Blueblood

Babs had not before now mentioned any of her relations, and honestly there would have been little to confirm any kind of familial connection between her and Valen Orange if she hadn't come right out and said it. As she had, however, Psmith seemed to light up, shedding a good deal of his customary languor. "[colour=#996699]You are Comrade Valen's cousin? Ah, but I should have guessed at the first. Truly, it has been said often enough that Equestria is small, and we shall not repeat the sentiments. It is a great pleasure to meet one of who he has spoken so highly; we made our first acquaintance at a lovely little get-together at, yes, it would be your cousin Applejack's, wouldn't it?[/colour]"

On the field, the over had ended with the batter still guarding his wicket. Might readied his own bat; through the course of the morning, he'd racked up a considerable number of runs, and now, half an hour after the lunch break, he felt ready to face whatever the other team's bowling was ready to serve up. Which was a good thing, as the other team had not let up in their efforts in fielding. Might had held his wicket, but the other end of the field had seen 5 batters go already, and after the next, there would be little in the way of resistance to preventing a quick shot through the roster.

Psmith, meanwhile, had caught his friend's eye to give him an encouraging gesture, before turning back to the goldenrod-coloured filly. [colour=#996699]"I am a pupil of St. Mareson's, though only a recent transfer from Canterbridge. My father said I ought to go here, as I would find a company more varied in social tone. Unfortunately for his aims, pretty much every high-born scion had the same idea. Result: one has to hunt long for any who would not be out of place in a typical aristocratic school. I believe Comrade Valen will be entering once he finishes his grade at the primary school; St. Mareson's is a secondary institution. As for my name,[/colour]" He paused, leaning over so Babs could more easily see his mouth. "[colour=#996699]Observe closely.[/colour]"

He said his name again, this time slowly enough for Babs to catch the subtle difference in tongue placement, and the degree of force with which the lips came together on the 'm.' "[colour=#996699]Five minutes practice, and you shall master it. It is, you may say, a rather minor point, to receive so much insistence. Nevertheless, it is grating to hear one's name pronounced in an unfamiliar way. For example, Comrade Bahbs. You observe?[/colour]"

It seemed such a simple thing when they'd talked it over in Ponyville. As soon as Sugar Apple had been decommissioned from the hospital and caught up with any work backlog, she could come and visit Earth Writer in Canterlot that weekend. They'd even fixed a spot to go to, a pastry shop where one of her cousins worked. As first dates go, the setup was a simple business.

[colour=#8b4513]*That really should have been my first clue. No plan survives first contact with, well, reality.* [/colour]Earth Writer thought as he paced up and down the train station platform, as nervous a stallion as ever waited for a date to arrive. The first problem, he supposed, was that they hadn't fixed a set day, not that they could have, given all the contingencies that could have come up. But when the letter had finally come from Cloudsdale that the pegasus mare would be coming down that weekend, guess what day that fell on?

That's right, Hearts and Hooves day. It just had to, didn't it? The very day set up to celebrate the idea of finding one's "special somepony," and generally accumulating traditions dedicated to celebrating each other. This would mark the first year that the unicorn would have anything close to a marefriend on that day, and the stress was starting to get to him. What was he expected to do? The notion of just having a simple get-together just didn't seem to wash with the whole holiday. On the other hand, Sugar Apple didn't seem to be the sort that would stand on ceremony, unlike most of the ponies who lived in this city. But then, he really hadn't known her for long enough to say for certain what her expectations would be.

[colour=#8b4513]*Flowers, flowers should work. They look pretty, make a nice snack, fit in very well with the whole atmosphere. No mare was ever upset to receive them... right?* [/colour]The bouquet he'd gotten, at the usurious price determined by the timing of his purchase, was held steady in the glow of his magic, but gripped tight.

The ironic thing was, one of the things which had attracted Earth Writer to Sugar had been the way in which he felt at ease around her. She just had a way about her, perhaps the gentile, yet down-to-earth country manner in which she carried herself, that could allow the unicorn to let go of his tension. The corollary of this, however, was that on his own, the stress now had a free hand to make him freak out slightly.

Still, as the train pulled in, he could let himself relax just a little bit. [colour=#8b4513]*This is Sugar Apple we're talking about. It's not as if she doesn't like you. She agreed to the date, you can relax. Everything's going to be just fine...*[/colour]

Psmith was nothing if not alert to social cues. Picking up quickly on the little filly's hesitation on being a native guide to the East side, he breezily attempted to put her at her ease. "[colour=#996699]You hesitate comrade? Well, well, that is to be expected. I may not be a native, but I have observed that the Upper Manehattanites are rarely seen with those hailing from the Lower East. It is such a pity; the few pupils in my school from the Lower East are among the most stimulating of conversationalists. Not, perhaps, initially welcoming, but social friction is not a thing to fear, but to embrace. It reveals new skills that one never knew one possessed, extempore rhyming, for one thing. I believe it is known as 'freestyling' here.[/colour]"

It was, in fact, true what he said. St. Mareson's school traditionally served the upper classes, but the administration had put forward a policy of social mixing, which had opened up the admissions board to a wider student base. Of course, most families in the East Side either couldn't afford the fees, or preferred their foals to be educated close to home. A few had been sent in, though, and Psmith had tried to get to know them. On his first attempt, one of them had opened up with a mocking verse at his expense, which he had replied to in kind. The novelty of an obvious Canterlotian scion talking in their own patois (or at least making a valiant attempt), had made them a little more tolerant of his presence and eccentricities.

Speaking of which... "[colour=#996699]The technique is not difficult, Comrade Babs. One simply has to remember that it is there when one is saying it. Listen carefully and you will hear it. Without: Smith; with: Psmith.[/colour]" There was a slight difference in fact; it involved pressing the tongue against the back of the top row of teeth slightly more firmly than usual when starting to say the word. Canterlotian names often involved this high degree of pronunciation differentiation; it was all a part of the enormous body of etiquette and social skills that the nobility had developed as a means to tell the "real" aristocrats from the parvenues. Of course, eventually the parvenues might master it, in which case they were generally accepted in by default.

On the field, the over was proceeding routinely, and a little dully. The batter had hit twice for a single each time, he being a steady but none too brilliant player. His aim was solely to keep his wicket, and Might had placed him in the lineup for his tenacity.

Psmith, meanwhile, was keeping one corner of his eye on the game. The steady pace of play he found soothing at most times, but now he was feeling more in the mood for some stimulation. And what should happen, then, but that Babs would put into his head the idea of visiting the East Side. It made him sit up, and seriously consider the idea. "[colour=#996699]Now that is a most intriguing suggestion, comrade. We examine it, and the prospect pleases. It is the chief pleasure of travel to have a native guide through the byways of a new city. If you are offering, I should be delighted to accept.[/colour]"

And to give Psmith credit, he would never call such a trip "slumming." True, it was not the normal societal circle in which he naturally gravitated to, but he had no objection whatsoever to injecting himself into new environments, however incongruous they might seem. He was the sort who was difficult to embarrass. "[colour=#996699]Incidentally, it is 'Psmith,' not 'Smith.' Much practice has enabled me to tell when ponies leave out the silent letter.[/colour]"

The wait was discouraging, no way around it. Admittedly, Earth Writer wasn't familiar with the protocol of answering door buzzers in a gated house. Perhaps one had to wait for the butler to do it; he wouldn't know. [colour=#8b4513]*The upper half lives differently, I guess.*[/colour][colour=#8b4513] [/colour]

[colour=#000000]It gave the reporter time to think, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. He couldn't help but reflect that the reason the celebrity class generally preferred gated houses was not to offer hospitality to the hoi polloi, especially when in the employ of newspapers. And, admittedly, there was legitimate cause for dislike when it came to the tabloids. All told, it wasn't looking as if Ms. Harmonia would be open to interviews today.[/colour]

[colour=#000000]What kept the unicorn at the gate he couldn't say, possibly it was stubbornness, mixed with a little fatigue from the walk. Nevertheless, it was at least partially justified when the magitek speaker buzzed with the voice of the famous singer. "[/colour][colour=#8b4513]Er, yes,[/colour][colour=#000000]" Earth replied, "[/colour][colour=#8b4513]I would just like to ask a few questions about the race...[/colour][colour=#000000]" He was acutely aware of how weak that sounded, and how unlikely it was to gain him entrance. Interviews were not his strong suit, and even the prospect of success in this venture could make him nervous. He could feel the sweat bead on his forehead-[/colour]

[colour=#000000]No, that wasn't sweat. He looked up to see the local pegasi team gather the rainclouds together. Of course, they had been holding off the front to make for a fine day at the races. Now that they were over, the scheduled precipitation came down, drizzling at first, but promising a great crescendo. "[/colour][colour=#8b4513]Um, could I come inside, please? The local weather team has a flair for the dramatic.[/colour][colour=#000000]"[/colour]

"[colour=#996699]Ah, I see. You have determined that your talents do not lie in organized play? Quite right, of course. I as well find the regimentation imposed in the name of play restrictive, and rather counter-intuitive. We philosophic minds must take our leisure as we please, if we are to properly develop out talents.[/colour]" Whether Psmith actually thought Babs was anything of a philosopony, he certainly talked as if he felt her a true comrade of commentary. In spite, or perhaps because of, his long-windedness, the colt was sociable, perhaps out of a desire for someone to listen to him.

With few things of interest currently happening in the game, he was free to devote more attention to Babs, and of course by now he'd noticed that she was a "blank flank." It was in a circumspect manner that he approached the issue, though. "[colour=#996699]But perhaps we presume too much. It is possible, just possible, that you do not feel philosophy your calling. Ah, but you are young, there is time yet to find your niche. In deep sea diving, I hear, there is much that an enterprising filly may gain; or again, in airship engineering. How exciting, and yet how paralyzing, is all this choice. Perils of big-city life, no doubt.[/colour]"

Whoop! Forgot to look through the OOC boards to find this thread.

Yeah, don't be surprised to see me there; I PM'ed Steel for permission.

[colour=#8b4513]*I guess it's true what they say,*[/colour] Reflected Earth Writer as he observed the success of his simple rules, [colour=#8b4513]*You can't beat Old School.* [/colour]The reporter departed shortly after Fimble, carrying a greater respect for all the old tricks in the book. In actuality, this really didn't do more than put him ahead of the pack, since the tabloiders, deprived of their grand prey, had turned to pursue their first object. The unicorn, therefore, had ducked into one of the cafes on the side street to avoid being trampled.

While there, he watched the crowd rumble past, and reflected on his options. All told, this hadn't been a good day for him; already sent on as assignment he wasn't fit for in covering the races, he now had nothing to give his editor. Altogether, it was a discouraging situation. Looking out again, the stallion saw that the crowd had passed, and also that Fimble had exited another one of the coffee shops, probably on her way home.

Earth Writer decided to follow her, partly out of a lack of anything else to do, partly out of a hope that she had seen the race (which would allow him to salvage his copy), and partly because his sister, who was a huge fan of musical theater, would never forgive him if he told her he'd gotten this close to talking with the Fimble Harmonia, and didn't at least ask for an autograph.

By the time he'd followed her to her mansion, he was no closer to finding out a way of naturally broaching the subject as he was at the beginning. He might have turned back, except that to do so after walking all the way here would have been simply unbearable. [colour=#8b4513]*Well, I guess I could just push the door buzzer, and see what happens.*[/colour] And so he did.

He really should have expected that. Perhaps somewhere, in the back of Earth Writer's mind, he knew what was coming. Didn't do his conscious brain much good, as he flushed red up to his ears as soon as he felt Sugar Apple's kiss. But he was smiling, even wider than when she had agreed to a date in Canterlot, if that was possible.

Sitting back, he brought up a hoof to gently touch the place where the mare's lips had been. "[colour=#8b4513]Heh[/colour]," He began, getting his thoughts together, "[colour=#8b4513]I was about to say that I deserved that, but on reflection, that would be terribly conceited, wouldn't it?[/colour]" If he hadn't a promise of seeing her again, he might not have left the room. Well, that and the nurse standing outside the door, clearly waiting for him to leave. Getting to his hooves once again, he trotted over to the door, calling back, "[colour=#8b4513]I'll see you in Canterlot![/colour]" And under the somewhat indulgent gaze of the hospital staff, he departed, feeling almost weightless in his steps.

Thank You! We should get to planning the next thread soon, I think this will mark Earth Writer's exit from this one.

Packing wouldn't have taken long, normally, but Earth Writer lingered over his saddlebag straps. There was little attempt at subtlety, he didn't want to leave just yet. Neither, it seemed, was Sugar Apple willing to let him go so easily. The mare also had no screen of subtlety, as her impish grin was as plainly visible as the nose on her face.

[colour=#8b4513]*Well, here it comes, whatever it is.* [/colour]Knowing that she wouldn't do anything actually malicious, the stallion kept a reasonably good hold on his nerves as he trotted over to the beside and leaned over. "[colour=#8b4513]Yes?[/colour]"

The reception of subtle cues not being Babs' strong suit, she was left confronted by the spectre of a colt who could talk for ten full minutes without saying anything substantial. Psmith would have been the first to admit his verbosity; he was as proud of it as any pony is of their special talent.

Once the filly had introduced herself to him, the lavender unicorn bowed, saying, "[colour=#996699]A real pleasure to meet you, Comrade Babs.[/colour]" And he meant it, too. "[colour=#996699]Now, as I recall, you expressed curiosity as to how the game of cricket is played, correct? It is the simplest affair in the world.[/colour]" Not quite true, but then, he grew up with the game, and it sat as comfortably within his understanding as his native language.

"[colour=#996699]The game is played between two teams of eleven ponies each, who alternate between bowling and fielding, and batting from the wicket. There are two batters at a time, each of whom stand resolute guard over the wickets, which is that rickety stand of sticks you can see to your left.[/colour]" He indicated the wooden stumps by pointing his hoof. "[colour=#996699]The bowler attempts to knock the stumps over with the ball, and the batter is charged with a solemn duty of preventing it by means of his bat. If the wicket is bowled, or if the ball is caught after the batter hits it, the batter is dismissed. If not, the batters may attempt to score runs by sprinting across the field to touch the opposite crease; but by doing so, they risk one of the fielders knocking over the wicket while they run, and so risk dismissal. If, as you have observed, the ball is batted outside of the field, the batter scores 6 runs, and if it bounces or rolls out, they score 4. After 10 batters have been dismissed, the innings switch, and the teams take the other side. Play continues until stumps are drawn out at a specified time, usually around sunset.[/colour]"

Having completed the long explanation, which was more informative than anything he'd said in the past hour to anypony, he relaxed as the bowler finally finished the examination of the field, and pitched the first ball of the over to Might's fellow batter. The unfortunate pegasus blocked the ball with his leg instead of the bat, which led the umpire to call him out. "[colour=#996699]Leg before wicket.[/colour]" Psmith murmured painfully as he shook his head in regret. "[colour=#996699]No, don't argue with the umpire, Bowles, that was as clean a call as I've ever seen." [/colour]

[colour=#000000]Turning back to his guest, the colt enquired, "[/colour][colour=#996699]So, comrade, are you a sporting pony? Does the field of play call to your soul, do the school cheers inspire heroism?[/colour][colour=#000000]"[/colour]

Editors and writers are the bane of each other's existences. This isn't so much because each thinks so low of the other as to see their work as consistently terrible, but rather because they are apt to praise the very qualities that the other didn't wish to emphasize.

Case in point was one Earth Writer. The young Stallion had been a journalist for a better part of a year before finally publishing an article of any distinction, and then, purely by a random whim, had found himself in one of the most exciting hoof races in Ponyville's history: this year's Running of the Leaves. It had everything, a storied tradition, the fury of nature, a dramatic rescue, and a photo finish. Being a rather studious fellow, and a student of geography, the unicorn had carefully crafted an article narrating not only the race, but it's geographic context, demonstrating why Ponyville was one of the few places that still kept the old Earth Pony season-changing traditions, and how the local terrain contributed to the outcome of the race. It ended up being a feature article in the latest issue of Equestrian Geographic, fulfilling a great ambition of the young journalist.

Earth's success had also come to the notice of his editor at the Daily paper in Canterlot. Unfortunately, this illustrious official had gotten it into his head that he'd just found the next great sports reporter, and without so much as a by-your-leave, Earth was shipped off to the races.

At first, the tan unicorn thought this would merely be a trial, having to be surrounded by hard, rough-housing sportswriters, with a statistical knowledge and insight that would leave him exposed as the neophyte that he was. But no, fate was not so kind to him today. The vast majority of reporters in the press box were not covering the racers, but the audience. [colour=#8b4513]*Tabloids, oh Luna why did it have to be the tabloids?*[/colour] He honestly couldn't imagine a more vapid subject for public discourse. If sports were not edifying (and Earth Writer would be the last to deny they might be), they were at least exciting, and not infrequently real things were at stake in the contest. But the only thing worse than being cooped up in a heated glass box with a bunch of ponies excitedly pointing out sightings of various ponies in the audience so that he couldn't see the course, was the knowledge that his Homburg hat and press card immediately associated him with them in the minds of all watching.

From the noise in the stands, the race had apparently had an exciting finish; Earth Writer only hoped he could get a good account of what happened from somepony in the lower seats. In any case, it was a relief to get out into the open air. He almost felt like singing, the cool breeze was such a relief.

Oddly enough, somepony was singing, a mare, and what's more, he recognized the voice. It was coming from the next balcony over, and soon the journalist felt himself carried in a wave with the other members of his profession to watch the show. Sure enough, there was Miss Fimble Harmonia, singing and dancing for all Equestria as if she were on the stage. Earth noted she was singing about the game, and thought that maybe he could get a word or two in with her about it, since she had such a good view. Right now, however, the crowd of reporters and photographers had subdued her, and were in the process of embarrassing her. This wouldn't do, she'd never get a quiet moment.

Thus, he did the first thing that came into his head (almost never a good idea), and pointed suddenly and shouted. "[colour=#8b4513]My word, is that the Princess?[/colour]" Lame, perhaps, but it did make most of them look the other way, briefly, giving miss Harmonia a chance to escape.

Earth Writer was nothing if not willing to play along with a joke. "[colour=#8b4513]Hm, that is true, these hooves weren't exactly built for kicking out with hind-legs apples.[/colour]" He flexed a rear leg, noting the movement with a critical eye. "[colour=#8b4513]If I'd really been smart, I would have packed beforehand, but I'm not an experienced runner, so we'll just have to chart it up to my own ignorance.[/colour]" He gave an exaggerated sigh to complete the tableau. Truth be told, it wasn't the best of jokes, but he just felt so happy right now, and the stallion was also glad to see that Sugar was beginning to feel less guilty about the whole thing.

"[colour=#8b4513]I think there might have been a juice booth; but I don't think anypony wanted to wait in line. Time would've been the sticking point, not money. Maybe if they were on the starting line?[/colour]" He shrugged, before looking down to see that Sugar Apple was flirting with him. "[colour=#8b4513]Er, you're welcome.[/colour]" He tried not to cough as he felt the back of his tongue dry out, and a blush rise to his cheeks. For all his forwardness in his previous flirtations, he was still in unfamiliar territory; his actions due more to the bravado of the greenhorn than the confidence of the expert. The stallion had little to no experience in dealing with the flirtations of a mare, and it showed.

Perhaps the hospital kept nurses on staff with an eye on visited patients, to interrupt when events might prove dangerous to their blood pressure. In any case, with all the pertinacity of personal non-involvement, a nurse stuck her head in the door to announce, "[colour=#cc0099]Visiting hours over in five minutes.[/colour]"

"[colour=#8b4513]What, really?[/colour]" Earth Writer started, eyes darting to the clock. Sure enough, time had flowed right fast during the visit. "[colour=#8b4513]Huh, I thought I had more time than that...[/colour]" He murmured regretfully, turning back to Sugar Apple with an apologetic smile. "[colour=#8b4513]I guess I'm going to have to be going soon; I'll have to got back to Canterlot to check in with my editor. I'll write as soon as I arrive, and then we can fix a date for visiting that pastry shop, OK?[/colour]"

(Thought I'd wrap this leg up, and transition to the "first date." That OK?)

4/5. I like it, but now I'm wondering who "El Psy Congroo" is.

Psmith did not possess a very expressive face. In point of fact, he practiced the art of not showing his emotions via any obvious expression, preferring subtle cues of eye and lip, like most ponies of his class. Thus, Babs would have had to be particularly observant to detect the fact that he was slightly nonplussed. She was, in fact, the first to actually ask him why he preferred one name to the other; most usually just brushed it off as a strange eccentricity, or just assumed he was embarrassed by the obvious betrayal of his character faults.

"[colour=#996699]Oh, Psmith is the family name, a reference to the ancestral trade. The 'P' dates back to the establishment of the current branch in Canterlot, denoting the fact that we no longer practice it. Why the fact should be indicated in such a way, the philosophers and historians disagree. Personally, I attribute to a fascination with words such as Ptarmigan, Pteranadon, and Psionic. As for Wordsworth...[/colour]" The colts face went from mildly expressive to completely impassive; leaving all windows to his inner feelings shut tight. "[colour=#996699]I think it excessive, especially when paired with a middle name, which I shall not reveal.[/colour]"

He seemed to welcome the change of subject, seating himself more comfortably on the ground, moving carefully so as not to dirty his jacket or disturb the creases. Psmith's face returned to its normal state of expressiveness "[colour=#996699]As for the game itself, comrade- I don't believe I caught your name? We should be better acquainted before we begin; too often in such a city we meet as strangers, and leave no better. I attribute it to ponies minding their own business, a frightful habit, devoid of any neighborly spirit.[/colour]" He sighed regretfully.

In the meantime, nothing much had been happening on the field. The bowlers had finished pitching their over, and the batter were relaxing their stance while there were changes at the mound.

I'm kind of hoping Berry Punch gets in, just because I think the inclusion of a drunken brawler would be awesome.

Earth Writer noticed the blush, but he let it pass without remark. As far as he was concerned, he had merely represented the honest truth in calling Sugar Apple pretty. At the end, though, it seemed that Earth's remark had stirred more guilt than humor. At this point, he really wasn't all that upset about it; it had just been quite embarrassing at the time. He shook his head in response to Sugar's question. "[colour=#8B4513]No, I didn't. For one thing, I supposed that family had privileges. Second, it would've been pretty much against everything the word 'gentlecolt' stands for to blame a lady for one's own transgressions, you know?[/colour]"

He shrugged, trying to pass off the incident as nothing major. "[colour=#8b4513]I don't think Applejack's too upset about it at this point, but if you want me to convey any apologies, I can.[/colour]" Somehow, the stallion suspected that she would prefer to make amends face-to-face, but he felt it was only polite to offer.

Psmith had noticed the approach of the filly out of the corner of his eye, and was pleased to see that she had asked him a question. There was nothing the colt enjoyed so much as being given the opportunity to talk at length, and he took this one with relish.

"[colour=#996699]This[/colour]," he began, with a stately gravity comical in one so young, "[colour=#996699]Is the ancient and illustrious game of Cricket. Not, perhaps, an ideal example of its play, but when one has been exiled to foreign lands, one must treasure whatever one can of one's homeland.[/colour] [colour=#996699]Ah, you are not familiar with the game? Say no more, we see by your accent that you are at home here; no foalhood memories of the green field of Trottingham or the Lord's Ground of Canterlot stir your native patriotism. Here among the cobbles and bricks are your roots, and very fine they are, though they don't easily lend themselves to the planting of wickets.[/colour]" By this time, Babs would have been close enough to see the lavender unicorn's cutie mark, a word balloon, which alone would have been sufficient warning against asking him a question.

Meanwhile, on the field, Might had swung and missed at an erratic bowl, which had fortunately gone wide of his wicket. Of course, that still let him in for some taunting by the bowler. "[colour=#ff0000]You forget what the ball looks like? It's bright red and about this big.[/colour]"

Might only growled, and set his jaw around the handle of the flat wooden bat. There was just something irritating to him about talking on the field for more than a few words at a time. Sure, things were shouted from the sidelines now and then, but that was the spectator's privilege. The player had to keep his mind seriously on the game. The advantages of this philosophy were soon demonstrated, when on the next bowl to his wicket the Earth Pony sent another drive towards the far end of the pitch.

Psmith as well noticed the hit, calling towards the bowler, "[colour=#996699]Well my good chap, you know what it looks like, so go and fetch it then![/colour]" Scattered bits of laughter could be heard from the batting team as the far fielders tried to keep the ball from rolling into the street. Turning back to his guest, he remarked, "[colour=#996699]I must apologize, I seem to have taken temporary leave of my social graces. My name is Psmith, spelled P-S-M-I-T-H; the 'P' is silent, like the tomb. You could call me Wordsworth as well, but I wish you wouldn't. I don't believe, philosophically, in holding the transgressions of the father against the foal.[/colour]"

Earth Writer wasn't a bad orator when he wanted to be; in fact, he'd spent a couple of terms on the Canterlot University Debate Club, and the stallion was pleased to note that his practiced technique had not deserted him. Also, the content as well as style seemed to please, well-used phrasing or no. [colour=#8b4513]*I guess that's why cliches are used; they're sot of the hammer and saw of our linguistic toolbox.*[/colour]

Sugar Apple's next question didn't catch him off-guard, exactly; the journalist not suspecting there being anything to be guarding against. "[colour=#8b4513]Hm, alright then. I actually talk about the orchard itself for a couple of paragraphs before getting to the events in the race there; I wanted to connect Sweet Apple Acre's role in founding Ponyville to the seasonal traditions of this town. This article is as much about the Running of the Leaves as a local tradition in addition to a sporting event." [/colour]He flipped a few pages back in his notebook, before finally reaching the relevant section.

"[colour=#8b4513]Let's see, the actual events begin like this...[/colour]

[colour=#8b4513]"The electric scent of apples hung heavy in the air, stimulating the energy and appetites of the racers as we pounded through the drizzling tree-lined pass. Aside from early jockeying for position, most of the racers were pacing themselves through the first stretch, even pausing for a moment to get refreshments for the long run ahead. I first made my acquaintance with one of them, a pretty Pegasus Mare by the name of Sugar Apple, during one such stop, kicking out with hind-legs and plucking a few apples from an overhanging tree. It was only later that I found out," [/colour]Earth concluded in a dry voice,[colour=#8b4513] "That the apples were not free; when I met up with orchard owner and fellow contestant, Applejack, who had to pause in her run to correct our misconceptions."[/colour]

He thought that might get a laugh out of Sugar, and paused to see if it had.

Yeah, that is unfortunate. It's a pity that Hasbro would probably wouldn't have granted a legal license for it (or perhaps the fees would have been prohibitive for a small volunteer group, barring kickstarter support).

Ooh, another geographer! Always good too see those. Maybe I'll send Earth Writer your way sometime...

Earth Writer briefly considered questioning the pegasus mare further on her intentions, but he couldn't help but feel the effort would be fruitless. Whatever she was planning, he'd just have to find out when the time came. [colour=#8b4513]*After all, how bad could it possibly be?* [/colour]And anypony who thought that

deserved to get what would come next.

"[colour=#8b4513]Alll-right then,[/colour]" The stallion said, bringing his notes back out, "[colour=#8b4513]Besides the rescue section, which could use some punching up, there's just the end that we haven't covered. Let's see..." [/colour]He cleared his throat, and continued on in his best dramatic reading voice:

[colour=#8b4513]"Strung along the dusty path and fallen leaves the racers came, many exhausted, some injured, but all exhilarated by the sounds of cheering carried by the breeze from the finish line. Now was the time, the final stretch where all reserves would be spent and the last remains of fall trampled to the earth! The four at the front were neck and neck, each representing one species who had united to carry on the tradition: Rising Star the Unicorn, Applejack the Earth Pony, Sugar Apple the Pegasus, and Gilda the Griffon. Down to the end they raced, first one drawing ahead, and then another. All past obstacles, all burdens of pain were forgotten in this one last burst of speed; buoyed by the competition and support of their fellow runners, the strength of the tradition of the Running of the Leaves, and the sheer fun of it, the front pack careened down the path and across the line.[/colour]

[colour=#8b4513]"It was a spectacular photo finish, one which this writer will forever feel privileged to have witnessed. The fourth-placed Gilda, a far-traveled outsider who, over-competitive or not, could shake down the foliage with the best of us; third placed Sugar-Apple, a daring mare of great perseverance, who let neither landslide nor injury prevent her from earning a spot at the front of the line;" [/colour]Earth paused here to give her a warm smile,[colour=#8b4513] "Runner-up Applejack, representative of the core of this town and its traditions, giving both the right to take pride in their daughter; and the winner, the appropriately-named Rising Star, a mare of pertinacity and tenacity, and living proof that a race isn't over until it's over."[/colour]

He frowned a little as he finished. "[colour=#8b4513]Sports cliche, but I wasn't sure how else to end that. It fits, but..." [/colour]The journalist looked over to Sugar Apple. "I[colour=#8b4513] don't know, what do you think?[/colour]"

Um, are hippocamps still acceptable to app in the Mane RP? It looks like a good character otherwise.

I can see a movie happening as a kind of capstone or finale to the series. At some point it has to come to a conclusion; full credit to Studio B, but it's very rare that a show can keep a consistent level of quality past 5 seasons.

If they kept the same production team on it, and just gave them the boosted budget for a theatrical release, there's no reason it couldn't turn out decent. I don't see any particular reason why they would switch production companies unless the movie was being made parallel to the show.

Once Sugar Apple had actually agreed to a date, Earth Writer's face split into the widest and probably the goofiest grin it had ever sported. "[colour=#8b4513]Well, alright then! I'll drop a line when I get back home, and you can fly up whenever you're ready.[/colour]" It was almost astonishing how easy that was; the stallion had always felt that asking a mare out would be trying task, but now it seemed more like going swimming. It took a lot to steel oneself to take the plunge into cold water, but once there, it was easy.

[colour=#8b4513]*That, plus, compared to how we first met, this should be simple.*[/colour]

Suffused with good spirits, the journalist gave a cheerful farewell to Greenshot, returning a wave of his hoof. He couldn't help but voice agreement with Sugar's literary opinion, though. "[colour=#8b4513]They're alright, but I think one ought to have variety in one's reading habits. Actually met a couple of authors once; as it turns out, both were considered highbrow reading by the critics, but they're both collaborating on a novel in the same genre in Daring Do. Heh, an arthouse adventure book. Now that's something I can't wait to read.[/colour]"

Earth then noticed that Sugar wasn't replying right away. Looking down at her, he could see the pegasus mare staring back up at him, with a smirk that he recognized all too well. "[colour=#8b4513]Uh-oh, that's usually not a good sign. Was it something I said?[/colour]" He asked, only half in jest.