Summer Smash Celebration

by TheDriderPony

Rating: everyone
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Comedy, Other, Slice of Life, Yona, Prince Rutherford
Length: 4519

How do you have a Summer Sun Celebration in a nation that doesn't revere Princess Celestia? With quite a lot of smashing, of course!

The Summer Sun celebration occurs every year in Equestria on the solar equinox.
But surely the longest day of the year also happens everywhere else, right? So how do they go about celebrating it in places where no one has ever heard of (or at least doesn't care much about) Princess Celestia?
Luckily, there's one scholar who's eager to find out, and he's keeping a dedicated log of all his travels.

A submission for the Summer Sun Celebration Event hosted by the My Little Reviews & Feedback group. Hopefully I've managed an entry that successfully follows all all 26* entry rules and requirements.

Prereading provided by Holtinator, go check out their stuff as well!

Published 2024-08-31 05:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2024-08-31 05:40:01 UTC

Log Entry 76

On Cultures and Customs: An Observer’s Log of the Rituals and Ceremonies of Non-pony Peoples

Log Entry 76

Celestial Year 999, Summer 49, Evening

It is in the pursuit of my studies that I find myself in the bitterly freezing North. The ink freezes quick on my quill, forcing the use of a charcoal nib borrowed from one of my compatriots. May future readers of my log forgive some sloppiness from this less accustomed tool, but the North is cruel and unforgiving, and I must adapt lest my mission be all for naught.

Most consider these hinterland wastes to be of little value: the land too hard to cultivate, the weather too wild to corral, the ley lines too deep to draw from. Though legends speak of a great crystalline empire of ponies that once spanned these hills, if there is any truth to them then all traces of such have long since been lost to the depth of snow and time. But that does not mean that this place is as vacant or unsettled as one may assume.

I have continued my journey alone these past days. My associates and their staff have elected to stay behind and not venture beyond the village of Mark Deep on the northernmost border of what is considered settled Equestrian territory whilst I continue on unaccompanied. More the fools them, I say. Though they swear that their decision is merely borne of a desire to not miss the local Summer Sun celebration, it is my belief that they merely lack the physical and mental fortitude to face the icy tundra that exists untouched in an otherwise balmy summer. But what pleasures they find in the familiar mediocrity of an unmapped village’s celebrations I fear they shall lose in equal measure for missing the discovery of the new and undocumented.

The discovery of such is my goal and my mission, so I shall not waver even as the heather and lichenous rocks turn to hoarfrost beneath my hooves. It is the sacred duty of scholars such as myself to document the unknown, to chart the unexplored, and to pen the stories of those whose tales would otherwise be lost.

It was on the third day since departing from my companions that my exploratory efforts finally bore fruit. Coming around the bend of a river that I had been following since reaching the edge of my map, I encountered a pair of Yak engaged in a spirited bit of competitive fishing. In truth, I had initially thought them to be engaged in some manner of brawl over territory or somesuch, but as I later learned the Yak practice of fishing involves neither pole nor net, but simply bullrushing into the waters in such a way that the fish are flung onto the shore for their partner to collect.

My initial contact with them was successful, though hampered by an unexpected language barrier. Though they could speak the common tongue, they did so with a thick accent that paid only lip service to the usual rules of grammar. It was not truly an impediment, as I am something of a dab hoof at languages, though I did fear for the accuracy of my translations as we moved beyond basic introductions. As luck would have it, the pair proved friendly and agreed to guide me back to their village (though I do not doubt that negotiations were smoothed by my offering to help carry their harvest as well as the donation of several ration packs from my saddlebags. I am most glad that I overpacked).

The journey was briefer than I had expected, though I doubt I could have found their settlement through my own aimless wanderings. The Yak village—Yakyakistan, they call it. Or at least that is as close a translation I can manage since its true name is spoken in their own language which requires a sort of throaty rumble that I find myself unable to replicate (and would not be able to accurate transliterate even if I could)— lies nestled at the foot of a towering snow-clad mountain range, surrounded on all remaining sides by rolling hills tall enough to obscure it from any but the most keen-eyed pegasi. I found myself astounded by it. While it would be grossly unfair to compare it to any modern Equestrian city, it is still remarkable in its own primitive way.

Guarding the entry gates are a pair of titanic totems carved in the image of Yak warriors, each in full battledress bearing massive shields and lit torches. Neither sentinel crests short of thirty celestials tall and appears, for as much as I am able to judge such things, to be carved from a single tree each. One can scarcely imagine how enormous the original living specimens must have been and how long ago the colossi must have been created for such trees to disappear from both the land and common memory in the time since their creation. The village itself is of a scale on par with some of the smaller villages I have stopped at along the Equestrian frontier. Between one and two hundred low buildings, radially organized around a central gathering space. The centermost, and largest of them, are constructed of frozen mud compacted into thick slabs and supported by sparse yet sturdy wooden supports. Many of these seem to be communal spaces, their purpose shared by the community as a whole for storage or recreation. Further from the center, the structures diminish in size and complexity delineating a loose social hierarchy. The buildings at the very edges are constructed, most curiously, of compacted snow rather than more permanent materials. I later learned that these are temporary structures, built to house an influx of Yaks from other villages and would be reduced to ‘smashed smush’ within a week.

Though I was allowed easily through the front gate, I must confess that my first act upon meeting their leaders was to squarely place my hoof in my mouth.

Yaks are, as a whole, generally poorly understood by Equestria at large. Though they are not traditionally isolationist, their numbers are few and even upon reaching maturity few choose to leave their villages for southern lands. It does their reputation few favors that their culture and mannerisms clash so severely with Equestrian common sense. Of those that leave, they are often considered uncultured brutes by polite society (despite, as I have since learned through interviews, those individuals usually being the most mild-mannered of their people) which has painted a somewhat savage portrait of their kind as a whole. Little study has been done on their culture in any real depth, which is the only explanation I can offer for my poor showing upon attempting to open friendly relations with their leader.

My initial fright and instinctive cowering upon their greeting likely did not serve to help establish a relationship as equals, but I still believe my reaction was justified given the situation. What I took to be a cavalry charge was, as I was later informed, more akin to a greeting party. My attempts to communicate in their own dialect were likewise met with gracious refusal. Despite this, I felt as though I had made smooth progress until I was gifted a small wooden idol. Naturally, I thanked them and placed it into my bag for safekeeping. At this point, their demeanors took a noticeably cold turn and the rest of our conversation was decidedly curt and brusque. I was granted one of the smaller temporary dwellings for the time being, and quickly retired there for the evening, eager to escape the tension I had stirred up in my ignorance.

It would not be until several hours later, during the communal evening meal, that I understood the nature of missteps. I thank Faust for the innocence of children, as it was only from the mouth of a babe that I was finally able to learn what I had done wrong. The culturally appropriate thing to do, as I learned, was to crush the idol beneath my hooves upon receiving it. To do so was a sign of both strength and goodwill, and to store it away was an insult: a declaration that I did not trust them. With this new knowledge I was able to properly articulate my mistake and ask how to go about fixing it. Once again, the child and her straightforward honest earnestness was my saving grace. With her help, I was able to mollify the village’s ill sentiment and restore my social standing to more neutral ground—though doing so required me to smash not just the idol, but also both my portable telescope and a tin of canned bread before they were satisfied with my apology.

But despite my initial missteps, in the days since I have managed to establish a basic rapport with the natives as well something akin to the start of a friendship with their leader, the self-titled Prince Rutherford (though I do not know the origin or legitimacy of his claim, and such things are beyond the scope of my research besides). Unlike the common perception, I have found the Yaks to be a kind and welcoming people, though this magnanimity is veneered with a perplexing cultural fixation on destruction and aggressive displays of delight which are easily misinterpreted when one lacks proper social context.

Much to my delight, I have managed to secure an invitation to bear witness to their upcoming solstice festival: the local equivalent to our own Summer Sun Celebration. I plan to document the event as thoroughly as possible, not only so that knowledge of their fascinating culture may be more easily spread beyond the walls of their village, but also to prove to my skeptical academic colleagues that this mission is just as fruitful as I had predicted it would be. As I write, preparations for the celebrations are already underway beyond the walls of my borrowed hut. I have abstained from helping or even seeing them for the moment, such that my presence does not interfere with their ceremony and that I may record it with fresh eyes.

There are but scant hours now before the night falls and the festivities begin, and if I were to put aside academic professionalism for a moment, I must say that I am looking forward to it.

Log Entry 77

Log Entry 77

Celestial Year 999, Summer 50, Night Morning?

The ceremony begins not long before sundown. Colorful banners decorate the village; long thin strips of fabric dyed in purples, reds, and greens that hang on lines between buildings. All residents of the village are gathered in the central space, young and old alike. All are dressed in their finest shawls, with ribbons woven through their braids and bells hung from their horns and ears. At the center is a truly massive bonfire, currently unlit, flanked by a raised platform of stone where Prince Rutherford awaits some unseen signal. There is an atmosphere of excited anticipation in the gathered crowd, the noise of quiet conversations and excited foals and parents attempting to keep said foals at their side. For all their differences, when seen like this, the Yaks seem very much like ponies.

I know little of what will happen next, nor when the festivities will begin. For the sake of posterity I shall do my utmost, without bias or interference, to record their—

The crowd has fallen silent and Prince Rutherford is about to speak. His words I shall transcribe verbatim, as well as I am able.

“Brothers! Sisters! All Yak of Yakyakistan, greatest Yak village!”

The crowd stomps and cheers, the pounding of their hooves shaking the earth as thoroughly as any quake, accompanied with the ringing jingle of their adorned bells.

“Tomorrow, long day comes again. Hot sun will melt snow and cook furs and not set for many many hours.”

The crowd boos.

“Sun mocks Yaks. Tries to force Yaks to live how it wants. Make Yaks beg. But Yaks not beg! Many years sun has tried; since long before time of even grandyak’s grandyak, yet never once has best clan bowed to sun’s threats!”

He stomps his hoof and several elder Yaks carrying torches join him on the platform.

“Like every year, we build big fire to prove sun not boss of us! Yaks not need sun! Yaks build own sun! Yaks build better sun! Stay up all night to prove Yaks not live at sun’s whims! In morning, sun will rise not in victory, but in shame! Once again proving Yak superiority! And every day forward, sun will stay out less and less until Yaks hold Long Night Festival and demand sun stay out longer! Together, Yaks keep sun ego in check and keep balance between ever-night and ever-day!”

Like a well-timed clock, as he finishes the sun quickly begins to set behind the distant western mountains and Rutherford spits upon the ground. Many in the crowd follow suit. “Yaks not relent! Yaks not bow! Light the bonfire! Light new sun! Smash darkness and sun’s pride!”

The crowd roars as the bonfire is lit, flames rushing up the prepared wood with a burst of light and heat that I can feel even from my seat near the back of the crowd. In an instant, the village is lit as bright as day despite the sun having set.

Rutherford yells over the excited crowd. “Now! Let the feast begin!”

With his declaration, the festivities begin in full. As one would expect from his statement, their celebration begins with a banquet.

In my journeys to document the customs of many different cultures, I have been in attendance to a wide variety of jollifications and revels, so I can say with confidence that no two cultures do them quite the same. For some, like the Seaponies, banquets are a very formal affair, with a strict code of conduct and a precise order for dishes to be consumed in. Ponies, comparingly, generally prefer more casual buffet-style dining, even in events as formal as the esteemed Grand Galloping Gala. The Yaks’ feast falls somewhere between these extremes. Theirs is closest in comparison to dining with the Minotaurs. Though they do not fight or brawl for the right to dine first, there is certainly a great deal of playfully aggressive jockeying for positions closest to their favored dishes. (Notably, there is a single smaller table clearly set aside for the foals, who tussle amongst themselves as much as the adults do, but with considerably less raw strength).

The selection of dishes is wide and varied, with all courses from appetizers to desserts brought forth at the same time. The fare has a distinct Northern flair, and featuring many unique dishes I have yet to experience elsewhere.

To start, there is a selection of cheeses, some nutty, some sharp, a few surprisingly sweet with small red berries embedded in the rind. New wheels of each are rolled out of the storehouse as they are ravenously consumed, some of them small enough to be carried while one notably pungent variety comes in a wheel so large it requires two grown Yaks to move safely. There is fish as well, served both fresh and preserved, smoked in maple wood and served with a thick, vinegary sauce. Popular among all ages is a sort of thick chowder, not quite a soup nor a stew, made of carrots and potatoes and other more regional tubers mashed together into a paste that straddles the line between needing to be eaten or drunk. It settles heavily in the stomach with a radiating warmth that lasts long after the last spoonful. I was drawn most particularly to a type of lichen and forbs salad, drizzled with a choice of tangy glazes made of pine and mint and garnished with dried and grated juniper berries. Desserts were numerous (though not as prevalent as I’d expect from a pony banquet) mainly focusing on vanilla and stacks of sweet, very dense cakes.

To drink there is a delightful selection of wines and spirits, a particularly popular favorite being a strong, nearly medicinal-level liquor distilled from a variety of evergreen saps. I sampled a thimbleful before resigning myself to soothing the icy burn with honeyed water and the chilled berry wine meant for the foals.

Following the food came music and traditional dances. I was introduced to the yovidaphone, a most curious instrument that somehow produced tones which sounded not quite like a pipe organ, accordion, or Prench horn, yet bore a melodic resemblance to all three. Accompanying it was a traditional dance which primarily involved lines of Yaks charging at one another, only to miss by the barest of margins before changing directions to charge again in a complex weave of motion.

After the dances came tests of strength, where Yaks took turns smashing various stumps and stones into rubble. Despite my reluctance to interfere, I was goaded into participating under threat of causing undue insult. While I am no Podonis, I do like to consider myself reasonably fit and as such am satisfied that I managed to take home fifth place. Though it was fifth among the children’s competition. Even the losing bracket of the adults was able to crush boulders with a ferocity that I’ve seen even Earth ponies lack.

Hours have passed now and the celebration continues, but, like any party, eventually it begins to wind down and it is evident that that time has arrived. The platters are not picked clean, but they are thoroughly ravaged with only the less popular offerings remaining. The children are tired and the youngest are starting to droop. The musicians have played all their sets and even I am starting to recognize ones they’ve played before.

The only issue is that the sun has yet to rise.

Once again, Rutherford returns to his platform.

“Do not stop the celebration! Bring more food! More wood for fire! The sun has not risen so Yaks not done! Celebrate harder!”

A general cheer goes up, but it lacks the energy it had hours before. I do not know enough to speculate whether this is a normal, planned part of the celebration—a scripted “near failure” as many cultural celebrations have in dramatized reenactments of historical events—but the populace’s partying is visibly less enthusiastic than it has been. The musicians play, the dancers dance, and more food and drink is wheeled out, but there is an undercurrent to the actions like a damp cloth over a fire.

More hours have passed, and the festive atmosphere is all but gone. This is not normal. Something is clearly wrong and, in truth, even I too am beginning to become concerned and unsettled. While I know the truth that the motions of the sun and moon are orchestrated by Princess Celestia, that does not change the fact that my timepiece reads nearly eleven in the morning and there’s yet to be even a hint of the sunrise. One scarcely dares to imagine what manner of calamity could have pulled the princess from her most sacred of duties, and on the most noteworthy day for such, no less. I can only suspect how it must feel for the Yaks, lacking as they are in understanding of the true mechanisms behind the movement of the celestial bodies. For them, it must be as if some ineffable yet eternally-reliable cosmic event has simply failed to occur.

The crowd has begun to mutter, discontent and worry rumbling through them like oncoming thunder. If something is not done soon, I fear what they may do in their panic.

Prince Rutherford again ascends the stage. There is a hesitance to his movements, a cautious quaver to his voice that had been absent before. Still, he shouts as loudly as ever.

“This is test! Sun is challenging Yaks. Testing our resolve. Yaks must not quit now! Keep the fire going!”

A voice calls from the crowd, “Yaks out of wood! Night never gone this long before.”

“Then find more things to burn! Sacrifice them for the honor of the clan! Will not be the first generation in history to lose to the sun! Yaks strong! Feed the fire!”

His speech, short though it is, seems to rouse the crowd somewhat as they start hunting for more things to burn. Wooden scrap from the tests of strength comes first, then scraps of wood from private residences. Any personal woodpiles are quickly plundered. Then comes the empty plates and broken furniture, mainly tables that had buckled under drunken dances. Then the good tables, the chairs, platters still speckled with crumbs of cheese and bowls of chowder residue that hissed and spat as they boiled away. Even the colorful decorations are ripped off the walls and the—

I too found myself roped into the effort, pulled away from my writing to help ferry old blankets and worn rags to the fading bonfire.

It all burned so quickly. All the effort bought an extra hour, perhaps two. I cannot say for certain as my timepiece was lost in the chaos and I fear for the fate of the rest of my flammable belongings.

The crowd is flagging as we run out of burnables. Despite the worry that fills them with anxious energy, they’ve been awake all night and well into what was supposed to be noon. The children especially are starting to nod off, leaning against buildings or resting on their parents back or even dozing where they stand.

Only Prince Rutherford seems determined to keep going.

“More! Must keep going! Do not let sun win!”

“Yaks have nothing left to burn!”

“Yes do! Musicians! Throw in instruments!”

There is a shocked gasp from the crowd. The musicians, horrified expressions on their faces, clutch their beloved tools to their chests.

“Prince dares!? This yovidaphone been in Yak family for eight generations! What next? Would Prince have Yaks cut off braids and burn as well?!”

“Yingrid right! You throw something in!”

“No! You obey Prince! Beside, Prince have nothing to throw!”

A sleepy voice comes from the crowd, somehow rising above the general noise. It’s a young Yak— one I recognize: the same one who’d aided me on my first day— putting forth a valiant effort to keep her eyes open as she rides atop an elderly relative. “Prince house made of wood.”

The crowd goes silent, as she is not incorrect. Though most of the Yak homes are frozen mud or compacted snow, there is a single particularly large dwelling near the back which I had not been permitted to visit in my exploration constructed of large and sturdy logs.

The tone of the crowd's grumbling changes, much to the visible displeasure of Rutherford. “You- Yaks can’t throw royal loghouse into fire!” He stumbles over his words for a moment. “It’s too big!”

One particularly bold Yak reaches towards the fire and pulls out what had once been the leg of some table, now a hefty torch with one end still untouched by flame. “Then Yak will bring fire to loghouse!” And he begins to run.

The crowd parts around him, forming a corridor towards the loghouse. Rutherford bellows a noise of inarticulate anger and charges off the platform into a flying leap. He sticks his landing, halting the rogue Yak in his tracks, but the torch is sent flying out of their reach, spinning through the air and passing easily through the woven roof of one of the communal buildings that line the plaza.

A tragic loss, but no doubt one the community will be able to recover from so long as it does not spread to the other buildings.

“No! The pine syrup refinery! Everyyak ru—

Log Entry 77: Addendum

Log Entry 77: Addendum

Celestial Year 999, Summer 50, Afternoon

It is with great delight that I have managed to recover this logbook. I had feared it lost for good after the recent chaos, but as luck would have it one of the many Yaks involved in the clean-up efforts recognized it as mine and returned it. According to her, it somehow managed to end up on the roof of a building three streets out. One corner is slightly singed, but my notes are thankfully intact.

The crisis has passed and the community is now in recovery, though it was but by the skin of our teeth.

Once everyone realized where the torch had landed, the celebrators quickly turned into a fleeing mob, one which swept me up along with them. It was a fine thing that they did, for within a minute’s passing the entire structure erupted in a massive pillar of flames that managed to even punch a hole in the clouds.

Faust’s Grace must have been with us, for the sheer heat seemed to have flash-baked the mud walls into a stone-like hardness that directed the brunt of the blast up rather than out. Even now, hours later, the empty shell of the building is too hot to approach, glowing if not for the light of the sun.

For the sun has indeed risen again.

I do not know what has transpired in Equestria (be it some resolved inconvenience of the princess or the vanquishment of some threat I cannot even begin to imagine), but within minutes of the distillery becoming a flaming beacon, the moon did finally set and the sun rose in turn, taking its rightful place in the midday sky.

Prince Rutherford calmed the crowd and was quick to praise both himself and the community as a whole for having the strength to “smash sun’s pride” and “teach it hard lesson”. Though, in his magnanimousness, he announced he would “allow sun to continue normal duty. So long as it not try that long night again.”

With that, the Yak’s solstice celebration came to a close, with all participating members confident in their direct influence over the course of the heavens and that they’d succeeded in putting the sun in its place. I elected not to correct them. I doubt they would believe me anyway.

And so too does my time in their village draw to a close. I have learned much that will take quite more than this meager logbook to document, and I greatly look forward to doing so once I return to somewhere with a functioning train line. Already my pack has been loaded with Yak cuisine, and most of my less critical tools and trinkets distributed as gifts. I hope they get some enjoyment out of my portable record player before someyak smashes it.

But beyond physical gifts, I also have received something of far more value and importance: an invitation to return for their Long Night festival in half a year’s time.

I must say I am quite looking forward to it. I do not know what it will be like, but I do not doubt it will consist of quite a good deal of smashing.

And as I have learned, that is certainly something worth celebrating.