Home is where the Heart is and the heart should be full of love. Well, at least in this place it should be.
Welcome to Greneclyf, meaning ‘Green Cliffs’. It’s the Hillpony’s name for the island as it is what the ponies of the mainland would see, either with a spyglass or whilst sailing nearby.
My ancestors came from Farbrook at one point, but it was a long time ago. My family has lived here for generations and we are considered to be Greneclyfian. I come from a town called Misneach, meaning “Hope” for all non Greneclfyians out there. It’s not too far from the capital as well, Blosmport; the biggest port city, and a stunningly beautiful place.
My town of Misneach sits on a flat plain just downstream from where a river starts. Due to this, the land is fertile, allowing for plenty of farms to pop up. ‘Course, these farms only have a singular purpose: feeding the pony population here on Greneclyf, unlike our brethren species of the island who make up the majority, the changelings. They eat ‘love’, oddly enough. It's not a physical item that one can consume, though, it's the emotion, as weird as that sounds. The emotion of loving something or somepony; that emotion. It’s hard to explain, really, since we ponies are not able to see it, smell it, or feel it like changelings do, but just believe us. No one really knows why they eat like this, or why they evolved this way, but we don’t question it. There's never been anything to make us question it much.
I’ve heard stories from many a-folk who pass through the island while selling their wares or delivering supplies. There are other changelings, too, far away in a land called Equestria. Equestria is a pony-dominated kingdom, or rather a diarchy. Though there are changelings living around there, sadly, they don’t live in peace with the ponies. I never understood why, honestly. I personally find them to be cute sometimes, funny, goofy, and honestly, their disguising ability always seemed really amazing to me. I guess growing up around them, you get accustomed to them. Nothing wrong with that right?
I myself grew up a single foal with two loving parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, the whole shebang, you know? Even considered some changelings here to be family since they’re close to us. My father is a carpenter and my mother a tailor. He builds furniture, or even boats sometimes, and my mum makes clothing for sailors, business ponies, and fancy clothing for the locals in town for when they have a night out or something similar.
I should introduce myself as well before I forget. My name is Fíonn Taistealaí and I went to school and grew up like everyone else. I enjoyed hanging out with my friends and playing games like tag or hide or seek or pretending to be guard by waving sticks about like swords or pikes as anyone would expect of a child. It was a great foalhood, truthfully.
Now, I’m a stallion. I finished primary school and secondary school. My father wanted me to help him continue his work in carpentry, but I wanted to travel and explore the island and maybe even Farbrook and the rest of the mainland. As you can probably bet, I kinda had a falling out with my father over that, but, thank Slána, my mother convinced him to let me travel. It was under the condition that I promised to help him for a year in his workshop, at least to make some money so I can actually survive on my travels, which worked for me—for my father too.
I was mostly sent out to purchase wood planks, tools, and other things we would need, but the odd time he’d have me carving, chipping, hammering, or varnishing a piece or project. Or, on occasion, bring him some tea that my mother had made for us.
We would argue a lot over how some things should be done and he’d go as far as chasing me out of the workshop sometimes. But, that was the price he paid for making me do this job. I will admit though, I did enjoy it, and after a year passed, my father, begrudgingly, let me go on my travels.
I made sure to leave him a gift: a bottle of his favourite porter; MacSéamais Fruisce Grá, a fairly popular brand of Whiskey, and one my father foams at the mouth over. That should’ve kept him quiet for a while. Well, hopefully, for the sake of my mother's ears before he started singing old songs.
For my travels, I plan to head to Blosmport at the end of the trip. Mainly because it's the biggest city and the best should be saved for last, right? I’ll start by heading to Cengail by train. Then I’ll explore the eastern province, the central province, and finally, the western province with the capital.
Given that the Capital will have many boats going back and forth, I’m considering travelling to Farbrook too. I've heard it's as scenic as Greneclyf, and I’d get to see where my ancestors came from, which is a plus. Given how intertwined both our nations are, they're almost like brothers or family to us just as much as the changelings and ponies here are, it should be a safe enough place with the exception of the fauna. But that's for a later date to decide on. After all, I will have loads of time to decide. As they say, nothing can possibly go wrong!
Author's Note
Greneclyf is an Island on the eastern part of the globe of the EAW Interpretation of My Little Pony.
Greneclyf is based on Ireland ~~(with some Japenese~~ flavouring~~, albeit, extremely minimal flavouring)~~. As a result, Irish or Greneclyfian will show up alot through the story, so I will leave translations here for those who don't speak as Gaeilge, to be able to understand. For example, the name “Fíonn” means “Fair-haired” in Irish, and “Taistealaí” means “Traveller”, making his name “Fair-haired Traveller"
The rattling and shuffling of the train and its passengers would stir anyone awake if they would dare to sleep upon it. Fíonn himself was typically a heavy sleeper. He's been splashed with water and shaken to death by his parents, and sometimes his friends too when they would stop by to see him, but the hustling and bustling of the train and its passengers was enough to shake him awake.
As he, with eyes still struggling to open and acclimate to the light of the sun on this mighty fine and beautiful day, had sat up and began looking around, trying his damndest not to yawn too loudly to avoid bothering others (or make them yawn too). Once he had felt awake enough, he stretched his limbs out with a satisfying pop.
He had awakened at a convenient time, with the train's wheels screeching to a halt as it arrived at Ceangail, one of the three main towns to host a train station besides that of the Capital of Blosmport and of the city of the Royal Hive, Bugsmere. After gathering his thoughts and belongings, he made his way off the train. And after worming himself past or through crowds of fellow passengers, his eyes would drink in the town as he approached the large and open arched doors to the station.
Ceangail was a moderately large town, its train station being only a two-minute trot from the main shopping area, typically referred to as Shop Street with vendor stalls lining the street like holiday lights in December. One would imagine the houses to be your typical wooden structure with stone foundations and thick wooden beams held together with your typical steel and iron binds. However, this isn’t the case for Ceangail and Greneclyf at large. Of course, they bore the usual materials one would expect but one would not expect that of changeling architecture. Their dark loess-slash-sandstone (and changeling spit) mixture tends to replace much of the typical foundation and bindings. And given the wood used is a dark colour itself, it blended quite nicely together forming an almost rustic and cobblestone traditional style of housing. It’s a shining example of when ponies and changelings come together, they can accomplish something beautiful.
Fíonn would not be able to take it all in just yet, however. Midway through his moment of gawking at the lively town, Fíonn was dragged out of the moment by the conductor’s soul-wrenching whistle ripping into Fíonn’s eardrums. With a small and embarrassed grin, and a small jump that was thankfully ignored by everyone around him, Fíonn proceeded into town.
Walking through the streets, he reached into his satchel and eagerly sifted through his puints as his stomach growled. When he had finished, he swung his head back up and threw it around in desperation. Finally, his eyes landed on a small but bustling restaurant that serves a Full Greneclyfian; a hearty enough meal that would for sure sate him and quiet his impatient stomach for now.
The restaurant itself sat nicely at the end of the street with a smaller open area to its side and a narrow path leading deeper into town. Between that and a sudden drop down a hill with a beautiful view that on a sunny, clear day, it was just about possible to make out the outline of Aisling against its bay. A sight to behold for sure, especially when grabbing a quick bite to eat like Fíonn was doing.
Trying to at least savour his food and not scoff it down, Fíonn pulled out a small book from his messenger bag and levitated a pencil and other peripherals out, and began to sketch the restaurant and the beautiful view. The angle at which he sat, gave him a split but fantastic view of both; a mix of the natural wondrous display of nature at its finest and the talent and eye for stylistic yet efficient architecture of the area from whomever shaped this spot and likely, purposely picked this spot for said view.
The drawing itself was extremely detailed, from the speckled pattern of the stone walkway, the blankets of grass covering the farther expanses of the landscape, all the way to the shade underneath the houses casted by the sun and lighting of the scene. And within the distant background of the drawing, the faint but iconic silhouette of Aisling, and its cathedral, stood in clear contrast to the clear sky and ocean between it and the mainland.
Unbeknownst to Fíonn, his drawing had caught the eyes of many a-folk either trotting by, or those sitting close to him. He was so enthralled in his work that he didn't notice the crowd forming over his shoulder, lining themselves up with him to get the same view he had and gawking down between the drawing and the view itself. Once he finally did notice, he yelped in surprise, nearly knocking his food off the table.
“GAH- oh- uhm…”
Fíonn was met with some sparsely placed apologies from the changelings and ponies that currently had surrounded him. He simply shrugged and smiled back at them. No harm no foul, right? Besides, they’re just admiring his drawing, even if he thinks it wasn’t that good but who is he to argue. But after he noticed the sun's lowering position, and in turn checking his watch in a small panic, he hurriedly scoffed down his food, packed his items away, and began to head off. He also kept his head on an occasional swivel for any lodging for the night.
Thankfully, he encountered no further excitement during his walk. Though he did find himself breathless when graced by the many amazing views from different points in town. A pony casually strolled past him after buying a loaf of bread from one of the bakeries, ignoring the reflective shine of the grass. A changeling flew overhead with a broom caught in their magic, both seemingly oblivious to the deep blue sky overhead.
Unfortunately, the tranquillity was ripped from Fíonn by an intense shouting-the kind you’d hear from a riot. Squinting his eyes, he came upon a large gathering of protestors waving their signs and various banners and flags.
Fíonn immediately recognized them as the Comhghuaillíoch Poblachtach Mór, or the Republican Coalition. Well, mostly republican. There were a few other groups mish-mashed into it, but it’s an anti-monarchy coalition nonetheless. Most members were seen as a rowdy bunch who often stir up trouble wherever they prance, spitting vile slander of the royals. They despise the royals and tend to demand plenty of reforms: from reasonable to obscure; insane to asinine. If they would come into power, any of them, they would flip Greneclyf on its head, altering the way of life for all. It was hard to see much good in it since any mistake of the royals is never their own doing, only their undoing as the ranting and exaggerated whining of the coalition worsens the situation at hoof. They would do anything to look stronger and better than the royals; it was almost pathetic the lengths they would go to.
Fíonn had found himself being hounded by three supporting goons of the coalition.
“AYE, you there! Come here, lad! You hear about the rally too? Fucken great ain’t it, ey?” This came from the biggest one of the three, an earth pony no less, with his orange fur, sharp red eyes that would pierce through you, if he wasn't drunk that is, and a near void black hair, cut short around the sides with curls up top peeking out from below his flat cap. He wore a rugged tan shirt with brown leather braces over it and clipped to his brown baggy work pants. He carried the usual red banner with the signature hammer and sickle and wore a red hoof band.
“I- er- no, I’m just passing by-” Fíonn cut himself off as they began walking towards him.
“Ah you're one of those royal arse-lickers ain’t ya, bucko?” the smallest of the three asked as his wings gave a slight buzz. “You a noble or something? Freelancer? Guard? Come on, spit it out, lad!”
He was a changeling, with the obvious black chitin and everything, but the deep Hellquill blue of his eyes and fins stood in opposition to the black. He also wore a grey shirt with rolled-up sleeves beneath a waistcoat with matching blue to seal the deal. And befittingly enough, wore a darker blue hoof band with a white torch and flame on it, a liberalist supporter.
Fíonn took a deep breath. He could tell they wanted to intimidate him into supporting their cause or to at least not support the royals in case an ‘accident’ was to occur, but Fíonn never had a problem with the Queen or the royals. In fact, he admired the Queen. He knew it isn’t an easy job, especially with the River Federation being as xenophobic as it was. Hard to be diplomatic and calm with people who are too busy making up offensive terms and excuses to avoid talking to you.
“I am a traveller. I intend to explore and travel Greneclyf, I have no business or interest in politics, and will not be pressured into anything by your hooves. I can smell the drink off ye, so I won’t be taking anything you all say at face value or with any seriousness. Now, slán abhaile.” With that, he promptly turned and trotted off.
However, the second-tallest of the three who had been on the right, decided that Fíonn couldn’t leave just yet. He’s was a fairly built lad, another changeling, with a dark golden-yellow to counter the dark chitin, and dawning a fashionable suit by the looks of it, likely his Sunday best, a light grey wool overcoat and a matching light grey fedora with a black band around it, and an eye catching dark red rose badge with a thick dark purple outline, that of the Social-Democrats party, hooked into the band. His imposing figure blocked Fíonn while the smallest goon grabbed his tail, holding him in place.
“Where the fuck d’ya think yer goin’, ya little feck?” The golden-eyed one blocking him slurred.
“Somewhere less obnoxious, with less putrid stenches,” Fíonn quickly shot back. “And no, I’m not sticking around to play with ye, I have places to be, and so do ye. Now I will be on my way.”
“Nah buck that, yer staying here a biteen longer, sure, if ya quit it with the silver-tongued comments ya might just get home tonight without a scrap on ya.”
Fíonn heard the faint but definite sound of steel sliding against a leather casing, but before one of them could place it anywhere near Fíonn, they quickly hid it again as two of the City Guards came by. They both sported sullen looks and deep frowns. One of them even sighed before getting within speaking range. Both were changelings, one female with purple eyes, and a male with notably sharper orange eyes.
“You three again? Fifth bloody time this week. How many pints then you bunch of gowls?” the male guard asked with not a sliver of humour in his tone.
The three goons backed up, stammering and stuttering with faces going red in fear and panic. As they backed up and the orange-eyed guard stepped closer to them, the other guard with purple eyes stepped over to Fíonn, motioning for him to step away.
“Sorry about that, they have a tendency to harass people who aren't like them. It wouldn’t be a bad belief if they didn’t stain it with their pathetic antics. Did they do anything much to ya- er, what’s yer name?”
“Fíonn, Fíonn Taistealaí, I’m from back Misneach, and no, they didn’t harm me or anything, just stopped me by grabbing my tail and blocking me is all, along with a threat. Though I did hear the noise of steel sliding against leather if that might be of interest.”
“Huh. Looks like we beat ‘em to it this time, they usually get it to yer neck by the time we get here. It gets pretty boring dealing with the same sods day in and day out. Also greetings, I’m from Coillín myself, hopefully, I won’t be catching you in a mess like this again.”
“Nah, shouldn’t but no promises. Does this happen a lot?”
“Well… yes and no, this rallying began recently, but peer pressuring folk into their ‘cult’ has become annoyingly repetitive in such a short time. It wouldn’t be so bad if they just behaved. Ceangail ain’t usually like this so apologies, it’s usually much nicer than this.” By this point, the other guard was giving the three goons a lecture on manners.
“I see, I won’t stall yer work any longer then ma’am, thanks for the help.”
“Don’t mention it, Ceangail is a great town, enjoy your time here!” she said with a wave as both Fíonn and her parted ways.
That was one way to spice up a day, though for Fíonn this did leave him with some worry: if this wasn’t a usual occurrence for Ceangail, then it’s likely something that's going to pop up in other places too. It would be best to be prepared then.
Looking up, Fíonn found himself under the sweet embrace of the twilight sky. With a look of surprise, he walked off back the way he came, but in search of a hotel for the night. With the street lamps lighting the streets with the yellow glow of their lights, often out-shined by the lights of the rustic buildings behind them. But within the row of buildings one with a large marque above its front entrance, embroidered with the name of the place itself, Fabht Caol, a modest but respectable hotel to stay the night within.
Once settled in his room for the night, he proceeded to write down all of the day’s events in his journal, hoping to soon retell it all to his family and friends back home. After spending not thirty minutes scribbling down his thoughts, he finally went to sleep.
He would need a long rest tonight. Especially after that mess.
Author's Note
"Punt" was the Irish word for Pound (The Irish Pound, not the English Pound) back before Ireland adopted the Euro, its pronounced exactly like its spelt, like to punt someone in the face, and yes, translation errors have occured and many a folk have been on the recieivng end of a few punts when they really were talking about money!
