The Peddler

“...and that is ha’we came to settle down ‘ere.” Dracon had just concluded the story of his family’s immigration to Equestria. They were, surprisingly, not very welcomed in Manehattan despite its proximity to Griffonia, and the large griffon population there. Not that the man had ever stayed that long there, but he definitely knew of the griffons and their influx into the city.

“So, you thought the country would work out better?” The man questioned, as he sipped some soup from a spoon he held. There were moments when the griffon’s accent flourished itself harshly, and made it hard for him to understand some words, but after a few hours of talk the man had seemed to have gotten used to it well enough to understand most of what the griffon said.

The old griffon shook his head, “No, there was definite...what’s the word?...uncertainty. But, we’d herd rumors about’a town near Canterlot, an’while that would have sealed the nail to tha’ coffin, so to say, my Angleia didn’t want ta’ head down tha’ coast. So, we went ta’Ponyville.”

The man seemed to hiccup at the mention of the town, but he hoped it went unnoticed, and instead a face of curiosity was plastered on him, “You lived in Ponyville?”

Dracon nodded enthusiastically, “Yeep, nice folks around those parts. We got some work for’awile, but we wanted to start a business, and’a developed town like Ponyville had not’a need for another inn. So, we came just a’bit down south.” He motioned about the bar, “An, as they say, the rest is history.” The griffon chuckled as he motioned around the inn.

Matthed, Dracon’s daughter, had been cleaning tables and chairs during the time they had been talking, undoubtedly listening in on the tales the man had shared with the old griffon, and she also seemed content with just listening, as she hadn’t so much as peeped out a word during her work, and their sharing of campfire tales.

“So, where are’ya planning on goin’now?” Dracon asked, grabbing a shot glass from under the table, and scanning his shelves of alcohol.

That gave the man pause, and he found himself swishing around the soup he had in his mouth rather than swallowing it, as if it would give him more time to come up with an answer. He swallowed, “I don’t know.” Was all he could find.

Dracon turned with a grey bottle in his talon, and poured himself some dark, black liquid from it, “Hmm...such is the tha’predicament of a wanderer...peddler, you said tha’word was.” He chuckled, “You got tha’whole world at your talons, yet nowhere ta’go.”

The man could only somberly nod his head, “Yep.”

It was then, after a moment of awkward silence, that Matthed spoke for the first time in hours, “Well...what about Los Pegasus?” Her voice was bold and thick, despite her lack of accent, but she was also quiet in her volume, a shy chick she was, the man could tell that much.

Dracon threw back his shot, “An’what about Los Pelgeaus, Matty? In case you haven’t noticed, our friend here don’t have wings.” He looked over to the man, “You don’t got wings, do you?”

The man chuckled slightly, be it at the griffon’s pronunciation of Pegasus or the idea of having wings, “Man, I wish. It would definitely make things much, much easier.” He said.

Matthed spoke up again, “They got a lot of earth ponies that live there, pa. The clouds are enchanted, anyone could walk on them!” Another detail the man noticed about the young chick, was her definitive lack of an accent, if anything, she sounded a bit more like how Mister Mer did, or a few of the townsfolk he had overheard during his walk through the square.

The man put his bowl of soup down, “I do appreciate the thought, but I’ve never agreed with deserts, or sand. It’s coarse and rough and gets everywhere.”

“Well, you’re a’ merchant, right?” The chick asked.

He nodded his head, “Of a sorts, yes.”

Matthed beamed, “Well, around this time of the year they tend to have their ‘Day of the Harped Feather Festival’, merchants from all over go there to set up shop, it’s a day of food and pegasi tend to burn holes in their pockets on those days. It lasts a whole week! Despite having the word ‘day’ in it. Hehe.” Having noticed his empty bowl, she moved over to take it from its place on the bar, “I’m sure you could make plenty of bits from selling your wares there! Would you like some more?” She eventually asked.

The man nodded, “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Matthed smiled, and started towards the kitchen, Dracon idly nodded, “The girl does have’a point. You could make some real money there. Me’an the wife took our Matty one time, it was...interestin’to say the ‘least.”

“So what is this festival, anyways?” The man asked as he waited for more of that delicious soup. In all his times and travels he hadn’t heard of that particular celebration.

Dracon shook his head, “Unless you’been around yer’whole life, I doubt you’d have. We only knew’causin’pegasi always comin’through. It only happens once every other Moon er’so.” The griffon was combining words now, it seemed that whatever he drank really hit his throat hard.

The man blinked, he had tried to figure out Moons when put up against the Earthen calendar, but he didn’t have so much luck. The way he figured, and how people used the term, to him it seemed plausible that a Moon was around five years or so. So this festival really was a big deal if it was only every other Moon. That’s fifteen years! Now the man was interested.

Matthed came back with some more soup, “Say, Matthed, when does this Festival start? I...haven’t looked at a calendar in a while.” The man admitted.

She perked up at the fact he was considering her suggestion, “Oh, it starts on the 12th of Evensgale, which is…” She paused for a moment as she retreated into her mind, “...in four days.”

The man slurped his soup as he did the mental calculation for the trip. It would likely take him four days just to take the road around the southern pass and through the desert, likely five or six if he ended up needing to make frequent stops. He really did not agree with deserts.

“Hmm, I’ll consider it, thank you.” The man said to Matthed, who gave a deep smile. He then looked to Dracon, “So...about that room.”

So the man ate his soup, another two bowls worth, and was promptly given a key to his room for the night. It was a simple thing for a simple inn. A bed, small mirror, and a trunk. He was just happy to get his boots off for the first time in weeks. He also took a bath, a real bath, with hot water and a porcelain tub. Sure, he bathed and washed in streams and rivers where he could find them, washing his clothes and such, but he hadn’t had a real wash since he had left Tall Tale, nearly a month ago at this point, he figured.

Matthed had taken the pleasure in washing his clothes and the man had given her a drying crystal, an interesting little thing that, much like an instant dry spell, sucked excess moisture and water out of them. So, once he had figured it time to turn in (rather early, even before dusk was trimming the edges of the horizon) he had clean clothes, a clean body, and a clean bed to sleep in. It was, at least to him, heaven.

The next morning he had breakfast that came with the room, a few ponies were in, a few locals, some were travellers that had come in during the night prior as he slept like there was no tomorrow. A few he recognized, a shop owner, and a farmer he had seen at market. All the others were new faces, and while the man would have liked to stay and chat and have a cool cider or two with them, he knew he needed to hit the road early if he was going to hope at all to reach Los Pegasus before the festival had ended, and the sooner he got there, the less likely it would be that they had drained all their bits.

He, however, did wait around just a while, to stop at Fuzzy's. From her he had bought another week’s worth of food, and some extra bottles and jars for water. He also, maybe, sold her a few of his simple wares as well, for a generous discount of course, ‘For all it may be worth, good luck.’ She had told him.

His mind wandering to the desert that would separate him and his destination, he knew he would need all the luck he could get…

And so, with him standing at the edge of town, he looked back and waved the humble border village a simple goodbye, and with a cool, faint wind blowing, the shade of the broadleaves keeping the low morning sun at bay, he started back on the road, a feeling he knew all too well. At least he was nice and clean, which was a good feeling. Soon, not far out of town, he saw a sign that he couldn’t help but smile at as he did when he first entered the little hamlet:

“We’ll miss ya’!” It read.