Manehattan construction, as seen by four kirin

by publiq

1SSRS + 2 moons, 7 dawns (part 2)

1SSRS + 2 moons, 7 dawns (part 2)

The earlier entry was written during downtime while Winter and Pumpkin reviewed plans with Rose. I did not expect much else interesting to happen today. That was a false assumption. At least I could separate my writing into two sessions. Also, by “earlier today,” I mean “yesterday,” as I’m writing this first thing after shaking off the embers of the hot bed.

After our day at the site finished, we looked at the rest of the street during the off-season. Our next-door neighbors were a warehouse and a Gryphon-run buckball betting bar. Across the wide avenue and obscured by the trees separating cart trotting from walking lanes, I could see a deep recess for some sort of plaza. We tried our luck with the bar. Stripes Katiti had departed to catch the trolley to return to the academic district, so it was just us kirin now.

The visibly-bored green griffin with a gray beak perked up as soon as she saw us approach as potential patrons.

“Greetings! Welcome to Big Bill Bell’s Buckball Bar Bee Queue—” she broke off in what must be her usual welcome. “I’ve never seen creatures of your kind before. Meat or no meat?”

“No meat,” replied Winter with a slight shudder at the reminder that griffins are a predatory species.

“Good thing you’re here during the quiet season,” replied the hostess, seemingly oblivious to our agitation at being in the presence of a carnivore. Whatever food they were cooking smelled good enough to compel us to stay.

She continued, “I can get you four ring-side seats in the vegetable section. Name’s Greta Ginastera, by the way. You can call me Gigi.”

That’s 6:00, in pony terms. When the shadow points to the opposite of noon.

She led us back past the bar with its muted magic displays to what must be a buckball court under a giant pergola. Gigi checked the wind sock. If our entrance was at the antinoon position, today’s designated vegetable section was at 2:30 and down some steps through empty stadium seating.

When Gigi returned with our sparkling waters, she arrived with a pink leopard-spotted griffin. This new griffin opened with an offer for a free meal if we played a game of buckball. We agreed and she unlocked the gate that led the rest of the way onto the field.

The results from the tryout were unambiguous: we are too forward with using telekinesis to take the role of the earth pony but not dexterous enough to be a unicorn. However, the fact that we flip into creatures of flame when we get aggressive was “better than Tartarus.” Too bad it damaged the ball. Despite our athletic attempt coming up empty-hooved, they still comped our meal.

Useful info about griffins for future kirin visitors: they also enjoy hot hot peppers on their food, though not as a way to maintain their internal fire. They lack the taste buds to understand capsaicin, so load up their food with spicy peppers to keep away mammals—both predatory and grazers.

After enjoying the spicy hay, we walked along the avenue to the next cross street to the waterfront. The revealed skyline showed how each of the buildings in the city's heart was as tall as a Peak of Peril. Artificial mountains and we walked among their valleys.

A short walk along the docks revealed our lodging and off-site foundry, as we walked through its gaping rolling shutter door. The interior was brick, painted black, lit by magically-intense white tube lamps. The ambiance reminded me of the interior of an oven when the flame was off.

Cultural export safety note: while we do enjoy dumping a refreshing bucket of boiling water down our backs to clean, jumping in a boiling lake or a lava pool is painfully fatal. Visit a dragon if you want to see a creature who enjoys those activities.

Tired from our exercise and full from our meal, we surveyed the bedding situation. Rose had known about our arrival and had taken the time to arrange our sleeping quarters with two spacious soft beds and a hot bed with four oxygen channels, in the unlikely occasion we all needed to bake on the same night. Before bed, we retreated to the bathing corner, and Winter flared into a nirik to boil four small buckets of water that we splashed on each other to clean off the sweat and meat smoke from our buckball tournament.

After the last of the water evaporated and we shook free any remaining dust, we choose our sleeping arrangement. I headed straight for the hot bed. Its loving coals warmed my hooves to sustain the warmth I have felt so far on this journey. Once I laid down, their embrace on the undercarriage of my barrel was heavenly. Out of my periphery, I saw Rose and Winter each hop into a soft bed. Before I could lower the large log over my back, Pumpkin laid down next to me. Four oxygen channels were provided, but only two could realistically be used at any one time once we settled in.

My muzzle now nestled gently in the oxygen channel; I could feel Pumpkin's barrel just barely touching my own as he settled into his position. The top log was finely cut: large enough to last the night, yet not so heavy as to impair our breathing. This unexpected intimacy was jarringly welcome.

“You can tell we’re sleeping in an industrial coal burner,” whispered Pumpkin. I felt his breath on my nostrils. No wonder Equestrian ponies described sharing breath in such detail in their romance books.

He continued, “a hot bed installed in one of our huts would have its oxygen channel finished with polished porcelain. An extra-smooth glide for the fur under your chin.”

I hoped his horn would not touch mine. Thankfully, he relaxed and closed his eyes as the flame enveloped our bodies as we drifted off to relaxing sleep. No physical entanglement, at least for now. Romantic entanglement, on the other hoof… If this contract was a pretext to speed along village repopulation efforts, it came dangerously close to success—and we still have at least half a moon remaining.

Project status: Pumpkin and Winter have concrete plans for which metals to use. Otherwise, same as before.