Dear Brothers - Moorland Song
Persistent early morning sea fog wafted through the grey streets of old Stromness and annoyed the lone pony who was already up and walking past the former parish church. Small water droplets formed in its greyish purple mane and the dampness was already creeping through its heather green coat. Moorland Song sighed wearily as he made his way past the building that the herd had re-purposed as granary and that needed important repairs before the onset of winter.
What crunched under his hooves and made the street slippery were the remains of slate tiles that should be sitting up there on the roof. The tiles themselves would likely have lasted the next two hundred years as well, which was, apart from the solid masonry, the main reason the narrow strip of old houses that stretched along the waterfront was still in such a good condition. Fixtures, regrettably, didn't necessarily last as long.
Over the years he'd spent quite a bit of time optimizing the building to the best of his abilities. It had been compartmentalized according to available crops and their storage requirements and access to higher levels had been made manageable for hooves. Vents had been placed strategically to ensure condensation was kept to a minimum without risking damage from rain or snow blowing in.
What he prided himself on the most though was his strategy to deal with the rodents that otherwise could easily make short work of the fruits of their labour. It really hadn't been a conventional approach, but then he certainly wasn't a conventional pony. Perceptions could vary though, an unpleasant lesson he had taken to heart and from then on kept in mind in all endeavours he engaged in.
Father had been livid when he caught him tipping bucketloads of grain into a nearby disused building, to the point of hitting him. Repeatedly. Although painful in more ways than just physical, the experience hadn't deterred him much, he just made sure that he wouldn't get caught again next time and had chosen another suitable structure in the vicinity.
He'd positively bred the vermin by providing food and hiding places. He also made the building rather comfy with straw and simple resting places. Then he'd waited, wasted grain and risked a major infestation, and waited. It had barely taken two months before the first stray cats appeared and had a feast. Soon there were more of them and still he fed the mice and rats, he just made sure that at least one or two cats were at home while he did so.
Then one evening he hadn't brought more rodent feed, much to the obvious annoyance of their by now well established feline neighbours who had come to expect the service. He'd spent the better part of the night trying to convince them to follow him, which in the end they did, maybe due to their typical curiosity, maybe just to shut the bothersome equine up and make it do its job. He liked that about them, their no nonsense, where I am is in front of the queue style. He could respect that, even if they didn't respect him.
He had shown them the granary and the cat-sized opening he'd secretly installed in one of the side doors (he had placed it strategically so that it doubled as a vent anyway). They got the message.
Father hadn't said a word when he presented him his project's end result, much less apologized, just stared at him blankly for some long moments before he nodded, turned and left. Moorland couldn't have imagined a greater victory. The scheme still cost them payment in the form of rodent feed over the winter, but that was only a tiny fraction of the grain they'd lost previous to the presence of their hired guards.
The silent patrols weren't too happy about the leaking roof either.
As he continued up the narrow street he contemplated that Dawn had been, as far as he was aware, working on a way to actually get the difficult repairs done. He himself had already devised a way to safely get workers up there for quality repairs and was very interested to see if the young one would figure something out as well; also how that would compare to his own ideas. Of course he'd help him out if so needed... he certainly wasn't interested in sabotaging their efforts.
Still, it was his building and it needed to be done the right way. The intellectual match up was very enjoyable though.
***
His hooves took him on the path up Lynedardy Hill to the northwest of Stromness since he figured that walking northwards on its ridge would give him the best vantage points to spot a pony on the moors. The hills that sheltered their settlement had been the main reason father had chosen the little town over the city of Kirkwall on the east mainland. Moorland wasn't entirely convinced that had been the best decision, seeing that the city had to have had a lot more resources and likely contained an abundance of them at the time father had arrived on the island.
But who was he to question father?
De facto, he was Moorland Song and felt it was well within his rights to do just that. Of course he had no real way of estimating just how much useful material once had been present in the rotting city that, truth be told, was a lot more exposed to the elements. Still, just looking at the enormous cargo ship that lay half submerged in the harbour basin, leaning against the crumbling pier where it had ripped off the moorings when it finally sank, it felt like a wasted opportunity.
Couldn't he at least have salvaged just a little useful technology?
Maybe the legendary wisdom had only manifested much later. He sincerely wished that father had been more forthcoming about those early days; not just because it could have been utile but because he also simply wanted to know. He was curious by nature and it vexed him greatly when that curiosity couldn't be sated.
Still, the suspicion remained that facts and necessities had little to do with the decision to settle here and that it mainly was because he'd wanted to avoid something on the eastern part of the mainland. It wasn't as if he'd been overly happy about living in Stromness; if he was then he'd sure concealed it well. He'd go explore the area to the south of Kirkwall if it wasn't for the fact he'd have to cross into tribal territory where their presence wasn't appreciated. And no one could tell what the reason for that antipathy was either. It was traditional.
He loathed that word.
Yet here he was, part of an emerging dynasty complete with inherited rulership and all the ruler's kin in important positions, the very definition of something 'traditional' to come. Most irksome in its inevasible approach, seeing that the ruler's kin were the most competent to fill those positions. Mostly.
He tried to concentrate on putting one hoof before another instead.
The roads the old folk (in his opinion a much more appropriate name than 'humans' – it sounded more distingué) had built where highly practical and he was thankful for their existence, even if simultaneously saddened that they'd never be able to replicate them in his lifetime. The cracked asphalt surface was uncomfortable to trot on, but the solid embankments were usually broad enough to do so.
When he reached the summit he sat down on his haunches and let the westerly breeze play with his mane while he scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. Of course there wasn't any apart from the occasional grouse. He sighed. Whatever had possessed his younger brother to run away like this, it obviously had been bad enough to retreat for a much longer time than he usually spent sulking at 'his' spot on the cliffs.
Mother refused to say what had happened, Solstice didn't want to leave her side for long and Harvest had “too much important work to do to foalsit my little brother”. Well, somebody had to be the responsible one, as much as it discommoded him to seemingly always being assigned that role. Besides, he was worried.
That was first and foremost the reason he was out here now, irritating as it might be. Dawn was family. You didn't let family get hurt if you could prevent it and it wasn't important if you got along with them well or not. Even if that family member was acting like an idiot.
Deeply inhaling the air that smelled of a mixture of salt and meadow flowers, he rose to his hooves again and turned northeast, towards his next vantage point on the Hill of Quholm. He snorted softly at the old memory of the day when he had come across little Dawn out there, trying to fly. To Dawn's credit, the clumsy colt had shown some serious dedication and also hadn't broken anything in the numerous attempts he undertook before Moorland made his presence known.
Hilarious as Dawn's mortified expression had been back then, it just made him thoughtful nowadays, to the point of viewing it as deplorable lack of foresight on his part. Of course it also hadn't been very civilised. Instead of laughing at him he could have tried to help and support him. Develop some sort of training based on library material on equine anatomy, flight dynamics, bird anatomy, the like. Things father hadn't deemed important for Dawn to learn.
Actually, why was that...?
Who knew what could have come of that? Had he succeeded in that endeavour and helped Dawn to fly he would surely have surpassed Harvest in father's appreciation by miles, maybe even reached the same esteem as his little brother. As potential co-leader he could have spent more time reading and learning. A lot more.
What a waste.
The wind ruffled his coat as he began his second ascent. Could his youngest brother actually fly like father supposedly had been able to once, even just a little? Maybe just flutter a bit? He was almost certain that Dawn couldn't and he was pessimistic about Dawn's chances of learning to do so, now that he was already an adult. But there was also a nagging doubt about father's supposed ability, a doubt that made him uncomfortable, something he just hadn't paid any mind when the old stallion had still been around.
Had father chosen Dawn to lead because of wings that he knew to be useless and then made him study so hard to compensate?
He would have cherished dearly to be given that much time to spend with literature while Dawn never seemed happy about it. Of course there were many other reasons Dawn hadn't been the most joyful colt, Moorland himself being one of them. He chewed on his lower lip a bit. He had once execrated father's favourite foal with a passion -and he still certainly wasn't overly fond of him- but it increasingly struck him as wrongful for everyone involved.
Well, except for Solstice. That airhead would be happy with whatever he did as long as it didn't involve anything with too much accountability. How Harvest even saw that one as a real contender for command and actually, seriously contemplated to challenge Solstice to a fight for it, if it should ever come to that, was beyond him.
Solstice's true talent seemed to be to annoy him at every opportunity and not a lot more. It certainly wasn't anything practical, at least as far as he was aware. It was a talent he progressively shared with Harvest.
Another grassy summit, another empty landscape under an overcast sky.
Here and there, shafts of sunlight irregularly pierced the cloud cover and illuminated patches on the rolling hills in the distance. He looked over his shoulder and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wind blow some strands of his mane out of his face. His ears flicked, but apart from that constant low whistle there was not much to hear.
“This is unfortunate,” he said to no one in particular. “Maybe Neban Point then.” He turned northwest again, following an old trail on the hill's ridge that would lead him in the right direction without too many ascents or descents. If nothing else, he'd get to enjoy the view from the sea cliffs again, something he hadn't found the time to do for too long now. Dawn wasn't the only one who had his special spot out there; Moorland just made sure that nobody knew of his own. It was a matter of principle.
The surface was a lot rougher here and slowed him down as he picked his way through small rocks and heather, suddenly worrying that Dawn might be lying out here somewhere with a broken leg. Then again, the pegasus never broke anything, he reminded himself. Physically, at least.
Mentally was a different matter of course, something that had become increasingly obvious over the last few weeks of sudden responsibility. He felt a sudden pang of indignation over the possibility that father could have selected Dawn without even considering his ability to actually shoulder that burden; just because of father's desire to have someone who resembled him finish the work he himself had failed at finishing.
That would have been dishearteningly petty, especially to someone like his second son who would have been able to manage just fine. It was also disconcerting to say the least and a thought that hadn't crossed his mind until now.
He was suddenly and uncharacteristically annoyed by the expanse of wilderness surrounding him. Usually the rough landscape, in which his matching coat became nearly invisible at this time of the year, felt soothing in the special privacy it offered. Now it was just rough and in his way. He shook his head.
“He'll crack soon enough,” Harvest had said back on the cairn of Maeshowe, with an air of contentment he'd admittedly shared to a degree then, but which seemed wholly inappropriate now. That had been decidedly unintelligent. Just like the embarrassing, foalish episode where he had let trifling envy get the better of him and that had led to mother being distraught and to him trudging through the western moors today. Contemptible. He really should have learned by now not to listen to any of the firstborn's bright ideas. See Solstice.
Still, the thoughts about the underlying reasons for father's decision in the matter at hoof would not let go of him.
“Dear father... you... you numpty,” he muttered. His ears splayed back against his head, first at the spoken out loud insult to him, then at the implications of it being justified.
***
He'd never thought that the sight of hoofprints would one day trigger such relief. Before him stood the dilapidated remnants of an old farmstead, the last old-folk legacy on the path to the western seaboard. The fence posts of the sheep pens had long since rotted away, leaving behind nasty traps in the form of half covered wires. The barn had long since collapsed and the moor was encroaching over the former pasture, slowly turning it into a field of heather again and starting to swallow the debris.
The low, slate roofed house itself was still mostly intact, safe the broken windows and the fallen chimney. He took a deep breath and walked up to the entrance and tapped the door lightly, his hoof leaving a small indentation in the greyed, slowly rotting hardwood. With a deep breath he composed himself; it wouldn't do to give an anxious impression. Especially if it was Dawn who was in there.
Which was what he did anyway when an orange Iceland pony pulled open the door with its mouth and looked him over, partly surprised and partly critically. It cocked its head.
“Yes?”
“Ah... ahem,” he began. He cleared his throat, remembered himself and took a more assertive stance. “Greetings. Have you encountered a light blue-grey pony with a straw coloured mane? And wings,” he added as an afterthought.
The tribal snorted. “And wings. Maybe.”
“Ah... maybe? What would you mean by that? Have you seen him? I've been looking for him all over, from Stromness to here,” he spoke rapidly and in an irritated tone.
The mare blinked a few times. “Your brother?”
“Why, yes! So you know him. Is he here?”
“You need him. But treat him badly,” she stated flatly.
“...” He opened his mouth to say something but for once words failed him. It was a new and unsettling experience.
“It's alright Buidhe,” came a weary voice from within the building. “I'm awake,” it added after a yawn. “But thanks.”
He fidgeted. This was not the way he'd figured this would play out; specifically the part where he was talking to a tribal auxiliary.
The tribal looked him over as he sat down on his haunches, seemingly not very impressed. That rubbed him the wrong way, much more than the fact that he had to look up to the mare. Worse still, she effortlessly bore herself with the kind of stature that he himself aspired to but so far had failed to achieve.
A moment later she mercifully took that uncomfortable gaze off of him, stepping fully outside to let his youngest sibling through the doorway.
“Dawn! What on earth possessed you?” he exclaimed with a mixture of relief and annoyance.
“Hello, brother,” came the weary response. “First off, Buidhe, this is Moorland Song, my second eldest brother. Moor, this is Buidhe of the Ronaldsay tribe. Her name means 'Ochre' by the way, if the pronunciation gives you trouble she's okay with that instead.
His eyebrows shot up at that. Dawn had befriended one of them – and out here in the middle of nowhere of all places, at least eight hours trot away from their territory? A second later he remembered his manners, stopped staring and returned the polite nod she had already given him.
“And what 'possessed' me,” Dawn sighed, “Is between me and mother only if she hasn't told you about it.” The young pegasus looked down at his hooves. “Has she?”
“No, no she hasn't. I don't know about Solstice though... he hardly left her side for the rest of that day,” he said, a slightly accusing tone in his voice.
“Good on him.” The young one's expression was unreadable when he made eye contact again. “I realized something out here.” There was a small pause. “I'm not cut out for this,” he stated.
The tribal's ears flicked at that and she leaned back, cocking her head.
“What?!” he exclaimed, incredulous, “You can't just walk away from this!”
His little brother glanced sideways at the orange mare and chuckled drily. “I didn't say I would. But now you mention it, why not?”
He took a deep breath and composed himself. “Because you cannot seriously be contemplating to act that irresponsibly. Everything would fall apart, or at least be in disarray for months if you just disappeared. May I remind you that you had everyone bow to you only a few weeks back?”
Dawn hesitated. “Not everyone,” he said pointedly, “But you're right of course,” he conceded with a sigh. “Still, it's tempting.”
Ochre gave her companion a disapproving look.
Moorland was increasingly enervated. “Besides, I couldn't take over just like that. I'd need time to study and to prepare to organize everything and also to familiarize myself with the details of father's plans and visions on how they should be put in motion.”
“He didn't have any.”
“...what?”
“Plans. He didn't have any, just ideas and dreams. He had confidence I'd make them real,” Dawn explained with a shrug. “I've turned them over in my head a thousand times, but we lack the resources and the hooves to spare. And we don't have the technology, just the books.” He smiled, somewhat melancholic. “You'd have to concentrate on the here and now. That's what he did in the end as well, by the way.”
Moorland winced when the tribal snorted, undoubtedly at his disbelieving stare. “But if it's that simple, then why would you consider giving up like this?”
“Because I'm not like him. I can't do this all alone.” Dawn held up a hoof before he could reply.
“Anyway, here's your job: I'd prioritize expanding our fields and build up our seed stocks, maybe check if something of use, any kind of crop species, has survived somewhere; not that I have a lot of confidence. That'd need a lot of scouts, but we can spare those. We need more 'real food' as father would've said, grazing is too inefficient.
Ochre 'hmphed' at that, albeit with a small smile on her lips, but he paid her no heed.
Better for the foals' development as well, also more time for play and study for them. At the very least we'll have to get a lot better at bringing in hay, which also means we need more dry storage capacity,” Dawn continued matter of factly. “Our granary is insufficient as it is, we need more space. Preferably something with a roof that's easier to repair.”
Moorland bit back a comment and settled for scowling at his brother instead. Dawn didn't even try to hide the smirk while Ochre leaned a little forward and had an appraising look in her eyes, directed at the younger one.
“Then there's the issue of the newcomers that have difficulties fitting in and finding their place. The last one from up north almost started a fight when one of our farmers tried to tell him what to do, the whole 'rank in the herd' thing. They are like that up there - yeah I know Buidhe, sorry. You'd need to watch out for conflicts from things like that because that ruins teamwork for days or more. Lots of other issues, not just from outsiders, most aren't as extreme of course... so far I've managed.
These here help,” he added, spreading out his wings about halfway, “But it's not a given and most of my herd is used to seeing them. You've got charisma, you should be fine if you devote some time to learning people skills. You could use those.”
“I don't find myself lacking in that department!” he exclaimed tersely.
Dawn ignored it. “That reminds me of education. We need a proper school. The way our herd's grown, we have enough foals to warrant that. You'd have to evaluate our ponies as to their ability as teachers, draw up a plan to make learning materials available and also actually design them.”
A knowing smile began to play around Ochre's mouth, irritating and slightly distracting. He blinked and tried to focus solely on Dawn again.
“You're good at that kind of thing, so you probably shouldn't delegate it to someone else. I was going to ask you to do that but... well. Father salvaged a lot from the old academy back in the day but I haven't yet had the time to sort through all of it, no matter how much of it he made me read.” His face darkened for a moment before he took a deep breath and continued. “I'd show you around, at least he catalogued the stuff. Most of it. You'd spend a lot of time there.”
He realized that his ears had perked up at that and that he was actually smiling a little. He stopped it.
“Don't spend time and resources on looking for ship's hulls, boating supplies and nautical maps. Actually, you should forget about that entirely for the time being.”
The older brother's eyes widened. “I was of the impression that we were going to lift that yacht hull you had singled out no matter what? We could at least do that, show the rest that there still is a dream to follow. That is definitely something father would have done. You told him that'd be your priority! You promised!”
Dawn shook his head with a snort. “I didn't want to tell father, but I had a lot of doubts about that. Then last week I had two of our taller newcomers drag one of those scaffolding poles down to the pier to give my ship a prod, see if the hull was strong enough to survive being hauled ashore in the first place. Was a real pain to do that.
Anyway, we managed. Guess what? Fibreglass isn't as long lasting as father thought, because that pole went right through the hull under only moderate pressure. Lost the thing in the harbour because one of my helpers nearly took a dive since he'd expected at least some actual resistance. Lucky he didn't lose any teeth on the bolt holes.”
“But he'd been so sure about it,” Moorland said quietly after a little pause.
The pegasus turned his head away with a far away expression. “No books on the properties of fibreglass, see. I think it's some kind of laminate, the way the hole looked. Definitely not something to store underwater. It's a strange feeling, killing a dream like that...,” he trailed off.
After a long pause, the young leader gave a sigh and turned to Moorland again. “I wanted to gather my herd and tell them about it officially, but I haven't managed to put the right words together for the little speech I feel is required. Something got in the way a few days back.”
Ochre nodded approvingly (or was it with a little pride even?), while he and his brother settled for giving each other sour looks. The two versus one situation was increasingly uncomfortable.
“Next is repairs and maintenance, but you know all about that. Guess you'd do a better job at organizing that anyway, or you could ask Moon, he's our specialist in that department. Then you could focus on the how to; you're way smarter than me when it comes to that anyway.”
He found himself nodding in agreement. The prospect of concentrating on the design of technical solutions was appealing; but as leader there'd hardly be much time for that, even less than now. He realized Dawn wasn't finished on the topic and hurried to pay attention again.
“That's also where we usually need all of these, no matter what Moon thinks.” He lifted a hoof and bent it in several directions. Dawn added something to Ochre in her language with an apologetic look to which she gave a little sigh but shrugged.
Scapa's second son watched what on Dawn's side looked like an awkward little dance that was accompanying the spoken words and fidgeted a bit at the uncomfortable feeling the display caused. The tribal cocked her head and glanced at him. He in turn concentrated on looking at his younger brother.
There was the tiniest, satisfied smile on Dawn's face as he continued. “Father often said that he also wanted to repair his relationship with Buidhe's tribe to gain access to the southernmost shoreline. Figured that would help somehow, but he never tried it to my knowledge. No idea why. I just think it'd be a good thing to be friendly with each other, you never know what might come of it.”
Moorland found his own hooves increasingly interesting.
“You'd have to learn New Whinny to speak with their chieftain though.”
He straightened up immediately and looked at the Iceland mare. “Ochre, I know we've only just met, but if I could somehow repay you, could you teach me? I'm a quick study.”
“My uncle would not like that,” she replied in a serious tone.
“Their chieftain,” Dawn supplied casually. “You could always send Solstice in your stead. He'd understand most of what's said but I'm pretty eloquent compared to him.”
He tried to picture Solstice trying to perform what he'd just watched his brother obviously almost fail at. In the setting of a negotiation. He winced and felt his brain shy away from the actual visualization.
After a little pause, Dawn added with a dispassionate expression, “And you'd still have to fight Moon of course.”
True enough, there was that. He grit his teeth in frustration.
“You need him,” Ochre stated.
She had him. They had him. And he knew that she knew and it was infuriating.
“Fine!” He threw up his forehooves. “My course of action was counterproductive and I apologize for the difficulties it caused.” He gave a resigned sigh before collecting himself.
“Will you come home now Dawn?” He looked down. “Mother is worried sick,” he added quietly.
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First off... Seriously. We need to find more groups to put our stories in. They are seriously underrated. And what's with that 15 to 7 rating? Seriously. There is nothing in this story to warrant 7 dislikes. Your world building has been superb, your emotions and story tell have been good too. *grabs a random Fimuser and shakes them* What is wrong with you ponies!
*exhales heavily before clearing his throat, straightening his tie and brushing his mane back into place.*
Sorry about that. I had a moment.
Anyway. I like Moor. He and I, and Robin, and likely Duncan, would get along. All forward thinkers. His plans with the mice were awesome. Feed them. They feed the cats. They risk being eaten if they lurk in the wrong places, they risk it slightly less in the right places. I figured cats were going to be his solution though. Cats are awesome like that.
Buidhe and Dawn nicely knocked the smug out of Moor though. It was hilarious to read. So Dawn has better New Whinny than Moor?
Seriously though, Scapa... what did you do? Jeeze, you're like a pyramid scheme operator. Get everyone riled up without having anything behind it. No plans at all? Sheesh. The love hate his kids have for him is understandable. So much would have worked better if he actually got a committee or general chat session in place.
One thing I wasn't clear on, are newcommers immigrants? Or returning eventees? Wait, I found my answer. Never mind.
EVERYTHING WRONG WITH Northland; Dear Brothers - Moorland Song IN 1200 WORDS OR LESS.
SPOILERS.
(OBVIOUSLY)
It took four days to get around to reading this. This is a sin me, not for you. Really need to find a way to lower this count... *ding* 4
Does Moor know this is a church despite their having only been one former human on this island for the last century? Or is this just for the reader's benefit? Either way... *ding* 1
Well someone's been in the thesaurus lately. Not even my third year geographic writing professor spoke like that. *ding* 2
Luxury rodent accommodations. Get a room now before the housing boom passes you by. *ding* 3
Father figure skimpy on the positive reinforcement cliche. *ding* 4
From what I've seen, you probably should have. *ding* 5
So do I. It seems like a whole lot of things could have gone better if he just sat down with his kids and said 'now sons, here's why I'm doing what I do, and here are the parts I expect you to play. Let's not let everything descend into a soap opera now'. Of course, his sons might ask 'what's a soap opera', but at least they would be communicating. *ding* 6
Moorland is probably one of the few ponies to use that term. I understand his pain. *ding* 7
Well, Father caused the issue thanks to his stellar communication and planning skills, Solstice is sweet, and Harvest is a dick to Dawn. *ding* 7
I'm not too proud to withdraw a sin. Moor's still a jerk to his younger brother, but not a dick. That's reserved for Harvest right now. *bing* 6
To be fair, I'd probably laugh too, but then give him a hoof. Hindsight is both 20/20, and has a mean backhand. Also, seriously, Scapa. You're just racking up all the points. *ding**ding* 8
See? Even Moor agrees. I know I liked this guy. *ding* 9
Being the younger brother sucks. *ding* 9
You missed a space. No, I'm not gonna sin it, just pointing it out.
I can picture Moor having an hidden archive with dossiers on everyone, their secrets, motivations, intentions... *ding* 10
I'm just gonna start saying 'Scapa...' for all these moments. *ding* 10
Well, if you weren't so busy being a jerk to the 'Chosen One', you would have realized the 'Chosen One' would have rathered pick someone else. *ding* 11
'It'? Really Moor? *ding* 12
See? Even Buidhe is sinning you, Moor. *ding* 13
She's only known him for a few hours and even she realised it. Did you ever, I dunno, talk to Dawn about your issues? Communication is a big issue in this family... Also, Mr. Theasarus ran out of words. *ding* 14
'Them'? That's tribalist. Also, you forgotten a while back. No s *ding* 15
Mother is allowed to be distaught, but heaven forbid the child does! *ding* 16
Scapa, Moor. Just Scapa... *ding* 17
Scapa was a politician. Dawn, and I suppose Moor, are bureaucrats and administrators. *ding* 18
Arrogance. *ding* 19
Aw, man... they got some of the Equestrian ponyisms too, even without meeting one. *ding* 20
You're being schooled by your little brother. You did say he needed to assert himself and be a better leader and such. *ding* 21
Don't. Knowledge is power. *ding* 22
Ah, so close to the 'I actually don't want to be the leader' epiphany. Granted, I noticed Moor was more right hoof pony material a couple paragraphs in. *ding* 23
Wait... Moor's New Whinney is worse than Dawn's? *ding* 24
===========
Sin Total: 24
Sentence: Sailing on a hundred year old fiberglass boat.
6391124 Thanks for that elaborate comment, its always great to have someone take that much time to write what amounts to a mini review! It is very much appreciated. I'll respond in kind since I'm unable to not fill a comment section with pages of text ;)
And I agree with you on every point. The story is indeed very much listing to the 'tell' side, something I personally don't like to read either except for when the setting is very interesting and I want to know more about that. But I chose it anyway because this started as a thought experiment, and the world itself and a dead person are the main characters. Emphasis on chose.
Dawn, Buidhe and Solstice are currently fighting over who'll get to be the main protagonist in the present. When that's settled they'll complain to me about too little screentime. I'll try to be accommodating.
I tried to break the exposition up into chunks by having the characters remember the things on triggers and only the parts they could know. I think it made it better, but the main problem persists of course. It's not engaging, it's more of a remembered history lesson. I still like it though. I understand fully if most readers don't.
I have a plot file that is large enough to be a whole chapter all in itself. Dear Plot? In part it reads like a peer-reviewed scientific paper because, well, it's what it amounts to and something I have experience in writing. I wrote in a blogpost that I'd actually have been happy with a 50/50 ratio of like/dislike and I did it because of a) the complex and not very MLP setting and more importantly b) the issues you describe.
I'm pretty sure the whole hybridization thing is off-putting for many though.
The timeline doesn't exactly fit what I now know to be canon and also the return rate is artificially low because of my wish to portray the cultural development as I think it would happen when mostly undisturbed. Those who do return conveniently die while doing so anyway and become part of the exposition.
6388791 Riiiight... let's write an answer to this monster of a comment!
I agree, much too little appreciation going on. My favourites here are ridiculously underrated, but that's probably the fate of most side stories. On the other hand, without this group I'd have nothing but downvotes.
Thank you! It's good to hear that sometimes. Had a little rant about that in my reply to Starscribe. Grml. At least give me some honest dislikes that deal with the actual story that has issues and which I'll accept a downvote for anytime. Preferably with a comment.
I like Moor as well and it was my aim to show him as not just a dick because reasons in his little chapter. Happy it worked. And his level of competence in New Whinny is approximately "Hello", "Sorry", "Where's the toilet?". Just tribal, you know. Not really important. They don't have thesauri. Yeah, 'it'. Used it for a reason ;)
I love my thesaurus. Moor was the only chance to use it excessively and stay in character. So I used it shamelessly. Capital *DING* And it felt good. Yes. Yes it did.
Scapa had some serious issues. We can agree on that. For one, he named himself after a Distillery. Maybe he named himself after the Scapa Flow, that piece of sea in the middle of the islands. Slightly strange pony name.
Soooooo.... sins!
Moor doesn't know it was a church. It's clumsily hidden exposition. See, there's a lot of that. Why not downvote it for that guys? It's justified. Feel free!
Should have called him Thesaurus Song. Now there's a pony name. Twilight would marry him on the spot.
Scapa, meet issues.
See above line.
See above line plus soap opera.
Moorland is distingué. He's also permanently enervated because of that. And he's very analytical about cause and effect. He's also pretty bad at forecasting based on cause and effect. That's why he's better at being right hand pony. Dossiers!
Anyway.
It. Yes really. You just have to love him.
Damn, that wasn't even intentional. Bloody ponies.
Scapa would never have used those, why should his sons or anyone else on the islands who all learned English from him? Pony skills. Seriously Cel?
People skills it is.
Thanks for all your hard work in sinning this story. It's better for it! Really. Maybe.
You made my day anyway ;)
6388791
It's 1473 words. *ding* 5
6391605
I find your "clumsily hidden exposition" really helps paint the picture in my head as I read.
I would have to say that so far it has lead to a slightly slower read, but a more enjoyable one.
It's nice to have some details to set the stage so that we don't imagine in a complete vacuum.
9562645
Thank you for giving this old story some love
The balancing act of exposition and show-not-tell has been a struggle throughout this story - too much world-building in my head. Some people appear to like it though, so I wouldn't want to change the style too much, although I did re-write the first chapters.
If only it wasn't so, so incredibly hard to continue it. Nothing I currently write holds up to what I want with it... And it makes me feel bad. For two years now. Maybe for Event-day this year? One can hope.