Flotsam was feeling the strangest sense of dissonance. On the one side of it, he was being watched by dangerous and competent mares as he choose a weapon from those presented before him. That was undeniably serious. On the other side, however, he was choosing such a weapon to do mock battle with, of all possible opponents, a lanky, lisping filly who was all too eager for the fun of the fight. This was absurd, and ridiculous.
And also, if he were truly honest with himself, utterly adorable.
He wondered if the rough cut mares of unspecified maritime occupation saw it that way. Most of them had broken away from the centre group, dueling in a pretense of swatting one weakly at one another’s magically shielded weapons, their eyes captivated by a certain pony more in line with their ideas and ideals of thrusting weapons.
Ignoring them, Flotsam let his hoof creep along the hilt of a sword, one that looked plain and serviceable amidst the bronzed colours and contours of some more exotic attire. Even so, it felt uneven, a form and function at odds with Flotsam. He didn’t like it, and let it drift back into the fold. He tried another blade, then another, both to the same feeling of unease and unfamiliar.
The mare who’s magic kept the set floating ushered him on with a wave of her hoof and an insistent word. She rolled her eyes and muttered what might have been the word ‘stallions,’ but clearly said it in such a way to infer great deal about that subset of the species, with particulars given to her opinions upon them and the regrettable necessity of tolerating them for infrequent benefits, two out of three of these becoming obsolete just as soon as mares could chase mice from houses and open jars on their own. Somewhere he wasn’t looking, a crewmare jeered, just loud enough to be heard.
And on a ship such as this, with mares such as these, there was an absolute lack of need for him to do any mouse chasing or jar opening. He hastily grabbed the nearest, a well worn curved gray and silver thing of a blade and turned tail. He closed his eyes and breathed. It was just a bit of amusement for Patches, of course he was overstressing this whole thing.
Flotsam opened his eyes and discovered two things more or less simultaneously. A long legged filly flying full long at one’s face, trying to scream “Avast!” and mangling the word quite definitively was quite a traumatic experience. Almost as traumatising, for instance, as a legged filly flying full long at one’s face, trying to scream “Avast!” and mangling the word quite definitively because, in addition to her natural speech, her mouth was gripped firmly on the handle of a long knife.
One that, it bears repeating, was now flying towards his face. It might have been understandable, even forgivable that Flotsam, big stallion that he was, yelped and faltered in place, his hastily appropriated sword falling from the crook of his leg.
The mares, however, did not agree with this approach, and their raucous laughter filled the air as Patches’ blade smacked across his brow like a wet sock. Her momentum bowled right through Flotsam, tipping him right onto his back, with it all ending so that the filly stood on his hips and shoulders.
She jumped up and down in giddy fashion. There were blankets that weighed more than her and it hurt nothing but his pride for her to do so. “Come on Flottham, for real thith time!” she giggled as she leapt from him and he collected himself.
Innocent delight poured from Patches and, distilled by fresh air and sunshine, made for something quite high in proof. Flotsam smiled at the world in general, then smirked at the filly specifically. Flotsam braced himself, feeling the strength of his muscles and the confidence of his spirit. So she thought she could beat him so easily, did she?
One quite impressive barrel roll jump turned into an equally if not even more impressive slide-under-his-belly-laughing-ecstatically-strike and half a dozen other wet sock feeling attacks later, Flotsam realized that she was perfectly correct in her thinking. Yes, she could beat him that easily.
Patches, and plenty others, eyed the stallion. “You know you can really thwing at me, don’t you? Won’t hurt at all. All part of the thpell. Try it!”
Nodding slowly, Flotsam tried some basic swings, wide and uneasy arcs that churned air gracelessly. It still felt so wrong, but the filly was looking at him expectantly. A slash a snail could have strolled ahead of moved for her head, but stopped well before reaching her. Safe or no, the image of him striking a filly grated against his very being, and he lowered the glowing scimitar.
“Aww,” was all she said, perhaps hoping for more sport, more opportunity to play and be seen.
He turned away, but his eye settled on something most unexpected. Of all things, a humble mop, tucked away in a corner. He let the sword fall away and almost ensorceled, made for the tool. He picked it up and, falling into the crook of his elbow like something rediscovered, something dawned.
His mind whispered to him: Spear.
His mind whispered to him: Guardspony. In a mop who’s greatest possible glory was good water retention, Flotsam the flotsam found a piece of himself, and found that it was pretty damn agreeable. He grinned and turned slowly back upon the filly.
“Rematch?”