The Cricketers in the Rye

by Earth Writer

Rating: everyone
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Doctor Whooves, Main 6, Lyra, Romance, Original Character, Comedy, Big Macintosh, Slice of Life
Length: 4975

Two Canterlotian collegiate cricketers decide to spend their vacation in Ponyville, and coach a team. What could go wrong? Answer: Ask the last pony from Canterlot who came here to set up a recreational event for the locals...

Two Canterlotian collegiate cricketers decide to spend their vacation in Ponyville, and coach a team. They didn't intend to disturb a ghost, commit romantic blunders, or generally get sucked down into the normal, everyday lunacy of the town.
But, we all know what happened to the last pony from Canterlot who came to arrange entertainment for the locals...

***
Takes place near the beginning of Season 3.
The first, unedited chapters of this first appeared on Deviant Art; I'm hoping to get more feedback here than I did there.
Also, don't let the bad pun in the title confuse you, this has much more in common with P.G. Wodehouse than J.D. Salinger.

Many thanks to Radioactivekittenluv on DeviantArt, who permitted the use of some of her OC's in this fic, and did the cover art.

Published 2013-04-14 07:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-04-17 01:49:40 UTC

Prologue

Until it opened its collective morning paper on that bright, early summer day, the sporting world of Canterlot had no idea of the great blow set in store for it. Set in boldface type, above even the perennially popular racing reports, was the sensational account of the greatest scandal to hit the cricket world since the Trottingham club spiked the ginger-beer of the Equestrian National team’s lunch on the last day of a hotly-contested set (first noticed when the star batsman attempted to hit at the bowler’s volley with a wooden spoon).

It was nothing short of the discovery that the two premier upper-class Universities, Clopsford and Canterbridge, had secretly arranged to fix their rivalry match at the behest of ponies unknown, speculation centering around a high-stakes betting ring. The editorials were full of shocked statements written in the stuffiest language possible, all about the “death of sportsponyship” and “the fall of the game into the hooves of the money-grubbing classes.”

A more eloquent summation of the situation was given by the chief batter of the Canterbridge team, as he stewed in one of the student studies, “It’s all rot!”

He, Might Batsman, was an Earth Pony built according to the rural, economy-size model, with as much polish as Trottingham country gentility could give. His chocolate coat kept decently clean, his straw-colored mane no more than tolerably messy, and a friendly, open countenance was the general rule of his existence. Now, however, the he was sulking.

“ I say, the whole bally business is rotten!” Might was not a pony to vary heavily upon an established theme.

“Undoubtedly so, comrade Batsman.” A long, lavender unicorn, the only other occupant of the study, looked up from the book he was studying, fixing Might in a patient stare.

“I mean, I would never have thrown a game for anypony! If I ever came away from a game with less runs than I should have, you’d jolly well know I didn’t do it on purpose.” The sulking batsman paused near an inkstand, staring at it as if it had committed some personal offense before upsetting it in a fit of pique.

The observing unicorn clicked his tongue in deprecation. “Just so, though I must confess I hardly see that upsetting ink-pots are to get us anywhere. If we took all the ink in Canterbridge, we might just flood the Cricket-master’s office, but as he won’t be in it for some time, it doesn’t seem worth the effort.” He ended with a luxuriant yawn.

Might took a seat by the sofa arm in a huff, looking down upon his languid room-mate. “Barring all this nonsense, Psmith, it’s just not fair. I can understand them calling off the match, but suspension for the following term for all the team? We didn’t do anything! And I was going to be captain next term, too.”

Wordsworth Psmith, for that was he, put down the book on the end table, and gave his comrade a sympathetic look. Might Batsman had come from a family of strong cricketers, and promised to be the best of the lot. He could be regularly counted on for big scores and stands at the wicket, but through one circumstance or another, he’d always been denied the one validation of leadership, captaining a cricket team. “Indeed, it is a problem, comrade Batsman. The cry goes ‘round the college quad: Injustice has been perpetrated on the cricket pitch! Batsman is out of sorts! Hum,” He sat back with a sigh, flicking an invisible speck of dust off his jacket sleeve. “And now the question comes: what do you propose to do about it?”

Too busy wallowing in his sulk to see anything more than the mud of despondency, Might had formed no plan of action, so the question caught him off-guard. “I dunno, really. I’m hanged if I see any way out; the commission’s already made the decision, and even if I do prove my innocence, I can’t fill a cricket 11 by myself, even if I bring you in to bowl. I’m even barred from playing for any of the county teams. I’ll be lucky if I’m ever allowed to lift a bat on the grounds here again, let alone captain anything.” The situation was indeed bleak, but the sulky expression had been replaced with a more thoughtful one. Was there actually a way out of this mess? Might had to admit he didn’t see one, but maybe Psmith did?

“The way I read it,” Psmith began, levitating a monocle from his jacket pocket, giving it a good rub on his waistcoat before putting it in his eye, “Is that you have been barred from playing in any established team in the official leagues. Does it not occur to you that nothing in Equestria prevents you from starting an unofficial team? If nothing else, it would keep you in form during your imposed hiatus, as well as demonstrate your captaining skills and sportsponyship to any who would doubt them. After all, is not the game key, and the venue irrelevant?”

“Not if the pitch is badly kept.” Might rejoindered, but kept his thoughtful expression. He looked back to the mark on his flank, showing a flat wooden bat striking a red leather ball. It was something more than a mark of special talent for him, it was connected to his family honor. “I suppose we’d do it during the Long Vacation, but where? Anypony around Trottingham who wants to play cricket can generally join the county team, and as for Canterlot, there’s enough space in the league to fit any gentlecolt who can afford the flannels. Who’d join an unofficial team?”

Psmith remained undaunted by this objection. “Ah, therein lies the idea! We simply go to the nearest town untouched by the leagues, and offer ourselves as coaches, at a pro bono rate. You shall be untouchable, legally, and no pony alive would refuse such a deal as that. The great Batsman, here to teach our colts and fillies the noble game of cricket, for free! ‘It is a crime,’ they shall say, ‘To take advantage of such a poor lad in his time of need.’ We must use all our eloquence, comrade Jackson, to overcome their native sense of pity, but I believe we shall win through with persistence.”

The self-satisfied weirdness of his friend had often given Might cause to chuckle, and little trace of his former funk now remained. “I’d often wondered why you chose to study law. To help out chumps like me, I suppose.”

“Say rather, ‘innocent defendant,’ comrade, do not sell yourself short.” With a slow, careful movement, the long-legged colt dismounted from the sofa, replacing his eyeglass into his pocket. “I have heard tale of a cricketless town down the railway line, called Ponyville if I remember right, that may suit our needs. The first thing to do is establish that such a place exists, and is not a myth that railway-conductors tell to their foals as they’re tucked into bed. Having done so, we shall secure two tickets at the end of the term, and set to our task.”

“The long vacation’s ten weeks,” Might mused as he followed his friend out the study door. “Think we’ll be able to build a team in that amount of time?”

“Barring any unforeseen complications, I do not see why we should not find our way as smooth as Lord’s Cricket grounds.”

It was afterwards agreed by both of them that such a remark was only giving to Fate the most irresistible temptations.

The Arrival

By the time 2 o’clock had rolled around without crisis following upon its heels, Twilight Sparkle felt that maybe, just maybe, the rest of the day might go according to schedule as well. She held her breath for second after thinking so, as if the very thought might bring disaster crashing down around her mane. Two seconds later, she was shaking her head, chiding herself, “Really Twilight, you have got to stop being so superstitious!”

As cheerily as she resumed her afternoon routine, she couldn’t deny that if she had been superstitious, Ponyville would have given her plenty to be superstitious about. It seemed that something was always on the verge of happening at some conveniently dramatic moment, which would invariably escalate into some huge brouhaha that would set the town on edge for a week, before dying down into a deceptive bucolic peace. *How in Equestria did small towns get a reputation for being dull? Most of what I’ve read suggested that, but it just doesn’t match up with experience.*

She fixed an afternoon smoothie while pondering this conundrum. Spike was out for the day, and like most such days, she’d missed lunch while lost in a book. Right now she just needed something nutritious and portable, to bring along while she picked up a new shipment from the train station. While the Ponyville Library was impressively stocked, Twilight was always on the lookout for new additions, plus every few years the new editions of encyclopedias came out. Those had to be ordered in bulk, and were too massive altogether to justify burdening the postage system. Better just to get them wholesale and shipped direct.

*It must be the size,* the unicorn reflected as she exited through the door. *This town’s so small, if anything does happen, you can’t get away from it- *

“TWITCHY TAIL!”

It was reflexive by now; she heard those words and immediately hit the ground, hooves covering her head in case anything was coming down to hit it. Something did in fact: the smoothie, no longer being levitated by Twilight’s magic, spilled all over her face, obscuring her vision. It took a few blinks to clear away the pink, strawberry-scented globs to reveal a Pink Pony, also smelling of strawberries, as everything tended to do when you had your nostrils plugged with strawberry smoothie.

Pinkie Pie was staring down at the lavender unicorn, a worryingly intent expression upon her face. “Something big is coming down!”

“Bigger, I assume, than a smoothie?” Twilight replied in a sarcastic voice, but still covering her head.

“Bigger even than the Colossal Colussus Smoothie of Cowmen Miranda! Ooh-ooh,” The earth pony trotted in place in consternation. “I don’t know what to do, three knee knocks, two jerks of the neck, and five tail twitches! I can’t remember what that’s for; I don’t even know if I’ve had it before, actually.”

Twilight let out a kind of bubbly sigh through the blended fruit slipping down her face. “Pinkie, if you don’t know what’s actually coming, it’s probably best you not tell anypony and get them all worried.” Resignedly, she got up, regretting not fetching a lid for her now-empty cup.

“Oh,” Pinkie seemed to consider this point for second, before taking a flying leap into another train of thought. “So, watcha doing? What flavor is that?” Without waiting for a reply, she stuck out her tongue, licking the smoothie off of her friends face with one slurp, leaving Twilight blinking on the doorstep.

“Er, strawberry, thank you.” She said, trying to get mentally back on track. “I was just going to the train station to pick up a new set of encyclopedias.”

“GASP!” The sudden intake of breath practically inflated Pinkie like a balloon, actually suspending her in the air for a few seconds before she exclaimed, “The Train! Of course it’s coming down by the train, why didn’t I think of it before? C’mon, I’ll take you there!”

And with that, a still off-balance Twilight was yanked off her hooves on a full out gallop towards the Ponyville train station.

~***~

“Awake, Comrade Batsman, we approach our destination. Cast off the blinkers of Morpheus, and bid the day anew, and sleep adieu.”

“Mgrph.” Might stirred, more in response to the prodding of Psmith’s hoof that his words, having gone to sleep to the smooth susurrations of the unicorn’s voice. Stretching, he lifted the brim of his hat above his eyes, and blinked at the world. “We there yet?”

“We arrive momentarily; it is only polite that we greet the locals in our best manner, all neat and correct. First impressions will be crucial, comrade, if our stay is to be congenial.” For the fifth time in as many minutes, Psmith adjusted the crease of his sleeves and checked his cuffs. Might, not being accustomed to wearing clothes everyday, had elected to simply wear his cap.

The town was just coming into view through the coach window, Apple orchards thinning to give view of a farmhouse, yielding in turn to the park-like road leading from the farm and joining up the main street of Ponyville. The architecture on display was typically Earth Pony, for the most part, rustic-looking houses of wood, straw, and stone. More recent settlements of unicorns and pegasi had added to the variety on display, however, with more elaborately decorated storefronts and hovering cloud houses placed here and there, though no pony would have called the place cosmopolitan. It reminded Might of Trottingham, which shot him with an unexpected bolt of homesickness as he and Psmith extracted their luggage from the grasping helpfulness of the porters and disembarked upon the station platform.

Psmith took the lead while Might balanced their suitcases on his back, bowing in his best Canterlot Gentlecolt manner to the first pair of mares in view. “Good Afternoon, ladies. My name is Psmith, you could say also say it was Wordsworth, but I wish you wouldn’t. My encumbered colleague is none other than Might Batsman, of whom you have no doubt heard.” A quick glance revealed that neither the lavender unicorn nor the pink earth pony had. “A peerless friend of absolute reliability, and incidentally the star cricket batter of his generation.”

“Hey, what did the poor crickets ever do to him?” The pink one shouted indignantly, and shot a glare at Might that knocked him back on his flank, and dislodged the two suitcases with a crash. “Wait’ll I tell Fluttershy about you, mister-”

“Pinkie!” The lavender mare interjected, half in alarm and half in annoyance, “He doesn’t hit insects; cricket is the name of an old Trottingham sport, practiced on a well-maintained green field called a ‘pitch,’ wherein a pony called a ‘bowler’ attempts to knock over a wicket with a leather ball, while another pony guards it with a flat wooden bat, hence the term ‘batter’.”

“Oh, well that’s alright then. “ Pinkie cheered up immediately, helping Might back up with a sudden hoist and swinging the luggage back on him with a thump. “I don’t know what Fluttershy would have done to you if she found out you were a bug batter and not a ball batter.” Might just blinked in bewilderment at the pink phenomenon now prancing back to her friend, who was shaking her head good-naturedly.

“That’s just Pinkie Pie, you get used to her eventually.” She smiled, extending a hoof to the dapperly dressed unicorn. “I’m Twilight Sparkle, the town librarian. Welcome to Ponyville!”

Psmith took the proffered hoof with all the gravity due a great ambassador, or perhaps a great ambassador’s lady, as he bowed his head to kiss it. “So I gathered, from the clarity and eruditeness of your speech, comrade Sparkle. I should also guess you were, at one point, a resident of my own home city, due to your easy familiarity with one of its chief sports.”

Twilight looked impressed. “Actually, I did move here from Canterlot three years ago, though I was never much involved in its sporting world. Most of what I know of it is from books.” She gave a quick look around; fortunately, Rainbow Dash wasn’t here to take a crack at her for that.

“Ah,” Psmith said, as if a long-standing puzzle had finally given up a solution, “Then I am pleased to inform you that you are in luck. Comrade Batsman and I will be setting up as cricket coaches this summer, offering our services gratis to the citizens of this fine town. Give us only a place to lay our heads at night, and I assure you that no keener sportsponies shall you ever have at your service.”

“Well,” said Twilight hesitantly, for Psmith’s quietly grandiose verbosity was starting to get a little off-putting, “The O’Ryes have a room free, but-”

Here Pinkie interrupted again. “You’re here to stay!?” She asked excitedly, before suddenly dashing off before anypony could answer.

“What… is she going to do?” Asked Might apprehensively. He was always slightly uneasy in unfamiliar surroundings, and when you added a sudden encounter with Pinkie Pie with no warning whatsoever, unease evolved into something like dread.

“Brace yourselves…” Twilight muttered as Pinkie returned, pulling a particolored contraption that resembled a combination calliope, oven, and artillery placement. She brought it to stop right by the platform, aiming the cannon right at the two colts. Might looked frantically from side to side, but nopony passing seemed to take much more than a mild interest in the proceedings, for all the world as if newcomers being threatened by heavy bombardment were a routine occurrence in this town. Encumbered as he was by the luggage, he was quite unable to dodge whatever was going to be fired out, and could only be grateful that Psmith was at least standing in front of him.

BOOM!

With a sudden report, the cannon fired a shower of confetti, while the oven simultaneously shot out a fully finished cake, which Pinkie presented to Psmith and Might while singing a little ditty:
Welcome, welcome, welcome,
To two ponies so clean,
Who are here to teach us cricket,
Whatever that may mean!

Twilight only sighed in relief. “Sometimes she gets it mixed up, and puts the cake batter in the cannon and the confetti in the oven.” Psmith looked down at his suit, imagined the irreparable damage that would have resulted from such an error, and shuddered at the narrow escape.

Pinkie seemed to pay the exchange no mind. “Now you just sit down and enjoy your cake from Auntie Pinkie Pie, while she get’s your official Welcome Party ready. Woohoo!” And with that exclamation, she shot off again.

“Auntie…” Might croaked. The very idea seemed to choke the earth pony colt, but his friend seemed to take it all in stride.

“Now what did I tell you, Comrade Batsman; our care in making a good first impression has paid dividends.” He flicked multicolored paper off his jacket as he went on. “The key is diplomacy. Without diplomacy, where are we? In Hobbesian barbarity, with everypony fighting against everypony. Instead, we are now enjoying cake, a marked improvement you will agree.”

Might only replied with a weak smile and a “Right-ho.” He took a bite of the cake. He had to admit, it was good. This town was obviously some kind of lunatic asylum, but if this was a fair sample of its hospitality, they might survive until the term resumed.

The Spirits are Disturbed

Everypony has a special talent; all they have to do is discover it. That was one of the fundamental principles of life in Equestria, as unquestioned as the daily sunrise, the value of friends, or the rule of the Princesses.

The hidden shadow had, at various times, doubted them all. As well, the sanctity of love, the value of politeness, even the point of existence itself had all been questioned in turn. What remained was only one certainty, one philosophical peg upon which all the world hung and what kept it from dissolving away on the very worst days: the deliciousness of strawberry milkshakes. And, if there had been any available for it to snatch up from the back alley of Sugar Cube Corner, the next few months might have turned out quite differently.

However, Pinkie Pie, having already gotten her strawberry fix for the day by licking off Twilight’s smoothie off her face, decided not to make her afternoon milkshake as usual, going straight to planning Psmith and Might’s welcome party.

“Games! Do Canterlot ponies play games? I can’t do cricket, because they haven’t taught me what that is yet; did Twilight play pin-the-tail-on-the-pony when she came here? No, but then there was that whole Nightmare Moon business. She did drink the hot sauce though, better set that out. Ooh, ooh! That reminds me, better get the cupcakes ready, and the Cakes too! Can’t hold it here, it’d wake up the twins…”

The shadow could hear the party planner’s voice from out the window, though inside all that could be seen was a pink blur that momentarily coalesced by the oven, on top of the counter, and in the middle of a pile of things disinterred from a drawer, to the bemusement of Rarity, who had stopped by for an afternoon tea and chat.

“But darling, you must tell me about these distinguished new arrivals. With business slowing down lately, I cannot afford to pass up any new contacts!” A smart businesspony always knew about ponies before being introduced to them; it made them feel important, and it never hurt to personalize any pitches. Besides, the alabaster unicorn wanted any juicy details ASAP.

“Well, they’re cricket coaches, though I don’t think they coach crickets, but I’ll have to ask. Do crickets play cricket?” The pink blur didn’t even stop as she said this, only pausing to hold up two rolls of streamers up to the window, as if to check for counterfeits.

“Cricket, hm?” Rarity paused in thought as she took a sip of tea. “Such an elegant game, I’ve always thought. I don’t usually work in flannel, but if they’re willing to commission uniforms… Pinkie dear, did they seem exceptionally concerned about dress?”

Pinkie, now mixing up a batch of batter for the cupcakes, stopped in the middle of the little tune she always hummed while baking. “Well, one didn’t dress at all, though the other had on a suit and talked a lot. Do you think the chocolate or vanilla frosting looks better spilled on fabric? Things might get a little messy-“

“Pinkie!” The white mare interrupted, aghast at the very idea. “No kind of frosting is an acceptable accessory to any kind of fabric. Except, perhaps, tulle, but only in very specific circumstances.” Having done her fashionista duty by nipping a dangerous trend in the bud, Rarity relaxed in contemplation as Pinkie gleefully decided not to use frosting.

“I’ll just put in a cream filling! Best use the chocolate cupcakes for that. Why does chocolate hold cream better? Because I’ve tried with Vanilla, and I was just like, ‘Whoo! Sugar rush!’ then, ‘Bleah, not so good.’ Maybe because it’s all-white. GASP!” A new light of understanding dawned in the pink mare’s eyes; one of the great truths of baking had just occurred to her. “Cupcakes taste best when they’re not racist!”

It was right about here that the shadow deduced that no milkshakes would be forthcoming.

***

Not too far from Sugar Cube corner, on the opposite side of Main Street, sat that peerless institution, the O’Rye pub. The old house frame of blackened wood, wreathed with ivy climbing to the peak of the tiled roof bespoke of a rough but hearty welcome to travelers passing through. Small wonder, then, that Psmith and Might had been directed here when inquiring for rooms to rent.

The innkeeper, a silver-haired unicorn by the name of Moonshine O’Rye was conversing with the dapper dressed colt over the bar counter, by which we mean that the proprietor was listening to Psmith with a friendly expression gradually growing glassy under the verbal bombardment.

“…Of course, comrade O’Rye, one could hardly help hearing of your remarkable hospitality. The fame of Castle O’Rye, its generous portions, excellent brewery, and peerlessly egalitarian lord stretches from the Eastern Mountains to the Western shore. Hark! A traveler passes, singing due praise to the beer…”

*This could take a while.* Might Batsman thought, as he drank from the glass of milk he’d ordered. The stocky Earth Pony was not a teetotaler, but he knew no middle ground between the ginger-beer of the cricket lunch stand, and the champagne of the hotel restaurants Psmith would sometimes take him to. To order anything but a glass of ale, or perhaps a shot of whiskey, in such a place as this seemed most inappropriate; Might had never gotten a taste for either of those, and when you came right down to it, it was better to be the stallion who ordered milk because he didn’t drink rather than the stallion ordered champagne because he didn’t drink ale.

“Oy, see here now,” Moonshine interjected, making a desperate effort to surface from the flood of logomachy before going down for the third time. “It’s true I’ve got an empty room, but it’ll be small for two, and after a full summer you’ll be feeling quite cramped in there!”

“Worry not,” replied Psmith, the placidity permanently plastered on his face not giving one inch, “We merely ask a place to rest our heads after the labors of the day, most of which will be outside. We are not recluses, comrade. Why, comrade Batsman here is widely seen on the Canterlot social circuit. No stallion more outgoing and sociable shall you find!”

Might, who was used to his friend bragging upon his nonexistent virtues and accomplishments, took the remark in stride. In truth, he could take or leave the social circuit, though he liked company well enough. Unfortunately, there were exceptions, and now he was confronted with one of them.

The O’Rye family lived in the rooms above the pub, in the manner of most shopkeepers in Ponyville. Customers this early in the day being somewhat unusual, all the members at home were listening in on the stairwell, save for the youngest, a colt resembling his father in every feature save eye color, who quite boldly clomped down the stairs and fixed Might with an unnerving stare.

Now, Might Batsman was not exactly comfortable around his juniors. If cornered by a young filly, he could hold up well enough, a bevy of younger sisters having given him valuable experience. Young colts, however, filled him with equal measures terror and repulsion; he felt somehow that it was indecent to let a colt out in public until he was developed enough to win honors for his school. This Moonshine Jr. seemed just below the cutoff.

The older colt nursed his drink, putting off meeting the stare until the last possible polite moment. The younger colt was unabashed. “You play baseball?” He asked, pointing to the bat-and-ball cutie mark on Might’s flank.

“No, I play cricket.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a sport from my hometown.”

The silver-maned colt seemed to digest this tidbit of information before remarking, “Who names their sport after a bug?”

This being the second time today that this error had been made brought Might no closer to reconciling himself to it. Truth be told, he didn’t know the exact connection between the name of his sport, and the chirping insect. He didn’t know if anyone knew, but rather than admit this fact, he made the tactical blunder of a flat denial, “No, it’s not named after the bug.”

Moonshine the younger, confronted with a bald denial of an obvious fact, made the only logical retort, “It is too.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Is too!”

Only too late did Might realize that his rejoinder had locked him into the latest iteration of the eternal argument, one which the younger debater was willing to continue all day, by the looks of it. There was really no dignified way for the earth pony to extricate himself, not without leaving himself looking a fool and his special talent a mere branch of entomology. In this, as in other cases, Psmith came to his aid.

“Come, come, comrade; we must leave these stimulating little chats. Our flat rate is finalized, and we must make our home-away-from-home. Additionally, there is the welcome party to prepare for, to which I understand our generous host is lending this place for a venue. So does the lord of the O’Rye manor reveal his kindly soul.” With a deft movement of exquisite tact, the lavender unicorn guided his friend back to where they’d stowed their luggage to bring it up the stairwell.

The remaining offspring of the O’Rye clan, daughters all, kept to the shadows, whispering an inaudible commentary upon the pair. Might was doing most of the heavy lifting, being built for it, while Psmith handled the finer touches, still talking, “I should like to appear at my best for this little soiree; it may aid, however lightly, in easing the burden of tragedy upon our host.”

“Eh, what’s that?” Might looked up from the laborious effort of setting up a cot. “He looked like a cheerful sort to me.”

“Ah, you did not see it in his eyes?” Psmith turned away from the delicate process of de-linting his eveningwear. “Well, well, perhaps it was merely a trick of my imagination. He is a worthy and prosperous gentlepony, but is it not just that sort that sorrow so easily pierces to the root? I had thought I caught a touch of it in our little negotiation. Perhaps I was mistaken. Ah, well, here’s to his joy, then.”

Might personally reflected that anypony might look a little sorrowful at the prospect of hosting a prattling piffler like Pmsith, but kept silent as he finally wrenched the reluctant furniture into place.

Outside, the shadow reflected upon the overheard conversation. So, these were the interlopers who’d disturbed the town routine, and it’s distribution of strawberry milkshakes! This would not pass, not without retribution! *And that party will give me the perfect opportunity…*