In the Company of Night

by Mitch H

Foals Underhoof

SBMS018

We ended up storing the foals in my mostly-empty infirmary, laid two to a cot in the back of the hall. Most of my casualties from the previous week had returned to their sections by that morning, only Octavius, my two amputees and the burned jenny were left cluttering up the place. The amputees and Octavius were in the middle of a game of cards.

Well, I shouldn't ever say that Company ponies are in the "middle" of playing poker. It's one of those things where there's always a game going. If there are brethren awake, off duty, and not moving, there's a game. The games spontaneously generate like maggots in rot, or flies in horseapples. I swear I've seen ponies produce decks out of thin air, ponies I knew didn't have a shilling or a denier to their names, who had complained to me of having lost their last decks – when there was a need for a game, there was a deck, like the universe providing necessary entertainment to ponies with otherwise-destructive tendencies. The Company technically pays its brethren - we are after all a mercenary company - but in practice nopony has cash money, everypony seems to traffic in debt chits and memorized I-owe-Stomper-so-now-you-owe-her-this memory-aids.

I don't know where the actual cash money goes – it gets paid out, then it gets shuffled around. Maybe check the trunks of Shorthorn, he always seems to win whenever I stick my head into any given game. I was kind of surprised to not find him in here shaking down my convalescents; I suppose his assault column had been one of the two which had to go to ground in a temporary blind away from the base. I interrupted the game briefly to look at the stumps of my patients, and waved off Gibblets to go do wizard things. Like, say, touching up our defensive glamours on the tracks and brush we had just trampled the hell out of outside.

"Octavius, what are you still doing in here, you've got an overstrained horn, not a crippling injury. No offense, Firkin. And good job keeping off this, it is draining nicely. You're going to be laid up for the rest of the campaign season, the both of you. We'll keep you in here for the next two weeks, and shift you into something more permanent when they have something more permanent. Or we get burned out, whichever comes first."

"Doc, what's with the foals?"

"Markers, I came to join your game. I figure they're worth a hundred deniers each, easy. Ha! Got you wondering. Nah, a project of Gibblets', I'm foalsitting until the sleep spell wears off. Can't have them sleeping out there underhoof, it's a madhouse." I finished wrapping up the stump of the second donkey's right rear leg with fresh bandages. No complications, although I was starting to run short of clean bandages. We needed a laundry set up, soonest. Alcohol could only cover so many sins before filth started making trouble.

A parade of minor cuts, sprains, and burns tromped through my office that morning, nothing too impressive until the pegasi brought one of their sisters in with a nasty radial fracture in her left wing, more than a greenstick, not quite a compound. Autumn Blade certainly made enough noise about the pain, though, so I gave her some of my laudanum special, and waited a bit before starting the set. After getting her to chug her opiate cocktail, I glanced down to discover an audience of two foals staring wide-eyed at the sniveling mare and her crooked wing, primary feathers stretched in all sorts of directions they oughtn't have.

It was Gibblets' ochre magic earth pony and a little jenny, dull beige beside her… friend? I had no idea if these kids were even related or acquainted with each other. They weren't saying anything, just staring at the pegasus as her cries slumped into drugged moans.

"Is that supposed to bend that way, Mr. Demon?"

"What, her wing? No, she ran into a tree branch this morning. It's definitely broken. Ever see a broken limb set before? If I do it before the potion takes hold, she'll scream like all Tartarus."

"C'est malade raide!" squeaked the little jenny. I blinked at her, and looked at the other foal.

"Don't look at me, Ah don't speak 'beck-oyes. But that's wicked cool," she offered.

"Jes, jes, tres cool," nodded the little jenny with the thick Prench accent. "Rayures monsieur, quel genre de diable êtes-vous?" She paused, thought about it, and repeated slightly more intelligibly, "Monsieur Striped, the which demon you are?"

I raised one eyebrow, and turned to the broken wing, reaching out with my hooves to stroke the feathers into alignment and estimate the necessary angle of the set. "Neither I, nor any other pony you'll find here, is any kind of diable, bratling. Most ponies call my kind 'zebra', if they call us anything at all." I thought for a second, running my sole along the break, seeing if it would nudge into alignment without further effort. "Strike that, I'm not exactly sure what Gibblets is, exactly. For all I know, he could be some sort of minor devil or imp." I pressed the misaligned ends of the break into line, and Autumn Blade yelped in drugged agony.

The two foals twitched in alarm, and their eyes followed my hooves as I grabbed my alcohol swabs and wiped down the feathers along the top of the wing.

"Gibblets is the greenish rubber-faced biped who brought you lot into the compound, if you're wondering. You're essentially his problem for the time being, although I strongly suspect him of trying to dump his mistakes on my withers," I continued, reaching for the wing-brace. I wiped it down with alcohol-soaked rags as well. Things wouldn't stay clean for long, but there was no point in putting a dirty brace on a dirty wing. The brace was cleverly made with screw-turn adjustments, or something like that. Ask the smiths if you want the proper terminology. All I knew is that I just needed to crank that sucker down, and it would hold the wing in the position I set for it, without letting the broken edges of the break grind against each other, or shift in alignment. Not much else we could do about it but keep the pegasus from moving the wing by immobilizing it. Same as fixing a broken leg, really. Well, that and the ol' zebra secret sauce, but that goes without saying for pretty much everything that isn't a sucking barrel wound.

"Go lay down, Autumn Blade." I guided her to the cot which the two foals had abandoned to observe me about my work. As soon as she laid down, she fell asleep. The draught I had given her was strong enough, it would get us all through the initial day or two of healing, which was just as well. I'm no more a fan of agonized howling than the next pony.

"Monsieur Striped, what…. 'kind of' diable iz mam'zelle Autumn Blade?"

I gave her the stink-eye. "We call ponies with wings 'pegasi', or individually, 'a pegasus'. What kind of rock have you been living under that you've never heard of pegasi?"

"Aw, don't mind Prenchy here, she's from that joual clan down the road towards de Pere, the Tremblays. They keep ta themselves, don't send their foals to the schoolhouse. They're kinda ignorant."

"Ayia! Tu ne vas pas et de faire la manquette de moi, tu salete-poney crosser! C'est écœurant!"

"Hey! I know what that meant! Sorta! Keep your dirty mouth to yourself, Prenchy!"

"Je m'en sacre!" And with that they started tussling, the earth-pony's tail caught in the jenny's teeth, and the two of them spun around as the filly tried to get her own chompers on something that would hurt.

"OK, cut it out, you two imps," I squawked as I hoofed them apart like a pair of squabbling cats. Gibblets' favorite was much more angelic when she was safely asleep. "Here!" I hoofed them my dirty laundry, and pointed at a hamper across the room, "make yourself useful and go put this in that bucket. I've got more ponies to see."

And indeed, more brethren had trickled into the infirmary while I was busy with the broken wing and the wakened fillies. The fillies' peers continued to slumber the sleep of the pole-axed, I was beginning to suspect that Gibblets had been onto something with this filly and magic potential, and maybe a little bit with the jenny as well. Donkeys were weird on Tambelon.

The two of them continued to exchange country and gutter-Prench insults in wroth whispers out of the sides of their muzzles, while I cleaned out two more wounds, significant halberd-cuts across muzzle and forehead on a zebra mare and a unicorn stallion, but they didn't come to blows, or otherwise compel me to separate them again. They were far too entertained by the spectacle of blood, scalpel-work, and wound-stitching to try and make more wounds for me to clean.

"So," I turned to the hellions, my work done for the nonce. "I've been learning all sorts of words today from 'Prenchy' here, but I doubt that's her name, and I know you've not bothered to introduce yourself, filly-my-girl. My name is Sawbones, and as you can see, I'm a surgeon. Who are you two?"

"Ah'm Bloody Ploughmare." I blinked at her, incredulous. "What? It's my name! I cain't help what my mamma called me. These things run in families, and it was either that or Ambrosia Apple, and d'you know how many Ambrosias there are in this duchy? Ait least a dozen I've heard tell of!"

"It's just a little… on the nose. Ponies get called things like that here in the Company, but only after they change their names, and the ones that go for something like that have a hard time of it. It sounds like trying too hard." I snorted, letting it go, and turned back to the jenny foal that barely spoke Equuish. "So, your name. Ah… tu prenom?"

"Mon nom est Feufollet, Monsieur Sawbones. Ravi de tu rencontrer," she curtseyed at me.

"Ha!" laughed little Bloody, pointing a hoof at her neighbor, "at least my name is from ah variety of apple. She's named after a swamp-monster! No wonder she came out with the rest of us to follow that parade ah devils! She fell right in line with the rest of the will-o'-the-wisps!"

Feufollet looked sheepish, and I figured that she understood considerably more Equuish than she spoke. And that the accusation had found its mark. I narrowed my eyes at Bloody Ploughmare – and that name was certain to be shortened if they were to stay with the Company for long, or else she would do nothing but trail laughter behind her wherever she went – and waved my hoof at her.

"And what imp of the perverse drew you out of the safe confines of hearth and home, Bloody? Last night was an ill time to be walking the Bride's highways."

She rubbed her own forehoof in her green mane, mirroring Feufollet's expression. "T' be honest, I was kind of out of doors when the parade came trompin' by. Ah had a faight with ma' kin, and there were some words. Ahm about old enough to start workin' by my family's lights, but I can't work the trees worth a pinch ah shit. They don't listen to me, and when ah try to buck 'em, they tend ta buck back, and never give up an apple. Pa says ah - ah- I might as well be a donkey."

Feufollet sniffed in contempt, but Bloody was just sniffling. I looked away, trying not to contribute to the sudden heavy atmosphere. The rest of the infirmary had gone silent at Bloody's little confession, and even the poker game, which had been slowly growing at the back of the ward, went quiet.

"Well that's a damn fool thing to tell a foal. Want we should go burn down their farm?" asked the zebra with the fresh stitches across her muzzle.

"We ain't burning out random farmers for being dicks to their kids!" barked the corporal to her right, cuffing her across the poll. He turned back to his cards, and offered an aside to the wide-eyed foal. "Don't worry chile, ain't nopony in this ward can buck out a tree. It's a knack, and if you ain't got it, you ain't got it. Ah grew up with Apples in the neighborhood. Good ponies, but narrow about their trees. Almost enough to credit those rumors y'all had dryads hiding somewhere in your woodpiles." He folded with a sniff of disgust, and got up to walk over to little Bloody, his horn lighting up as he approached.

"Bloody, this is Bank Shot. He's one of our bow-unicorns. Have you ever seen a unicorn?"

She rolled her eyes at me, offended. Well, unicorns weren't nearly as rare in Tambelon as zebra or pegasi, I suppose. Bank Shot bent down and looked her over, his eyes and his horn glowing a brilliant blue. He wasn't exactly warlock material, but he had more to him than nothings like Octavius.

"Interesting! You really don't look like any Apple I've ever met. You ever have weird events when you were very young, things burn down in your vicinity, poltergeists, that sort of thing?"

"Ye…yeah. There was a fire, and stuff had a tendency to wander when ah was in the room, they used to say. Ah haven't had an accident in years, though. It was enough to make my grandmother try to get my parents to get rid of me, they say, though. Before she died."

"What a charming family. Well, girl, you certainly look like a unicorn to me, just without the horn. I wonder if we could get you doing exercises-"

"WHAT THE HAY ARE YOU DOING WITH MY APPRENTICE, CORPORAL!" bellowed Gibblets from the entrance to my infirmary.

Author's Note:

So, some faffing about while we make the acquaintance of some foals, and learn a little (probably atrocious) pseudo-Quebecois Prench. I guess this could be considered filler, but fillers have purpose - they keep the important things from crowding each other.

Comments

[Minalkra]

7563372
I'm not sure about no soul, never had enough of one to make stick, but it's great for practice if you can keep it up. And if you do, you'll end up gold starred by me soon enough. Though I hope that we'll get back to Equestria one of these days, not in a rush to see it.

[Bookeater_otaku]

As a Québécois français, I can assure you that some of the traductions were effectively atrocious ans more of a mix of pure French dialect mixed with a Quebec one, like a french child who suddenly had to live in my country. But it was easy to understand what she meant.