognize that they were dice. Green, like the bag they came from, except they were translucent and had a glassy texture. Plainly a complete set, for they came in an assortment of shapes for the number of sides they each had. The haberdasher couldn’t help but give an ‘ooh’ of delight as he leaned in to examine them more closely and scoop one into his hoof. It has a surprising weight to it, and definitely wasn’t plastic. Socks admired the golden numbers on each side and realized what the hefty dodecahedron reminded him of. “Cut emerald gem,” Mwali voiced his thought, not without a significant hint of pride. “in the world exists no equal to them. Beneath their surface lies gold, pure. Though when or why they were made, I can’t be sure.” “Emeralds?” chuckled the astonished Knee Socks, admiring the numbers just beneath the surface of the stone. Mwali nodded, as he did so Socks noticed his smile change instantly into a frown, ”I fear I’ve had call to use them only one time. As much as I hate to admit, they would be better suited in another’s hooves than in mine.” The zebra regarded him quite seriously now. The haberdasher’s heart did a somersault in his chest and his goofy expression faltered. Surely he couldn’t be serious? Socks couldn’t imagine accepting a gift so grand. It would’ve been paramount to highway robbery to agree to such an offer, but he didn’t know that he could really refuse. It would be many nights that he cried himself to sleep before he got over letting these rare dice slip through his hooves. Even as Mwali watched, the question plain in his eyes, Socks couldn’t help but roll the dice around underhoof to admire them all the more. “Would it... really be fine?” he asked, all but inches from sweeping them off the table to cover forever. They would be all his, forevermore, his precious. It was brief, but the zebra definitely hesitated before nodding once more, “It would be my honor to gift them to you.” “And... you won’t regret it, if you do?” Mwali shrugged, “So long as you treat them well, I don’t see why I should. It’s selfish to keep them and not use them, when another pony would.” Socks kneaded the table roughly as his morals duked it out with his greed. “Well... I’d be lying if I said I disagree, but... what dice will you use if you give these to me?” A long pause stretched between them. Mwali was regarding him very strangely, and it took him a moment to realize why. It was as though a light bulb turned on over the stripey equine’s head and he began to chuckle. “Forgive me once more,” he said through his mirth, “I must have begun to rhyme without realizing it at the time.” “Oh!” Socks gave a snort, “I see what you meant when you entered my shop, once you get started it can be hard to stop.” Mwali smirked appreciatively, “Still, for your assent I feel I owe you this gift, in way of payment. If to take them is what you choose, I still have other dice which I might use. However, if my offer you choose to shun then do not worry, for it is no harm done.” The haberdasher couldn’t resist any longer, he had to have them. “You know all my weaknesses,” Socks said, adopting a businesslike tone. “You are a shrewd customer, Mister Mwali, and I’d be glad to take them off your hooves.” “Then that is that.” The zebra said simply, reaching out a hoof to seal their agreement. “One fantastic Age of Nightmare experience, in exchange for priceless emerald dice. Deal,” Socks replied, bumping Mwali’s hoof with his own. After convincing Mwali to stay a while longer they swapped stories. Socks had relatively little to share, having been a Canterlot socialite most of his life he didn’t have many good stories that weren’t made up aside from local gossip. The haberdasher had a sneaking suspicion that his zebra companion didn’t care much what superstar modelling unicorn, Fleur De Lis, had to say about the Wonderbolts lieutenant. Not that Socks sought out that kind of information either, but word got around. In contrast Mwali had many stories of life in the savannah and the dense jungles of his homeland. It was exhillerating to talk with a pony who had actually experienced strange foreign creatures like the rhinoceros or their gangly distant relations, the giraffe. A pony who had actually experienced tribal culture and, in extreme cases, the conflicts cultural differences could spawn. The longer they spoke and the more at ease the zebra became the more Socks found himself listening, rather than sharing. “Once my brother thought to climb atop a sunbird’s back was a clever plan, but our mother’s scolding, and a trip to the doctor, were the price of his attempt to escape the land.” Mwali chuckled, closing his eyes and thinking back to the day. “Things were very different then from what they are now. If I were to list the many ways, I would not know where to begin, or how. Far from home, across ocean and plain, I miss her very much. To go back now, though, could not be enough.” Socks cocked his head as the zebra stared at some far-off place beyond the walls of the small break room. The haberdasher finished off the last of yet another cup of coffee in the silence that followed between them. When it became apparent that Mwali’s stories had come to an end he replied buoyantly, “You are a delightful enigma. I am certain of two things: Firstly, we’re going to have an unforgettable adventure come this Saturday, and secondly, you’ll be home before you know it.” The zebra was not so certain. He smiled all the same, retrieving his cloak and standing to leave, “I hope so, like you would not believe. Thank you for your time, haberdasher, and for taking some of the weight off my mind.” Socks grinned, “Well, I couldn’t just steal your dice and send you away, now could I? Tell you what, I’ll make you a hat, free of charge!” The zebra laughed, making his way to the shop door. “I'm serious! What's your favorite color?” asked the haberdasher, chasing after him. Mwali’s hoof was already pushing through the entryway, “Good night, Mr. Socks. I owe a great deal to you.” “How about a stovepipe? I do a marvelous busby!” The zebra was gone. Socks cursed silently, but was not dissuaded. The milliner rubbed his hooves together in a conspiring fashion. One way or another he would get a hat atop the zebra’s head. Be it a busby or a bowler, or even a fez, he would find a way to put a cap upon his striped friend’s crown. Beaming to himself at the very idea, he set to work cleaning up his things. Between scheming, dealing, and getting to know Mwali better it had become quite late. Socks lamented further that he’d had no business that day, but he couldn't persuade himself that his time wasn't well spent. Thinking of hats served to remind Socks that he still had work to do. The haberdasher paused as he went to pick up his design book, still resting on his counter, and he stared at it sternly. If he was going to agree to this, to put his all into crafting a design for Trixie, then he wanted to be absolutely certain that this book was going to cooperate this time around. Socks turned to the first page he hadn’t torn out, a design which incorporated a tall flat collar, a tailcoat design, and rather extensive embroidery all along the cape. He eyed the drawing as if it might bite him and, hesitantly, reached for a pencil with his teeth. At first his progress went slowly, but he began to pick up steam. Lines formed easily, and his eraser struck with carefully considered critique. The tailcoat design was out, Trixie wouldn't want to wander around in a penguin suit. There was something much grander beneath the simple design. For the first time all day he felt like there was a small chance that he wasn’t going to hate what he had created as soon as he stopped drawing it... or at least not until the caffeine wore off. A/N: I hope you weren't as disappointed as I was that there was no Trixie this chapter. Socks is great fun, and Mwali's an interesting (though frustrating) character to work with, but I had a really hard time writing this chapter without throwing in at least a brief Trixie segment. Ultimately the chapter just lost focus when I tried to, so it's better to just leave it with these two. Next chapter we'll be seeing Trixie again, as well as introducing the final two members of the main cast. As always, thanks for reading. Hope to see you in the next chapter!