The Land Shark

Call me Wishmael. I confess it is not the name that my mother felt compelled to call me, but I always liked it and we storytellers do enjoy giving ourselves fanciful pen names. So for the sake of this narrative it is how we shall refer to me.

Being a writer and pony of restless nature I have never felt it best to sit at my desk and wish to Celestia that a story might walk into my head. Instead, I have often answered the call of the open road and taken it's many paths to various locales in hopes of

experiencing something of interest that I could then put to paper. An it was while walking one of these paths that I came to the city of Sandlot.

Located on the edge of the great Namib desert. Sandlot had, by my arrival, become THE stop for many an airship that had traveled over the great dunes. Merchants unloaded their various wares from places yet to be put on a map. Eagerly they traded and sold to customers that had likewise traveled many a mile, all for the chance to give up their gold for an exotic purchase. An what purchases they were.

As I made my way down the many streets my eyes beheld things that would take the rest of this book to tell about. Trees that grew upside down. Clothing that changed color based on the mood of its wearer. Cups, filled with drink, that no matter how many times you sipped, they would never run dry.

I could have kissed the ground I walked on for leading me to such a place. Surely this was were I would find the experience that would translate into my new novel.

I decided then and there I would once again take passage on one of those vessels of the sky. It would be a nice change of pace for me as well. The road had been very dull lately. The only conversations I had had at night was my pen putting words to paper. The talks with my fellow shiphoofs that I could strike up would be welcome change to the silence of my past few evenings.

Being a seasoned wanderer I knew that the best place to obtain information on anything, including airships, would be at one of the local taverns. They are after all , a market place like any other. The coin is the drink that flows from the many barrels of the bartender and the goods that coin buys are the tales from the patrons, whose lips are quickly loosened once a mug is put in front of them. Perhaps after gifting a local with a free drink I would learn of when the next ship would be leaving port.

My mind made up, I struggled against the tide of bodies that filled the streets. Gazing up at the various signs that adorned the buildings my eyes searched for word like “inn” “bar” and “saloon.” It was not long before I happened on one that read “The Black Sands Tavern.” Thanking my luck I waded my through the ever moving sea of bodies to the entrance.

Upon entering I felt that familiar sensation of being home. It may sound strange to one who spends their whole life in one town, but for those of us who have that bad habit of not staying put a tavern is the closest thing we know to a home.

After my eyes had adjusted to the darker atmosphere of being indoors I noticed that was the only customer. The bartender, did not even notice my arrival, being occupied with the cleaning of one of his cups. I walked up to a table and threw a few coins down.

As I expected, the sound of circular metal hitting wood found its way to the ears of the bartender. With speed that would have made the wonderbolts consider recruiting him, the fellow was at my side. Grinning ear to ear, his smile told me he was eager to relieve me of the burden of my cash.

“What will you be ordering sir?” he asked.

“A cup of your best cider and a plate of whatever your cook might have left over,” I answered.

Picking up the coins I had put down. The bartender, who told me his name was “Running Tab” ran to the back of the room and exited through a set of swinging doors. Soon he returned balancing on his head a cup of cider and a plate of steamed broccoli covered in melted cheese.

As I dined I inquired about when a ship might be leaving port as I wished to seek passage. “Running Tab” informed me that the only one who knows when a ship is coming our going out of Sandlot is its captain. They usually stayed in port for as long as their goods needed selling and only after the last customer had bought the final item would a ship even consider heading back out over the desert.

If the bustle of the afternoon was any indication I knew that such a day would be far off. Deciding I did not want to give up on my quest to head out over the far reaching sands. I made up my mind it would be best to rent a room and see what tomorrow would bring.

I asked Running Tab if he had any beds that needed feeling. He told me that they were full, but if I did not mind sharing a room with a fellow traveler then he could accommodate me. I told him that such an arrangement was fine, though I was not ready to settle in right away.

The noise of the street was enticing and it was the middle of the day so I saw no need to head to my room right away. I thanked Running Tab for his service and said that I would be back at nightfall to bed down.

Leaving my saddle bags in the good pony' care I headed back out through the doors to see what stories Sandlot could provide me for my next novel