A pile of pony and armor stirred on the floorboards. Splinters ground into his neck, crackled in his mane. A moment passed while the pile’s dreams coalesced into thoughts. Then, with a shiver running from one ear to the end of his tail, he blinked his eyes open and moaned.
The room around him was strange, at odds with the world he had inhabited mere moments before. Where was he? This couldn’t possibly be his quarters in Everfree. And yet his surroundings seemed somehow familiar, as if from a half-remembered nightmare...
Red Pommel yawned and tried to rub out his eyes with the backs of his hooves. The movement seared, drawing taut every strained muscle in his body. As his vision cleared he recognized more and more of the chamber. He studied it, searching for some clue as to where he was.
To say the room was sparse was to undersell its emptiness. The only furnishings were a few wooden racks draped heavy with animal furs. They filled the room with an overwhelming stench of death and slow decay. Red crinkled his nose and tried not to breathe too much of it in. His throat felt scorched raw. Four blackened timbers dominated the center of the room, bent almost to snapping under the weight of the ceiling, with a square hole in the floor between them. Smoke tinted the air. A crude chimney, then.
Other than that, there was only a hole in the wall for a window. A stiff breeze rushed through, drawn to the open doorway. The unguarded doorway. He shivered down to the bone.
Dragging his sluggish gaze up from the door, Red’s eyes alighted on the crossbeams of the low ceiling. He noted the dilapidated thatching between the beams and cobwebs. So he was on the top floor of... The Broch? Yes, he remembered now how he had been dragged up the stairs and hurled bodily through the door. He also remembered being clubbed upside the head with his own sword. A spot on his temple was still tender, swollen.
He scratched his chin. A nagging question tickled the back of his mind.
How long have I been asleep?
It was early evening when the thanes left him at the top of the Broch, and now it was... midnight? He turned back to the window. Outside, tiny pinpoints of white flitted back and forth through a black sky, occasionally spilling through to melt on the floor. It must have been several hours at least. And still the revelry at the bottom of the tower had yet to cease. Dull noise reverberated in the floor. Why on earth were the Shetlanders carrying on so late?
Red stretched his icicle legs and rolled over onto one side. He sighed happily when his crackling spine thanked him. He wasn’t happy for long. A burst of pain lanced through his flank. He squeaked, kicked, his hindquarters arching into the air. There was a muffled crash and a wooden rack toppled to the floor amidst its bounty of furs.
“Bile...” Red wheezed, the Shetland swear harsh on his tongue. He tried rolling onto his other, less tender side.
He’d amassed quite the collection of splinters. He peeled back the quilted crupper from his flank and frowned at the sight.
What would Celestia think of him now, he wondered? He’d let his fetlocks grow unruly over the last week, and the pink half of his barding was caked in blood, some of which had yet to dry. The wound itself didn’t appear much better, having reopened in his run to the Broch before spilling down one leg. Even his tail was matted with gore.
Red bit his lip, pulling back the edges of the gash. It was only a cut, he told himself. He’d been cut before. He’d bled a dozen times. Without his auburn coat he would have been a roadmap of scars. But in the hills of Shetland, imprisoned in a tower, even a mere cut could spell a death sentence. He brushed away the splinters from the ragged edge of the wound and tried not to open it any further. For now that was all he could do.
It hurt to do even that, but pain was a familiar entity, something he’d grown accustomed to during his long years of training. His body just had to be reminded of that. He set his teeth and fought it down, cursing Everfree for its softness and cursing himself all the more for letting his years there dull him.
Unwilling to shed the warmth, Red folded the bloody crupper back over his flank and jammed himself against the wall. There was one comfort in his dismal prison, at least, that being a closed-off chimney built between the wall and the staircase. It was a minor feat of architecture, and to a shirepony unversed in the construction of brochs it seemed quite impressive. If he pressed himself close enough, he found he could feel just enough heat escaping to soothe his joints. It was not lost on him that this was likely the same chimney that a wounded Shetlander lay beside in the great hall below.
He couldn’t quite remember finding the little island of warmth after his captors left him to return to their revels. Still, he distinctly remembered it having been much warmer at some point. Red wished for his sleeping roll. He rubbed his legs together for warmth, breath coalescing in the air to mix with miniature crystals that danced in the starlight.
Red shivered even with the warmth of the chimney . Any colder and he’d start chattering. He was almost tempted to bundle up in animal furs, anything to stave off the bite of the cold. There was more than enough such furs scattered about the room.
But Red had already made his decision. He’d sooner freeze to death. It still turned his stomach how these Shetlanders could drape themselves in pelts. And many of those pelts were eerily similar in color to buckskin. The stories he’d heard back in Equestria were one thing, but finding ponies actually clothed in corpse hair was wholly unexpected. He resolved that the day he sunk to their level was the day he gave himself up for dead.
Of course, that day doesn’t seem far off, he thought. Another breath turned to fog.
Red’s thoughts were just turning to the possibility of pneumonia when there came a clacking of hooves outside the door. He tensed, ears swiveling toward the entrance.
The hoofsteps grew louder, the staccato sound of a single pony trotting at a brisk pace up the stairs. Red didn’t have time to get up before the trotting came to a stop and a Shetlander pushed his way into the room. The door screamed on rusted hinges.
“Ah, hello,” greeted the pony at the door. A smiled cracked wide under a beard of white. “Yew’re the Equestrian, then.”
He was a scraggly stallion, mane hoary with age. His watery eyes peered out from under eyebrows like mustaches.
Red raised a brow of his own, ignoring the pain in his face, and remained where he lay. Had this pony come just to stare at him, as Equestrians of nobility often visited Everfree to gawk at exotic foreigners? He squirmed.
“I am the Equestrian, yes,” the captive replied, repressing thoughts of being kept alive solely to play the part of a one-pony zoo. The idea of giving saddle-rides to cloying Shetland brats was beyond bearing.
“Enjoyin’ it up here?” the old Shetlander asked, nudging the door open a little wider. He was draped in an assortment of rags and furs, many of which seemed to be moldering. “By Isos, it’s cold, hmm...” He shivered.
Red shifted closer to the wall, unsure if he was still feeling its warmth or just suffering from hypothermia. He buried his cheek in the crook of one leg. “Cold? It’s freezing. Why are you up here?”
The Shetlander blinked. “I just want yer name. And shouldn’t yew be wearing some of these furs?” He gestured toward a rack.
Red cast a glance at his bloodied flank. He wondered what the thanes would do to him should he defile their precious blankets.
“They won’t mind th’ blood.”
Of course they wouldn’t mind the blood, he groused. He searched for another excuse, then caught himself. Why do I even need an excuse? Nopony should wear furs.
“I’m fine,” Red assured, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. “I’d prefer freezing to death over wearing the skin of another creature, thanks.”
The codgy stallion shrugged. “Suit yerself. Now, yer name?”
“Red Pommel. And you?”
A brief twinkle of the eyes. “Yew can call me Scop.”
“She-ope? What kind of a name is that?” Red propped himself up on one leg, shuddering when the warmer pockets of his body were exposed to the breeze.
“A Shetland one.” The other stallion’s white beard masked what might have been a smile. “It means storyteller.”
“Your parents named you Storyteller?”
Scop shook his head. “O’ course not. They named me Crying Thing and put a sword in my mouth afore I could walk. But not all of us ‘r meant to be thanes, so I took up the quill instead.”
Ah, a sarcastic scribe. Wonderful.
“Yew know...” Scop stepped further into the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. “There’s really no reason why yew should be here. I mean, what on earth brings an Equestrian to the Shadow Wood?”
Red reclined his head to the chimney. Yes, it was undeniably cold. “As I told your Prince, I’m just a messenger.”
“Prince? Ah, yew must mean Bardiche. Excuse my ignorance. We don’t go by yer concepts o’ nobility up here. But go on. Where were yew takin’ yer message?”
“I was on my way to the Eyries,” Red continued, pointing his hoof in the direction he had decided was most likely to be north. “And I made the mistake of cutting through the Old Kingdoms.” He laughed humorlessly. “Thought it would save me some time...”
Scop moved closer, but he stopped a few steps short of the huddled Equestrian. “Well that was a terrible stupid thing to do. Didn’t yew know it was dangerous up here? Yew’d have t’be a suicidal fool to trespass, especially when the Wrothkin are out in greater numbers each passing year.”
Red scoffed, tried to seat himself comfortably. Every inch of his body locked up with aches. “Never even heard of the Wrothkin before I came here,” he said, wincing. “I thought the colors of the Princesses would see me through. Stupid, I know, but...”
He sighed, pressing a hoof to his forehead. There was too much emotion seeping into his voice, into his behavior. He needed to stop that, to get a rein on himself.
Scop cast an eye at Red’s bloody pink crupper. “Foolish to trust in heraldry,” he said, then paused, scrutinizing the ripped barding. “That’s not a Wrothkin wound. Is it?”
Red shook his head and vented a weary sigh.
A hoary eyebrow arched high over its twin. “Ah... So yew were waylaid on the road by more than just deer.”
Red nodded. He shrank further into himself. He wished he could fall through the floor and avoid answering that question. It suddenly seemed awfully convenient to have a hole in the middle of the room.
But the storyteller wasn’t stupid. He’d already figured everything out.
“Yew killed ‘em, whoever did that?”
“...Yeah.”
Scop plopped himself down in front of the humiliated knight. He was surprisingly spry for an old pony. “Listen, Red Pommel,” he said, his demeanor changing to one approaching concern. “Yer an Equestrian, and that means we’re supposed to be… less than friendly. But I’ve lived most o’ my life with the Wrothkin at my door. A conflict ’tween ponies means little to me.”
He turned his head, chewing at his beard. He seemed to be staring at Red’s blackened eyes and bruised face. “Unfortunately, not every Shetlander has forgotten the old grudge.”
It was Red’s turn to raise an eyebrow. He stared at the elderly stallion, at once confused and somewhat relieved. What were this Shetlander’s motivations that he’d side with a foreigner over the matter of murdered kin? Something didn’t fit.
“Scop, surely you can’t mean to tell me you came for a social chat. Why are you up here, really?”
The storyteller sat back, pawing at the tangles of his beard. “Well... I suppose yew could say I was just curious. I’m a collector of tales, a historian at heart. And ‘sides that, it’s my job to keep this Broch entertained. But I’ve run outta new stories. So, for yew to show up outta nowhere in all yer gold trimmings, well... Yew provide a unique opportunity.”
Red saw what the stallion was getting at. “I see... So you want to know my story, then. Perhaps learn why I’m up here?”
Scop nodded. “Aye, that I do. I could use it to entertain the next crop o’ foals once yew’ve gone. Tell them about the time an Equestrian passed through.”
Red almost laughed. He managed a snort and half a smile. So the Shetlanders didn’t intend to turn him into a zoo exhibit. Unless they intend on killing me, or throwing me to the Wrothkin...
“Anyway,” the storyteller went on. “Yew don’t have to tell me anythin’, though I can’t see any reason why yew wouldn’t. I’ll leave yew to yer own devices if’n yew so desire.”
Red shook his head and permitted himself a full-on chuckle. “No, no, it’s alright. Might as well tell somepony. It’s not like I’ve anything better to do...” He shifted his haunches to a more comfortable position. “Though it’s not much of a tale.”
He took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing.
“About a month ago, the Princesses received word that dragons were swarming into the North Counties, thick as flies. The griffons have always been in charge of keeping that kind of trouble out of our lands, but apparently they’ve been… er... slacking, as of late. So in the interest of finding out what the hay’s going on, I was sent to deliver a Dictum to the Eyries.”
He blew out a cloud of fog. “I was making good time, too. Or, at least I was...” He stared down at the blood on his crupper.
Scop frowned, still pawing his beard. “But why were yew chosen to make the trip? Surely the alicorns have some other means o’ delivering messages? Other ponies, perhaps somepony more expendable?”
“Well,” Red answered, mirroring Scop’s frown. The concept of expendable ponies struck him as callous and barbaric. “I’m the Master Swordpony to the Princesses, so I was the natural choice.”
“They don’t have a Master Messenger?”
“No, of course not,” Red rebuffed, though he’d asked himself the very same thing in his time on the road.
“And why are yew alone? Long journeys are dangerous, even fer a so-called Master Swordpony. Especially when yew intend on takin’ a shortcut through Shetland.”
Flustered, the knight scrambled to find an excuse. “Well, no, but I... I insisted on traveling alone for the sake of expedience. And it’s not like there was anypony else ready or willing to bring along. I mean, I’d have had a few of the Royal Guard, but they needed every stallion they could get to guard the Summer Solstice Tournament.”
“So yer just stupid.”
“No!” Red shot back, quickly growing irritated. It didn’t help that, in hindsight, he could plainly see how reckless he’d been. “They couldn’t spare anypony! And besides, the Dictum needs to be delivered before winter. There was no time to wait.”
Scop held up his hooves. “Woah, there. No need to shout. I was just poking fun at yeh. Now, what’s this dictum? What good’s it supposed to do?”
Red threw up his hooves. In truth, he hadn’t the foggiest idea of the Dictum’s purpose. Words on paper weren’t exactly going to keep dragons out of Equestria, were they? If anything, he assumed he was being sent to assess the state of affairs, perhaps see if the griffons were angry with ponykind. Maybe he’d been sent to lean on them a little.
That would explain it. Right?
There was a moment’s silence as Scop digested this new information. Red found himself stewing in doubt, wondering just why exactly the Princesses couldn’t send the message some other way. Surely Philomena could have delivered it? But no, the phoenix was too mischievous and easily distracted to make such a trip.
A memory flickered to life in the back of Red Pommel’s mind. There were other alternatives, all of them more convenient than sending a pampered knight. There were organizations, people willing to speed messages all over the world. Most were expensive, but well within the limits of Equestria’s purse. For the right price, a hippogriff could have delivered the message within a mere span of days. A pronghorn could make the trip in a fraction of that time. Why couldn’t the Princesses have sent them in his stead? They’d made important deliveries for Celestia and Luna before.
Why me, then? Why would the Princesses choose me over pronghorns?
It just didn’t make any sense, not unless... Unless...
He froze, killing that thought before it could fully manifest. He couldn’t let himself doubt the Princesses, not when his first duty was to them and them alone. Besides, if there was one thing he’d learned since his rise to Master Swordpony, it was that the Sisters Alicorn always had a reason. If nothing else, he had to trust in their foresight.
Scop interrupted the swordpony’s musings with another question. “Now, yew say yer a ‘Master Swordpony’?”
“The Master Swordpony,” he replied, brushing away his doubts in favor of reassuring pride. “Foremost in all Equestria. I answer only to the Princesses.”
The old stallion perked up at that bit of news. He shivered, pulling his furs tighter. But to Red’s chagrin, he did not continue down that line of questioning. Instead he returned the subject to the swordpony’s errand.
“Interesting... Now, yew said somethin’ about dragons earlier?”
“Yes, dragons have been cropping up in the North Counties as of late. The griffons are supposed to turn them back before they cross the Eyries. Hay, the griffons are supposed to make sure the dragons stay locked up. Why do you ask?”
The Shetlander seemed to mull over the news for a second before answering. “Well... fer one, the thanes have been seeing a dragon in the skies for weeks now. Or hearing one, anyway. And Stormwind -- that’s the pegasus who spotted you on the road -- he said he’s seen signs of other dragons further north.”
“That stands to reason. The dragons are crossing the mountains in search of new territory, I would think. No reason why they wouldn’t settle in Shetland as well as Equestria.”
“Aye. And a few months ago some thanes showed up with news that Boarholt was burned to the ground. By a red drake, they say. Took everything left inside. They say the King himself is worried, shoring up Thanehome in case of an attack. What d’yew suppose the dragons are doin’ loose, anyway? What let ‘em out?”
The two ponies sat silently for a moment, pondering. The vapor of their breath mingled and evaporated in the chill air like shared thoughts made manifest. Red hadn’t dwelled on this question before. He’d merely assumed that the dragons made up their minds to leave, and now they were out searching for new warrens to settle. But now that it had been brought up, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was more at play than met the eye.
Scop rose to his hooves, stretching his legs and back. “Well, it’s too cold up here fer an old pony such as myself. I think I’ll head back downstairs. They’ll be expecting some entertainment out o’ me soon enough.”
Red nodded and huddled closer to the wall. His teeth had finally started chattering. “Thank you for your kindness, Scop. Though, I was wondering... is there any chance you might bring me some food?”
The Shetlander paused on his way out the door, then laughed. “Why, I don’t see why yew can’t feed yerself. Come on down, we’ll continue our little interview where it’s warm, eh? B’sides, yew can’t stay up here freezin’ yerself to death.”
Red’s ears perked up, an escape plan already forming between them. “Really? Me, downstairs?”
“Sure, why not? Don’t worry ‘bout the thanes. They’re all drunk by now.”
The storyteller walked out the door, disappearing from sight. His voice called up a moment later, echoing in the stairwell. “Just don’t jump me from behind and make off into the night. The Wrothkin make even worse hosts than ol’ Ashbane.”
Red’s escape plan withered and died on the vine before it even bloomed. He rose to his hooves, dejected, and limped after the Shetlander. Scop was right. Prison or not, the Broch was a far safer place to be than the woods. And he couldn’t exactly trod all over the old stallion’s hospitality.
The stairwell was cramped and dark, made all the more oppressive by cobwebs spilling from the low ceiling. It ran the circumference of the entire Broch, with landings for each of the six floors. Red quickly lost sight of Scop’s white tail. For a gawky old scribe he was surprisingly quick on his hooves. It didn’t help that Red’s legs were stiff as stumps, and wounded on top of that. Every sore on his body was felt twice, the cut on his neck finding especially new and interesting ways to toy with him.
The Shetlander was waiting patiently for him when he finally reached the bottom. He’d produced a quill from his rags and was busy chewing on the end while he made small-talk with a young mare. Red recognized her as one of Ashbane’s attendants.
Red looked beyond the two Shetlanders to how absolutely packed the hall had become. Several hundred ponies swarmed up and down the rows of benches, and a score of smaller round tables had appeared from somewhere since he’d gone upstairs. The entire room was lit bright orange, blazing with freshly lit torches and antler chandeliers. Mares bustled everywhere carrying barrels and fresh food. The firepits were still blazing, stewpots suspended over their flames. The air, meanwhile, was sticky with smoke, the smell of alcohol, and the still-lingering stench of rot.
Suddenly, the idea of showing his face downstairs no longer seemed sensible. Red tried to back away and beat a retreat, but he was a moment too late.
“Ah, there he is!” Scop exclaimed, throwing his leg around Red’s shoulders. “Good t’ see yew finally made it down.” He turned to the green mare he’d been speaking to. “Lush Renvers, this is Red Pommel.”
The swordpony nodded, deciding against offering his hoof to the attendant. He’d been trained in formal greetings, but he had no idea how they worked in Shetland, and he was unsure as to the mare’s station. For her part she merely cocked an eyebrow and remained silent. She did smile, just a flicker at the corners of her mouth.
With a few rough shoves, Scop directed Red into the great hall and away from Renvers. “Come now, come now. Let’s introduce yew to a few drinks. I’ve still got plenty of questions fer yew, master ser swordpony!”
They weaved their way through the crowd to a table beside the deserted expanse of Lord Ashbane’s stage. Favoring his injured leg, Red was barely able to keep up with Scop’s lively pace and was almost crushed by several thanes. He picked his way through as best he could, sticking close to the wall. But there was no way to stay truly hidden, and by the time they made it to the small table he could feel the eyes boring into his back.
Nearby thanes stared and pointed, drawing more attention to the ragged Equestrian that had blundered into their midst. He hovered near Scop until the storyteller sat.
“Ignore them,” muttered Scop almost as an afterthought, settling himself onto a bench. “They're just saying, ‘We've never seen an Equestrian before, now have we?’”
Red supposed that was true.
Still wary, and uncomfortably aware of how many weapons each Shetlander wore, the swordpony eased himself into a seat with his back to the fire. His coat tingled, the sudden warmth of the fire kneading the tension out of his shoulders. The sensation was a welcome distraction from the stress of the previous few weeks, and for a moment he felt his eyelids drooping.
He couldn’t help but notice there was no sign of the arrow-shot thane named Roanblade. There was not even a trace of blood on the floor.
There were two occupants already at the table which Scop had chosen, both of whom looked up at the Red’s intrusion. One of them, a mare, stood and disappeared into the crowd as soon as he sat down. The other, a glowering stallion, turned aside to Scop.
“What’s going on?” the young stallion asked, his short beard dripping with foam from the drink before him. “I thought the Equestrian was supposed t’be locked up?”
Scop shook his head, dispelling the lad’s fears with a fond pat on the head. The lad didn’t look to appreciate it. “He’s under my care, don’t worry yerself. Anyway, somepony's gonna have to show him around eventually, so why not tonight?” Then, pointing to the captive, he made an introduction. “Wistful Scrip, meet our honored guest, Red Pommel. And Red, meet Wistful Scrip, my apprentice and soon-to-be successor.”
The two stallions eyed each over, guarded but not unfriendly. Wistful Scrip was a sinewy pony, hard-edged and tense, the sort who appeared to be much older than he actually was. Youthful features belied the intensity of knowledge and wisdom in his purple eyes. Those same eyes stabbed up and down Red’s body, their gaze as sharp as knives. It was as if he took in everything he saw in an eyeblink and could peer straight into the Equestrian’s soul.
Red tried to keep his posture loose and confident, but under the Shetlander’s scrutiny he might as well have been trying to steal Celestia’s crown.
At length, the apprentice storyteller stuck out his hoof. Somehow he managed to smile and glare at the same time. “Well met, Red Pommel.”
It’s the eyebrows, Red realized, taking the offered hoof and shaking it firmly. It was true; Scrip’s eyebrows were heavy and set into a permanent scowl. If not for that, he would have possessed a relatively pleasant demeanor.
“Our Equestrian friend here presents an opportunity,” said Scop when the formalities were finished. “He’s been kind enough to offer us his story while he remains our guest.”
The mare who had been sitting next to Scrip made a reappearance, a wooden tray balanced across her back. Taking it expertly in her teeth, she set it on the table and began distributing full tankards.
“Ah, and here’s our drinks,” exclaimed Scop, greedily snatching up a mug of his own. “Now to business, eh? Thank you my dear.”
Scrip took a mug too, having emptied his own, and set to drinking it down with slow, rhythmic sips.
Red peered into the mug that was left for him, his stomach churning at the sight of what appeared to be the urine of a severely dehydrated cow. He was reminded of just how dehydrated he was himself, but didn’t dare risk a taste. He slid the mug aside.
Across the table, Scop finished draining his own tankard and slammed it down with a hearty plunk. His beard sopped with foam, running in rivulets into his fur cloak. “Ahhh,” he sighed, letting his drink settle for a moment before finally returning to the promised interview. “Now, Red, tell us about yerself. What’s it mean to be the Master Swordpony o’ Equestria?”
A nearby thane, his ears turned surreptitiously to the tiny fireside table, choked on a mouthful of beer. For his part, Wistful Scrip almost kept a rein on his own reaction, but a break in his rhythmic sipping gave him away.
Red shifted uneasily, searching for a suitable answer that wouldn’t paint him in too pompous a light. He tried not to think about the fact that at least a dozen Shetlanders were eavesdropping on him. Some weren’t even bothering to be stealthy about it. The words of his mother reached out from distant memory to chide him. ‘Do not boast, child. Boasting is the surest sign of pride and arrogance.’
And arrogance is the surest way to downfall. I know, mother. I know.
Regardless, a spark of pride blazed to life in his breast, spreading a tinge of warmth through the swordpony’s bones. This was a subject he enjoyed, and one he rarely found the opportunity to discuss.
“Ah,” he began, smiling. “Now there’s an interesting question. To be a Master Swordpony means many things, especially in the service of the Princesses. In many respects I am their bodyguard, but I also serve as their chief advisor in all things martial. Furthermore, in the event of any challenge made against them, I serve as their champion. There's also a clause in there about control of the Royal Guard, but I've never been the right fit for a commander.”
“Sounds like a heavy burden to bear,” said Scrip. One of his eyebrows was a hair higher than the other.
Red shrugged.
Across the table, Scop gave a little nod and steepled his hooves in front of his snout. “And what did it take for yew to become a Master Swordpony, hmm?”
Red paused, turning to look down at his hooves. His eyes focused on something in the middle-distance. “Practice,” he replied after a moment’s wistfulness, his smile fading slightly. “Years and years of practice. I always wanted to become a knight, ever since I heard the stories of Dusky Oatis and the heroes of old. Spent my whole life training for it.”
He trailed off, eyes dead to the world.
“And was it worth it?” asked Scop.
Red blinked, returned his gaze to the Shetlander in front of him. His smile returned in a flash. “What? Oh yes, definitely. I hold Dusky Oatis’ office now, what more could I want?”
Scop frowned, but didn’t push the matter. He quickly directed the interview back to its original course. “So anyway, what does it take fer somepony to become a Master Swordpony? Are there tests, perhaps? Trials and tribulations?”
Red gleamed, his moment of self-doubt forgotten. “An excellent question. To earn the title, one must first learn the many forms of swordplay. It’s only when they can show their mastery of each of these forms, usually in a tournament, that they may be awarded the title. It’s usually bestowed by another Master Swordpony, but it can be given by any ranking noble if they so desire."
He chuckled. "There’s also a load of bunk about having to be born to nobility and then knighted, but... well, in my case they made a generous exception.”
A twinkle appeared in Scop’s eyes. “So yew are neither nobleborn nor a knight?”
Red shook his head. “No, no. I am a knight, or at least I was. Though, I suppose it wasn’t an official knighthood. I was a hedge knight. That is to say, I was a knight without Lord or title.”
“Interestin’...” Scop nodded again, motioning for the Equestrian to continue his story.
He got no further than opening his mouth before a hoof slammed on the table. Tankards jumped into the air. Red almost went backwards into the fire, jumped and banged his leg against the underside of the table.
When he looked up, he found himself staring into the flinty eyes of an enormous fur-wrapped warrior.
“So, yew’re the Equestrian, eh?” the thane asked, his voice throaty and loud so his fellow thanes could hear him. He was a solid brute of a stallion with an ocean-foam beard and muscles that rippled beneath a coat of blue. A chainmail hauberk stretched over his withers, secured with rope as if it had been cut open to fit. Over that was a skinned deer draped across his back, the hide pierced in a dozen different places. His bald head only served to complete the image of brutality made flesh.
Red swallowed his surprise and nodded. “Yes. I’m the Equestrian.”
The flinty eyes narrowed, boring straight into the swordpony’s. Red met the gaze and stared back, noting the sword buckled at the thane’s flank. A sudden pain dawned on him at the thought of his own sword. Not having its reassuring presence close to hoof was like being naked in the cold. Worse than that, even. He felt deprived of a limb.
Some of the raucous noise in the great hall died down as ponies ponies turned their attention to the contest of nerves taking place beside Ashbane’s stage. Nearby thanes rose to their hooves, ever so slowly drawing a loose circle around the scene. Curiosity drove them more than anything, but Red remained wary nonetheless.
Slowly, the pitiless glare of the big Shetlander turned to the untouched tankard next to Red’s hoof. He regarded it for a moment, brows furrowing, before turning back to the captive. Then, a violent spark in his eyes, he thundered a challenge.
“What’s the matter? Our mead too strong?” His breath smelled of beer. Rotten beer.
Red raised an eyebrow, confused and offended. “Excuse me?”
The Shetlander leaned in close, teeth bared, practically spitting in the swordpony’s face with each syllable. He talked like he was chewing on mouthfuls of ice. “I asked... is our mead too strong for your kind?”
Mead. So that was the name for the dehydrated cow urine. Red bared his own teeth and stuck his snout into the Shetlander’s face so that the bristles of the thane’s beard tickled his nose. Unfortunately, or perhaps luckily, Scop jumped in just before the swordpony could make a reply.
“Too strong?” the old storyteller shouted, as if unable to comprehend the words. “Too strong? Why, Red here claims he’s never met a mug o’ mead in all his life that he couldn’t handle!” His eyes shifted from one pony to another before he leaned in close and whispered, "Not that I believe him, o'course. Yew ought to prove him wrong."
The swordpony tensed, expecting the first punch to come from the left. Every muscle in his body coiled painfully tight for the fight, his thoughts already turning to the other thanes gathering around him. How many could he take on if they all came at him at once? Perhaps if he disarmed one, kicked another into the fire...
But the expected attack never came. Everypony had turned their attention to Scop, all of them suddenly off-balance and confused. The immediate vicinity of the hall seemed to hold its collective breath, tension building in the air until it was almost palpable.
The foam-bearded thane looked from the storyteller to Red and back again, fire in his eyes.
Red realized he was standing. He didn’t even remember getting up. His legs tingled, ready to catapult him straight into the barbarian.
Then, unexpectedly, the thane’s beard split into a huge smile and teeth flashed in the firelight. He laughed, softly at first, then louder until it became a booming guffaw. The laughter spread. Soon their little slice of the hall thundered with it as thanes joined in all around.
“Well then!” the warrior finally finished, clapping Red on the shoulder with a hoof the size of a shield. “So you think yerself a mighty drinker, o’ masterful swordpony? Well, whatever swill yew Equestrians call mead could never compare to our brew! How about yew back up yer boasts and try some, eh?”
Red opened his mouth to protest, only to find his words had all escaped. Completely flabbergasted, he turned back to Scop and Scrip. What had they just gotten him into? The two stallions were chuckling into their mugs, exchanging knowing glances.
“It’s a challenge,” said Scop in what amounted to a stage whisper. He stopped for a moment to suck the foam from his white mustache. “He’s challenging you to a contest.”
Red’s stomach lurched. “A contest?”
“Aye!” one of the nearby thanes replied. He clapped the big warrior on the back. “Drink the cud-chewer under the table!”
The burly thane dropped onto the bench next to Scop, clearly ready to oblige his friends. Ponies closed in on all sides, jostling for position around the table. Somepony shoved Red back into his seat and slid his mug into his hooves. Yellow-brown liquid sloshed everywhere. His mind reeled, unable to comprehend the ninety degree turn in events he’d just experienced.
How could this get any stranger?
“Well now,” said the bald-headed brute across the table, taking a mug from another thane and raising it to his lips. “Let’s see just what yew Equestrians ‘r made of.”
Scop leaned across the table, whispering into Red Pommel’s ear. “I should warn yew, swordpony, they call this particular drink a skull cracker. I helped make some of it!”
Red gulped.
---
He wasn’t entirely sure how exactly it happened, but at some point in the night Red Pommel made the transition from loathsome prisoner to honored guest. Thanes patted him on the back, shoving mugs under his nose and calling his name like an old friend.
It probably had something to do with the massive quantities of alcohol being consumed, he realized.
The local drink, mead as the Shetlanders called it, was as strong as it was delicious, and somehow he’d managed to quaff several whole flagons of the stuff. It actually tasted distinctly of white wine and honey once one got around the bitterness. Red enjoyed it. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was looking up at the world from the bottom of a well, he felt sure he could have drained an entire barrel.
“Ha! For a fop, yew sure can hold yer drink!” a strangely familiar blue-ish thane was shouting, before he laughed so hard he went red in the face. He pounded Red’s shoulder from across the table with a massive hoof. Then, slumping, the Shetlander’s snout met the table with a painful WHUMP. A wild cheer went up around him.
Red was dimly aware of somepony pressing another mug into his hooves, and he set to draining it just as he had the others. All around him thanes were drinking and singing, cavorting about the hall. Laughing, he dragged his sopping muzzle out of the new mug long enough to join in on a few bars of one of their drinking songs. He couldn’t help himself. The Shetland ballads were as catchy as they were fun to sing. It hadn’t taken him long to pick up on the humor in them either, though the mead certainly helped.
This particular song was a quick and raucous one, less music than it was a pounding chant. It had something to do with old hags turning into young mares. Or was it the other way around? Sometimes the mares of the Broch joined in with a chorus about codgy old stallions acting like colts of pasture.
Still laughing to himself, Red dunked his muzzle back into the mug. It came out with a beard of foam, running down his chin and into his already soaked lamellar armor.
He remembered now how he’d come to be accepted into the celebration. Scop had been plying him with alcohol... probably working up toward prying personal information out of him. One of the thanes, seeing the Equestrian out and about, had issued some sort of challenge. And somehow, Scop had diffused the situation by arranging a drinking contest. Red wondered if he’d won, then realized his head had fallen to the table. It was cold and wet against his ear.
Nearby, several thanes crowded around their own table, cavorting and drinking heavily from mugs that sloshed all over the floor. One of their number, a unicorn, cast dice on a wooden plate while the other thanes shouted bets and curses. From Red’s point of view they were all tilted to one side, as if dancing around on a wall. The sight made him feel unwell.
Head spinning, the swordpony hauled himself back upright and tried to regain his bearings. Scop was nowhere to be found in the jumble of bodies that logjammed the aisles. But a few tables over, just outside the light of the fires, he could see Ashbane’s son Bardiche necking with a female thane.
The two warriors held each other like the world was ending. Bardiche hulked over her, her mane under his chin, and he whispered in the mare's ear.
After a time Bardiche looked up and caught Red staring from across the room. The thane's soft expression hardened immediately, eyes raw. Before Red could look away, ashamed at having stared at such a personal moment, somepony jumped in front him.
“Pommel!” the intervening thane shouted, setting a hoof on the bewildered swordpony's shoulder. “Tell us the one about yew and the paintin’ again!”
Red blinked owlishly, head spinning. “The one about the paintin’?” he asked, his words slurring together.
Somehow the thane understood him. Apparently everypony spoke the same dialect when they were drunk. “Yeah, yeah. Yew fought a paintin’! Inna castle!”
The Equestrian’s eyes widened, memory returning in a flash. He swayed, sat up mostly straight, and draped his front legs across the table. A small crowd materialized around him, pressing in with dripping beards that shook with laughter. Red didn’t recognize a single one of them, but from the looks in their eyes he’d obviously been telling stories for quite some time. Normally that would have worried him, but he was more than well buttered now and as a result had lost touch with his sensibilities.
“So there I was, right?” he began, pausing for dramatic effect only to forget where he’d left off. “Er... anyway, I wuz jus’ walkin’ down this big ol’ corridor--”
“Wha’sa corridor?”
Red shrugged in answer, then went on. “Anyway, there’s all these paintings o’ famous ponies, right? An’ some of ‘em are… uh, enchanted-like, so they can move aroun’ a bit. Well, one of ‘em was a paintin’ of a knight. And as I’m walkin’ along the thing shouts a challenge at me!”
The word ‘me’ turned into a protracted belch. The table shook with the pounding of hooves and wild laughter. Red plowed headlong into the rest of the story, heedless of the guffaws drowning him out.
“So, I tells this painting... ‘yer just paint on a wall,’ right? And what’s paint on a wall gonna do to me? But the thing just leaps straight outta its frame an’ before I know it I’m parryin’ and riposstin’ up and down the hall like some kinda fool!”
Red made wild jabs with his hooves while he spoke, as if he were maneuvering a sword. One of the thanes caught a hoof in the throat and fell backwards out of his chair, choking and laughing at the same time.
Out of nowhere a booming voice cut through the commotion, silencing Red before he could finish his tale. The noise in the hall fell silent almost instantly. Every head in the room swung around to the source of the shout. Red followed the gaze of one of the thanes and found himself looking at the head table, where Lord Ashbane sat.
But it wasn’t the formidable pegasus who had shouted. He sat quietly, sipping from a goblet held before his lips by his wife’s magic.
To Red’s surprise, the shout had in fact come from none other than Scop. The old stallion had finally reappeared. He stood beside Ashbane underneath the largest of the antler chandeliers. As everypony watched, he clambered atop a table and raised one fur-wrapped leg. A firepit cast his shadow on the far wall, flickering wildly at the edges.
The showponyship was impressive. A bit dramatic, but impressive.
“Thanes, mares, foals!” Scop’s voice carried surprising weight. Every conscious ear turned to him, immediately enraptured. “Tonight I’ll tell yew all a story. It’s a good one, as old as the hills an’ thrice as fine as gold!”
There was a loud cheer, which Red joined in on wholeheartedly. Helmets and mugs and at least one pony flew into the air to land on unprotected heads around the room. A tankard clattered off Red’s shoulder. He barely noticed.
Scop let the cheering die down before continuing. Red had to admit, the storyteller was good. Rather than try and shout over the crowd, he pulled their attention to him like a master, slowly lowering his voice until they were forced to remain quiet just to hear him. Even Red was soon leaning forward, ears pointed to the speaker in rapt attention. He’d seen a musician in a tavern use the same trick on a crowd once, now that he thought about it.
It was only when all had fallen silent that the power of Scop’s timbre returned, echoing in the hall as if shouted from the lungs of a titan.
“Between the time when Altostrata was swept from the heavens, and the rise of the Draconequus, there was an age undreamed of... and unto this, his blade wrought of stars, rose the mightiest of all heroes...”
Red listened with eyes wide, the mug in his hooves forgotten. Ponies all throughout the hall leaned in, anticipation mounting.
Scop let the tension build for another long moment before he dove back into the tale. A knowing grin flashed behind his beard.
“...Ironwing! Destined to bear the jeweled crown of Equilonia, he who slew the Ice Kings, whereupon all the world fell beneath the beating of his wings. It is I, yer wordsmith, who alone can relate to yew his saga. Listen carefully, and let me tell yew of the days of high adventure...”
The winter had lasted for nigh on a decade, a season as unending as that of war. The corpses of trees hung heavy with years of ice, their boughs splintered by the weight of the snow that fell day and night. For food, ponies starved or made forays into the dark woods in search of rare magical plantlife. Fires burned at all hours wherever there was shelter, and entire forests disappeared under the axe in the course of months. It seemed that the days of ponies were numbered, and in their desperation they turned on one another. No end lay in sight.
Then, one day, it somehow grew worse. A blizzard stronger than any before rolled down from the mountains, ice spirits devouring all in its path. Kings froze in their castles, and castles collapsed under the ferocity of the storm. Left with little choice, ponies fled south by the hundreds like so many before them, desperate to escape the unnatural cold. But they would find no reprieve from the terrible wrath of the Maelstrom.
The Ice Kings had come at last to reap the land. The time of ponykind was at an end.
Or so it seemed.
Ironwing, soon to be the last hope of ponykind, was little more than a foal when Altostrata was torn asunder by angry winds. Cast from their sky home, the scattered pegasi roamed the land in warbands, fighting for food, and into this world he was thrust from his earliest days. He lived by the sword, constantly on the wing from those that would do his people harm. Before he was nine years old he had been driven from his clan, his father fearing the young stallion’s growing might. But Ironwing was not deterred. Where others would have died, he not only survived but thrived.
Now, as the Maelstrom descended on the land with icy teeth, the pegasus warrior rose from parts unknown, a broken sword held high. Warriors from his father’s tribe confronted him in the tundra, one stallion against twenty, and fought with him a terrible battle in the sky. At last, in the highest of clouds where naught existed but never-ending gray and no sane pegasus dared fly, only two warriors remained: Ironwing, and his father. They fell upon one another, battling with such ferocity as to rival the gale winds around them.
In the end, Ironwing proved more than a match for his cruel sire, and with only his broken sword he struck the older warrior down. In the struggle he cast his father’s body against the rocks of Guldor Tor, shattering the very pinnacle of that ancient rock.
But the battle had taken its toll and Ironwing was wounded. He plummeted from the heavens, wings frozen to his sides, and would surely have died if not for a unicorn and an earth pony that plucked him from the air. They took him in to heal his wounds and soon befriended him. They were Pyrefrost, a mage of immense power, and Baymane, a thane so beautiful and ferocious that winter itself melted before her very gaze. And as the Maelstrom swept the castles of the ponies to the ground, these three rose to stand defiant before it. At their backs stood the remaining pegasi of Ironwing’s tribe which he had gathered together, now bound in loyalty to him and him alone.
At Guldor Tor these few ponies made their stand against the ice spirits. Together they fought off the harbingers of the storm in a terrible battle that lay waste to the land all around. And while the pegasi wrestled back the storm, Pyrefrost sundered the beasts within with his fire magic, and Baymane split the ice with her thundering hooves. The storm retreated before their ferocity, defeated for a time.
As the news of the victory at Guldor Tor spread, pegasi flocked to Ironwing’s banner. Soon Pyrefrost and Baymane sent out word for the unicorns and the earth ponies to march to the hill as well, to make their stand against the Ice Kings. And march they did, everypony who dared brave the terrible winter. They gathered around that hill, even as the Maelstrom fell upon them again and again. Where the first battle had been long and terrible, each successive battle grew larger and more terrible than those before, until the blizzard froze even the combatants where they stood.
But though the ponies repulsed each attack, they were not winning this war. It seemed the full might of the Maelstrom’s host would soon fall upon the tiny army, and the ponies had already taken heavy losses. They would not win this fight. The army of the Ice Kings encircled the hill, the eye of the storm focused on that broken crag. One more assault would break them.
But hope was not lost. Seeing how the united might of ponykind could outfight the forces of winter where the individual races could not, Ironwing formed a plan. That night, he approached Baymane and Pyrefrost with his broken sword, and told them of this strategy. Together, the three ponies remade Ironwing’s sword from the core of a fallen star. From Pyrefrost’s magical fire it was forged, pounded into shape by Baymane’s mighty hooves, and Ironwing cooled it with the breath of his wings. They named it Isos, the pegasus word for “equal,” for it was equal parts of all three ponies.
With Ironwing wielding Isos at their head, the remaining ponies at Guldor Tor assembled for the final battle. Before them the mustered host of the Ice Kings stretched for miles, from wolves with icicle teeth to towering frost giants, to ice-carven horrors the likes of which have not been seen before or since. And with the weapons of nature itself on their side, they fell upon the hill in greater force than ever before.
But this time, when the armies of the Ice Kings crashed over the defenses of the hill they found that the ponies were unbreakable. The fire of ponykind’s unity burned forth, and Ironwing led his pegasi in a charge that sundered the enemy. Holding Isos aloft, burning like a star, no monster could stand before him without being swept aside.
And behind this charge came the unicorns and earth ponies, pouring into the gap, driving the evil of winter’s might before them. In an hour the whole of the enemy had been routed, thrown back on all sides of the hill, and the ponies gave chase across the land. To see them fight was to see valor and desperation personified in every pony present, armed only with unity, hoof-made weapons, and basic magics against all the might of evil.
The Ice Kings, however, would not be defeated so easily. They swarmed in the skies, three horrific beasts in the shape of ethereal horses, their immense bodies fashioned from the bones of winter itself. From their cold throats tore a bitter scream, turning back the ponies that had defied them. Hundreds froze in their tracks, and the gale winds brought the Maelstrom back upon the land once more.
But then, Isos ablaze with blood-red fire, Ironwing erupted from the heavens and tore into the Ice Kings from above, untouched by their attacks. Their ancient bodies he cut apart, their gray clouds he sundered before his wings, even as they pummeled his body with spears of ice. He faltered not, beating them back again and again, until with a surge of red light the magic of all three pony races converged on the point of his sword and lanced into each of the Ice Kings.
All three fled before his fire, but it was too late. Ironwing overtook them over the Eyries and slew them one after another, the red fire of Isos consuming their bodies, their clouds, their storms. Their death knells shook the land, ringing harshly in the ears of all that were left alive to hear it.
Before the unified might of ponykind, the everlasting winter at long last had been broken. Ice retreated from the land, the snows ceased to fall for the first time in a decade, and the gale winds scattered to the four corners of the world. Those ponies that stood frozen on the battlefield shook off their shackles of rime and marveled as long-dormant seeds grew from soil that mere hours before was hard as stone.
In celebration of this amazing victory, Ironwing built the broch of Guldor Tor on the hill’s summit, proclaiming it the capital of a new land... Equilonia! And with the snows clear, the ponies at long last returned to the lives they had known before.
The unicorns retreated to their holds, the earth ponies to their fields. The pegasi longed to rebuild Altostrata and return to their homeland in the clouds, urging Ironwing to lead them.
But winter returned when the races split, as cold and bitter as ever before, freezing the land solid in a single night. Ironwing rebuffed the scattering of the ponies, calling them back to Guldor Tor. Together with Pyrefrost and Baymane, he ordered all ponies to live as equals on the ground. Truly, it seemed that the pegasi could never return to their sky home, and the unicorns could never live apart from the earth ponies. Only their unity kept eternal winter at bay. Should they separate again, it would return.
And so, the ponies of Equilonia crowned Ironwing their Lord, the King upon the Rock. And from that day forth, the ponies of the land lived as one, with the flaming sword of Isos to guide them, never to be taken by everlasting winter ever again. No enemy could conquer them, no army defeat them, and no king ever since has matched the pegasus warrior we call... Ironwing.
---
The Broch settled into silence, each word of Scop’s tale ringing from the walls.
Red Pommel blinked, his vision swimming, startled by the sudden reintroduction to reality. He could still see Ironwing and the Maelstrom in his head, their battle playing out on the frostbitten hills of ancient Shetland. He felt his gorge rising at the smell of beer, but the story weighed it back down and turned his thoughts away from nausea.
In the brief moment of silence before the Shetlanders broke into cheers, Red found himself reflecting on what the story had meant to him. In his drunken stupor it was nearly impossible to keep it all straight in his head, but he grasped at snatches of clarity nonetheless, trying to make sense of it all. It felt like his mind was a soup strainer and everything he’d just heard was leaking out through the holes. Only one memory stood out, refusing to drown in the sea of alcohol that swirled in his gut.
The Ice Kings. They swarmed in the skies, three horrific beasts in the shape of ethereal horses fashioned from the bones of winter itself.
There was something familiar about that line, something Red couldn’t quite put his hoof on. A half-formed mental image of actors in a play came to mind, something he’d seen as a colt...
Then the Broch erupted into an ear-splitting cheer, all three hundred Shetlanders lending their voices to the shout. The noise drowned out any semblance of clear thought in the swordpony’s mind, his snatches of clarity sinking beneath the waves. The half-formed images of memory were gone, leaving only a feeling of awe and confusion. He found himself cheering along with everypony else, clapping his hooves together with all the gusto of a drunken farmpony.
Across the room Scop took a short bow and snatched up a mug from the table he stood upon. Draining it in one hearty gulp, he tossed it aside and flourished a leg after it. “Thank yew, thank yew all! Now lend yer ears to our young skald, Wistful Scrip!”
In a flash the old storyteller leaped from his beer-stained stage to disappear amongst the crowd. Drunken revelry resumed, trays full of food and fresh beer passing between the tables once more.
Out of this chaos rose Scrip, a large musical instrument slung across his back. Moving like a mountain goat, he hopped up next to the barrels that hid Ashbane’s empty throne.
The din in the hall died down as quickly as it had begun when Scrip took a seat on the stage, all ears turned to him as they had his teacher. The respectful silence only deepened when he produced his instrument and set it before him, eyebrows furrowed with concentration. It was a strange instrument, appearing to be a mix between a harp and a lyre, save that it was laid flat like a washboard. By the time his hooves moved to play it, the hall was quiet enough to hear the drop of a feather.
Scrip plucked the strings with all the tenderness of a lover, brushing one hoof across the breadth of the contraption so gently that even in total silence it could scarcely be heard. The sound seemed to dance in the air, holding for a moment before it disappeared. To Red’s alcohol-saturated imagination, the chord was the color of ripe wheat. Golden.
Satisfied, Scrip looked up at his expectant audience with a smile stretching from ear to ear.
“Sons and daughters of the Broch,” he began, sweeping one leg over the room. Then, looking to the foremost table, “And father, greatest of all.”
From his seat at the head of the central table, Lord Ashbane raised a hoof and nodded for Scrip to continue. His burn scars glistened in the firelight. A short cheer swept the hall, other hooves rising into the air all around the room. The noise pounded at the back of Red’s eyeballs, forcing an exhausted groan out of his chest.
“We have lost ponies today,” continued Scrip. “Let them know we have not forgotten them. Let this song… let this be a tribute to their names.”
He puffed out his chest, flexed his legs, and cleared his throat. Then, after a moment’s pause, he closed his eyes and brushed his hooves back over the strings, sweet music dripping from them like honey. The dramatic display smacked so heavily of theatrics that Red couldn’t help but imagine that Scop was somehow to blame.
Scrip’s melody started slow and simple, a soft chime that drifted through the hall to capture the hearts and minds of everypony within. Like water it swelled, then ebbed, a sea at high tide. It pervaded Red’s mind, tickling his ears, drawing him in as the tale of Ironwing had. But he never got to hear Scrip sing, for right as the young stallion opened his mouth to let loose a verse, somepony else grabbed the swordpony’s attention.
It was Scop, of course. The elderly stallion was as stealthy as he was agile, it seemed. He slid up to Red’s table and cleared a space amongst the heaps of empty mugs before he plopped down on a bench.
“My, yew look about ready to pass out. Enjoyin’ yerself, knight-o?”
For his part Red didn’t appear to be enjoying much of anything. His head gravitated back toward the comfortable puddle of mead on the table, lulled by each pluck of Scrip’s strings. His face, meanwhile, had taken on the pallor of a pony about to vomit.
“You Shetlanders,” he mumbled. “You tell the best stories...”
Scop arched a caterpillar eyebrow. “Thank yew, I suppose?”
Red bobbed his head up and down until he felt sick. “An’ the music!” he shouted, nearly taking the head off a nearby thane with a sweep of his hoof. “I ain’t heard music like that since... well, ever!”
“Ah yes, my student does possess quite a bit o’ talent with that zither. Just listen to him sing. Like a songbird, that ‘un.”
“Zither?” Red’s cheek inched closer to the table. He belched, suddenly aware of a sharp pressure in his bladder.
“You know, the lap harp?” replied Scop, incredulous. “I woulda thought they were commonplace. Nary a broch in Shetland without one. What kinda instruments do yew have in Equestria if yew don’t have a zither?”
The more inebriated of the two ponies made a half-hearted shrug. “Y’know. Harp. Lyre. Lute... Some other stuff. All sorts o’ stuff, really...”
“Is this yer first time drunk?” asked Scop. He frowned and eyed the swordpony cautiously, scooting further across the table just to be sure.
“Naw, naw... I been drunk before. Plenty o’ times. Just...” Red grabbed an empty mug and peered into its depths, struggling to keep his eyes straight. “Never been very good at it.”
“Good at... what?”
“Bein’ drunk, tha’s what.” Staring into the mug made Red’s head spin. He dropped it to the table. “They tell me... they tell me I always do somethin’ stupid when I’m drunk...”
“Hmm... Yew don’t look so good. Do yeh need to lie down?”
Red blinked owlishly, mulling over the question for a moment. The vast quantities of mead he’d consumed had drowned his brain. Now it felt as if the last two synapses in his head were struggling to light a fire. In the rain. Without tinder.
He felt sick. His head was throbbing, his eyeballs burning. And he was tired. Ever so tired...
“Don’k feel s’good,” he mumbled. The two little synapses in his head gave up and fizzled out with a pop.
“Yew should take that outside, then,” said Scop, pointing to the door across the room. “Or better yet... woah, woah, not at the table!”
Red didn’t even feel himself vomit, nor did he feel it spill down his chest. “Ya’ know,” he began, eyes crossing. “I wouldn’t never talked to anypony as much as I’ve talked t’you? Why...” he hiccuped, slouching further toward the table. “I might even tell ya’ ‘bout the War...”
The swordpony’s eyes went blank. With nothing left to hold them up, his eyelids gave out and slammed shut. Then, as if some invisible puppet string had been cut, he slumped to the table and went face down in the mead.
He slept like death, lost in the vastness of an ocean of alcohol.
All credit for the pronghorns goes to Jetfire and “Dangerous Business”
