Schoolcolt Days (Manehattan, Open)

[Blueblood]

There is one in every boarding school.

In a society that tends to a strict regimentation of sport and hygiene, there's always one refreshing breath of stale air, a tantalizing, smoky whiff of the city club and a mature, freer social order. Viewing the cares and inner rivalries of the school with a philosophic detachment, he is undisturbed by the calamities that bedevil his fellow pupils, such as the loss of a big game or the unfair imposition of a term paper approaching herculean proportions. His ability to maintain a calm head in such crises leads him to feel compelled to give friendly advice and commentary from the sidelines, however welcome or otherwise.

For St. Mareson's School, Manehattan, this role was filled by one Wordsworth Psmith. Originally of Canterlotian extraction, recent events at the home had conspired to exile him in a strange city and school, which had not quite gotten used to him yet.

Currently, the lavender unicorn was reclining underneath a tree in Manehattan Central Park, careful not to disturb the creases in his school uniform, watching the play of the St. Mareson's cricket team. Cricket was not as big a sport in this city as it was in Canterlot or Trottingham, but the cities on the strand all had at least one serviceable pitch, and a few teams that played. Given that a match could last from 9 in the morning to 6 in the evening, it wasn't much of a spectator sport. Psmith, however, found it relaxing, and as one of the only friends he had in the city was currently captaining the team, he felt it his solemn duty to provide moral support.

Crowds of passerby may have stopped a moment or two to watch the uncommon game, and may therefore have heard Psmith call out, "[colour=#996699]I say, Comrade Batsman,[/colour]" he paused to delicately flick a leaf off his jacket, "[colour=#996699]As a technique for preventing the escape of the ball after a boundary hit, aiming for the trees is an intriguing innovation, though I fear no less a danger to bystanders. Two more inches, and we would have heralded you as the next leader in inadvertent dentistry; tooth removal by leather instruments, paper co-written by Might Batsman.[/colour]"

"[colour=#000080]Sorry![/colour]" Came a good-natured but largely unrepentant shout in reply from a stocky brown Earth Pony, who took up his bat again as Psmith tossed back the red leather ball, and settled down to watch the next over.

[Bellosh]

Babs Seed had seen plenty of odd things in her relatively short life so far. As a resident of one of the largest cities in Equestria, seeing odd things on a somewhat-frequent basis however is admittedly normal for those who lived within Manehatten. And in Central Park, one of these things was unfolding before her very eyes right now.

The goldenrod-coated filly was not too much a fan of baseball, viewing it as a dreadfully boring sport where hardly anything happens. Of course, this additionally meant that Babs had a good understanding of how the game’s supposed to be played. Henceforth when she stumbled upon a band of uniformed foals playing an odd game in the park, the young earth pony didn’t know what to think. It kinda looked like the other kids were playing baseball, but only on an extremely superficial level. Where were the bases, and what was with those wooden stumps?

Confused over what was supposed to be going on, Babs tried spectating for a few minutes to see what in tarnation was supposed to be going on. Overhearing a uniform-wearing colt shouting to one of the players from underneath a tree, the filly figured that he probably knew a little something about this funky baseball game the group was playing. Casually trotting to the reclining unicorn, Miss Seed cleared her throat to his attention and then asked; [colour=#daa520]“Excuse me, but what in ‘da world are ‘dose ponies playin'?”[/colour]

[Blueblood]

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]"

[Bellosh]

Just from the way the colt’s voice made him sound like he was some big-shot (ha, what a laugh) immediately triggered alarm bells within Babs Seed’s mind. Those alarms were not for naught, as the colt entered into a windy explanation about being a foreigner from up north along with junk about planting wickets... whatever they were. Apparently this game was called cricket, but Babs still had no clear idea what was supposed to be going on. All the filly knew was that the schoolcolt seemed incapable of talking like a normal pony.

[colour=#daa520]~I guess ‘dat explains his cutie mawk though...~[/colour]

Taking a bit of time to shout to somepony out in the field, the self-important colt finally introduced himself as Smith... which was spelled with a silent P for some odd reason. Apparently he also didn’t like being called Wordsworth too; Babs for the life of her couldn’t understand why. In some ways this Smith fellow reminded the filly of her well-to-do cousin Valen Orange, except for the fact that Valen was a lot richer, more obsessed with looking fabulous, and not as wordy to boot.

Her mind scrambled by the slightly-older schoolcolt, a skeptical-looking Miss Seed nonetheless pressed on with her interrogation; [colour=#daa520]“What’s ‘da deal with the silent P, and what’s so bad about the name Wordsworth..... and how are yaw supposed to even play 'dis Cricket?”[/colour]

[Blueblood]

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.

[Bellosh]

Not particularly paying close attention to Psmith’s subtle expressions, Babs Seed kept her focus on how this guy seemed to be in love with his own voice. Yet for all his wordiness, he didn’t seem to explain anything at all. What did the P stand for in the first place, and why did the colt too afraid to reveal his own middle name?

[colour=#daa520]~Eh, whatevah~[/colour]

Shrugging off her unresolved questions, it took Babs a few moments to realize that Psmith was asking for her name. His verbose manner combined with the filly losing her attention as she constantly looked backed over at the cricket game made Babs lose enough focus to stop fully pay attention. Once Miss Seed understood what Psmith asked for, she swifted perked up and replied confusingly; [colour=#daa520]“Errr uhhh... ‘da name’s Babs. Nice to meet yaw’ I guess?”[/colour]

[Blueblood]

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]

[Bellosh]

Taking in Psmith’s information all at once, Babs Seed did her best to follow the colt’s explanation of the rules of cricket. The filly thought she got it all down though; don’t let the ball hit the wooden things, getting points is like getting a “home run”, and you’re “out” if a fielder catches the ball or knocks down one of the wickets. Overall, Babs thought Psmith did a pretty swell job telling her about the sport, considering how long-winded he acted like earlier.

After Psmith took time to comment to himself about how one shouldn’t argue with the umpire, the young purple unicorn asked to the best of his abilities if Babs liked sports.[colour=#daa520] “Ehh, I can’t say I’m much of a sportspony,” [/colour]Miss Seed explained with hesitation; [colour=#daa520]“Not ‘dat I don’t play any sports; I just don’t play boring ones like baseball. Howevah’...”[/colour] Babs paused for a second as she blew at the mane hanging over her face’s right side and adopted a smirk on her face; [colour=#daa520]“I like it best to play by my own rules, if yaw get wha’ I’m sayin’.”[/colour] In Bab’s experience, she found simply wandering through East Side with a pack of friends was more thrilling than any organized sport could ever hope to be.....

[Blueblood]

"[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]"

[Bellosh]

Babs Seed couldn’t make out what Psmith was trying to say yet again; whatever it was, it kinda sounded like he agreed with her stance on sports. [colour=#daa520]“Yeah, I guess...?”[/colour] the filly quizzically responded to Psmith’s belief that minds needed leisure to develop, fortunate to know that her new companion wouldn’t give her any grief over not caring for sports. Maybe the wordy guy wasn’t so bad to hang around after all.

But then Psmith started explaining this theory that Miss Seed wasn’t really a philosopher at heart. With hip yapping on about diving and airships, young Babs had no clue that the colt was actually referring to her lack of a cutie mark. Thus did the goldenrod filly stare blankly at Psmith until he finished; incorrectly guessing that he was referring to the rough-and-tumble nature of Manehatten streets, Babs answered; [colour=#daa520]“Heh, yaw should visit 'da East Side sometime Smith... yaw’d like it ‘dere.”[/colour] Showing off her smirk, Babs amused herself with the mental imagery of the self-described "foreigner" flailing about in her neck of the woods.....

[Blueblood]

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]"

[Bellosh]

Truth be told, Babs Seed was being a little bit facetious when she recommended that Psmith visit the East Side. Thus when the colt suggested the she guide him through her home turf for fun, Babs took a double-take. The little goldenrod pony still wasn’t quite sure whether she trusted Psmith enough to have him hang around, but at least he hadn’t done anything to bother her yet. Therefore, the only response to the colt’s suggestion that Babs could muster was a half-hearted; [colour=#daa520]“Ehhh, I’ll ‘dink abawt it.”[/colour]

But then the lavender unicorn spouted even more nonsense; that she needed to say “Smith” instead of “Smith”! Wait a minute; if the P was supposed to be silent, how the heck did he know if someone was pronouncing a silent letter? That didn’t make sense at all! [colour=#daa520]“Hey, yaw can’t pronounce a silent lettah, pal!”[/colour] Babs shouted indigently; [colour=#daa520]“Am I supposed to say somethin’ like Pah-smith or whatevah?”[/colour]

[Blueblood]

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.

[Bellosh]

Getting slightly impatient now that Psmith still couldn’t speak normally, Babs Seed started to tap her hoof on reflex. The good news was that the filly was now getting a slightly better hang of comprehending her companion’s long-winded utterings, thus she didn’t as confused as before. And so, Babs understood quite clearly now that Psmith did have friends who resided in her neighborhood.

Not that this did too much good when it came to trusting the colt however. Not that Miss Seed had anything against the upper class... her cousin Valen Orange was a valued Cutie Mark Crusader after all. No; Babs just didn’t easily trust new ponies period; especially not after what happened at her old school. Speaking of schools;[colour=#daa520] “What school do yaw’ go to anyway? I’d have ‘dought ‘dat yaw and my cuz Valen go to ‘da same school, but absolutely nopony from my neighborhood eva’ goes to his place. From what I hea’, yawre place has to be different.”[/colour]

Back in the present day, Babs couldn’t discern the difference in sound between Smith and Psmith. Or maybe she did hear something. Either way, the unicorn’s instructions solely lacked in the department of how to actually replicate a silent P. [colour=#daa520]“Ehhhh, I still don’t get it pal,"[/colour] she lamented; [colour=#daa520]"How am I even supposed to make ‘da sound?”[/colour]

[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]"

[Bellosh]

Wait a sec, Psmith knew Valen personally? Babs Seed’s eyes shot wide open as her companion revealed that the two had not only met, but that they’ve done so at Sweet Apple Acres? Has Psmith met her other cousin Apple Bloom too? Purging her mind of distracting questions, Babs now assumed that if her new companion was on good terms with her family, then just maybe he wasn’t such a bad pony after all. [colour=#daa520]“Yeah, ‘dat would be my cuz AJ’s place,”[/colour] the filly affirmed, letting more vigor seep into her voice;[colour=#daa520] “It honestly don’t surprise me ‘dat yaw and Valen would get alawg.”[/colour]

Her mind having entirely forgotten about the adjacent cricket game, Babs eagerly paid attention to Psmith as he described the school he went too. In fact, the little earth pony had indeed heard of the institution known as St. Mareson’s. If she remembered right, it was the place her aunt kept pressuring Babs’s parents to enroll her in once the filly was old enough to attend. Aunt Orange was quite steadfast in having as many nieces and nephews become “presentable” for polite society, as she believed all ponies related to the Orange family must.

Miss Seed would have asked the lavender unicorn more about his school, but he saw fit to demonstrate how to pronounce his name again. This time, Babs did manage to hear the extra emphasis on the ‘m’ sound as well as observing the corresponding tongue movement. After shuddering over the deliberate mispronunciation of her name, the goldenrod filly attempted to replicate the sound behind Psmith.

Unfortunately on her first try, she got tongue twisted and couldn’t produce an intelligible word. Her second attempt was not much better, pressing too hard on the teeth and creating an exaggerated Psssssmith sound. Upon subsequent attempts though, the word Babs pronounced started to resemble Psmith more and more as she moderated the use of her tongue. At least, she hoped it was the case.....

[Blueblood]

Psmith nodded, "[colour=#996699]Indeed, comrade Valen and I got on like a house on fire, which is a phrase that has always rather confused me, but there you are. We can at least be grateful that it is not a literal description of the events, but at times we were worried. That little town can be a surprisingly lively place.[/colour]"

It seemed that Babs was indeed sympathetic to the plight of having one's name mispronounced, and so was redoubling her efforts to accurately replicate 'Psmith.' The colt himself looked on encouragingly, only taking out his handkerchief to clean up the spit off his jacket after the filly had mostly gotten it. "[colour=#996699]Well done, comrade, you see that it is not difficult. A little more practice, and it shall require no trouble at all. The cry goes 'round the castle walls, 'Babs has done it! What cause have we to bar the gates against one possessed of so natural an etiquette?' And I do think, as far as natural politeness goes, there's no family to beat yours.[/colour]"

Neither of them were paying attention to the game at this point, which was a pity, considering what was about to happen. The fielding team had sent out their fast bowler, who fired the ball towards the wicket at a speed illegal on all major roads. Might, however, wasn't about to let that phase him, and had landed a solid hit on the juggernaut with his bat.

This had, unfortunately, sent the ball careening towards Psmith and Babs. There was barely time for Might to call, "[colour=#0000cd]Look out![/colour]" before it arrived.

Psmith, who'd used his forehoof to gesture while he talked, was holding it out when he looked over. The good news was, he was able to block it before it hit his companion. The bad news was, the impact was enough to bend it in a way that it was never intended to bend.

"[colour=#996699]Ah-ah-ah![/colour]" The closest Psmith came to yelling was a kind of modulated, emphasized breathing, but it was clear that he was in pain. Might was already galloping over to his friend, having abandoned his bat as soon as he saw the injury. "[colour=#0000cd]I say, did that crock your wrist?[/colour]" The Earth pony asked, in a clear Trottingham accent.

"[colour=#996699]I should say -AH!- the comrade will no longer bear his weight.[/colour]" Psmith put a brave face on, keeping his hoof suspended as he turned to Babs. "[colour=#996699]Comrade Babs, would you happen to know a good fellow for setting sprains? I am new to this city, and have not fully acquainted myself with the resident specialists.[/colour]"

[Bellosh]

[colour=#daa520]“Well, ‘dat’s good to hear,”[/colour] Babs Seed uttered, unsure as to why Psmith would use an expression that even he knew was strange; [colour=#daa520]“I’ve been to Pawnyville twice actually... it’s really not bad of a place at all.”[/colour] The filly didn’t quite know how to express her feelings about the town in words, but suffice it to say, the place gave her a nice change of pace from her busy life in Manehatten.

Glad to know that she was finally pronouncing Psmith’s name right, Babs Seed was just about to thank the colt for his assistance when they were alerted to a ball flying right in their direction. Before Miss Seed knew it, her lavender companion managed to deflect it, although it came at the cost of a mangled up forehoof. Wincing as the injured colt expressed his pain, Babs tried to think on the spot where to take Psmith.

About one second later, she had a reply; [colour=#daa520]“Da closest hospital ‘round here is ovah’ at East Side. Where we are at ‘da park, we’re actually not too far away from Hooflyn Bridge. Once we’re across, ‘da hospital is right ‘dare. I can lead ‘da way; yaw think yaw can make it pal?”[/colour] Concerned, Miss Seed trotted up to Psmith’s side just in case he needed somepony’s back to rest his injured hoof on.....

[Blueblood]

"[colour=#996699]I suspect the journey may prove dicey, but we Psmiths are troopers. Oh, thank you, Comrade.[/colour]" It was with evident relief that the colt was able to rest his sprained hoof across Babs' back. He was in pain, though you wouldn't know it from his impassive expression. You could, however, tell it from his pattern of speech, which had changed from it's customary languor to a rapid, breathy delivery.

Might certainly knew his friend well enough to see that. "[colour=#0000cd]Look, are you sure you'll be able?" [/colour]The earth pony asked, concern radiating from his features.[colour=#0000cd] "I mean, I could-"[/colour]

[colour=#996699]"No, no." [/colour]Psmith waved his good hoof dismissively, impressively managing to keep his balance.[colour=#996699] "Worry not; comrade Batsman, you have assembled a great team, and they are certain to carry on without my support. They know my heart is with them. 'Be not discouraged!' they say to each other, 'Psmith is not here to cheer us on, but we know that his thoughts are upon us. Play up, play up, and play the game!' It does my heart good to think of it."[/colour]

Might only snorted in a kind of relieved derision. If the lavender unicorn could be this much of a silly pony, he thought, there mustn't be anything seriously wrong. "[colour=#0000cd]Well, alright, if you're sure. I'll drop by after the match, then. Do be jolly careful.[/colour]" And with that, he went back to retrieve his bat.

Psmith set his face towards the bridge. "[colour=#996699]Very well, is all secured, Comrade Babs? Then let us set off upon this quest![/colour]" And so they started off, an odd-looking pair if ever there was one.

(We may be getting a new player on this thread soon)

[TehBbqdPizza]

There was almost always excitement in cities such as Manehattan, especially to many sightseers who tours these cities. Nothing seems commonplace to some ponies, and interesting events were always happening around the corner.

Unfortunately for Long Drive, he was unable to comprehend the meaning of "excitement", if you would consider constantly being lost in the streets of Manehattan exciting. He had difficulty finding his home when he leaves his comfortable home to do errands, even if he only went a short distance. The streets and roads seemed so confusing to Long Drive, and he had to ponder whether he was actually going the correct way home. The most recent episode had him out from his house for hours, and Long Drive, desperate, went into a store- the name or the address of it, he did not know- and asked for help, and only then had he finally returned home, tired.

Hoofington was nothing like this, Long Drive thought to himself. True, it was another large city, but at least he could recognize the roads there and had no trouble navigating around the city. It was similar to solving a maze over and over again; the more often you do the same maze, the more accurate and faster you can do it. But Manehattan was still new to Long Drive. He had recently moved to Manehattan, where he had to adapt to his new environment and roam unexplored roads.

Today, Long Drive had been prepared. He made sure to bring a map, which specifically listed all of the city's streets and historical landmarks, and other structures, such as schools or parks. He has planned to explore more of the city, and set out with his golfing bag. Carrying his golfing inventory was now a habit of his when going out, when back in Hoofington, as school ended, he would go to the golf course and play some holes for the day. Even though he had not the slightest clue when the golf courses nearby are, he still tended to bring it along. Long Drive didn't really mind the extra weight.

Then, as he continues down the street, he sees something one may find queer. Long Drive, due to living in the city, had a tendency to pay attention to surrounding so he could observe unusual yet interesting things that were happening nearby. There were two ponies, one a filly and another a colt; the latter seemed much older than the former. Long Drive, his curiosity getting the better of him, slowed his pace to get a good glance at the pair.

[Bellosh]

Things didn’t sound too good for Psmith, as Babs Seed indeed took notice of the increased rapidness in his voice. One of the other cricket players seemed like he wanted to come along too, but Psmith waved him off. For her part, Babs wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed for not having somepony else to help her out or not, but the filly at the very least believed in her ability to escort her “comrade” to the hospital just fine!

Once Psmith signaled his readiness to begin the trek, a determined-looking Miss Seed started off as well. Ever an observant pony, Babs witnessed how many pedestrians looked on at the seemingly-odd sight of a little filly escorting an older colt. In particular, the goldenrod filly thought that one kid with the golf gear looked really silly; how would he find a golf course in the center ot Manehatten? Leaving the gawkers out of her mind, Babs focused on giving as much comfort to her injured companion as possible; [colour=#daa520]“Yaw’re doin’ alright pal?”[/colour] she asked Psmith.....

(OOC: Welcome to the thread TBP! ^_^)

[Blueblood]

To keep his mind off the pain, Psmith continued to chatter on. Of course, he would have talked anyway, but there was less artifice in his voice now. He wasn't trying very hard to sound sophisticated, clever, or disinterested. His mouth simply spouted out whatever was on top his head. "[colour=#996699]You do very well as an assistant, though I detect some manner of resentment that you work alone. Comrade Batsman, unfortunately, suffers from chronic heroism; leaping in at the first call, without a thought to consequences. I do believe he'd throw over the game for me; a good friend will make such sacrifices, but a best friend should not accept. Imagine me, Psmith, staunch supporter of the team, sabotaging it and the ambitions of it's captain! No, no, it will never do.[/colour]"

It seemed to help. With Babs able to hold his wrist steady, the pain subsided enough for the lavender colt to take an interest in his surroundings, and in particular the many eyes staring at the spectacle he presented. Never a stage-shy sort, he would have waved to them if he had a free hoof.

The unicorn wasn't slow in noticing the trailing golfer, either, and he leaned over as the goldenrod filly asked how he was, [colour=#996699]"Don't look now, Comrade Babs, but I suspect we are being tailed by a Scoltish Nationalist. Any second now, we may be ambushed by the sound of bagpipes; but be of good courage! Such shall not deter us from reaching the goal of our quest for hospice.[/colour]" He was doing alright enough to indulge in nonsense, apparently.

[TehBbqdPizza]

Long Drive was being fairly attentive on the two from a distance he presumed was far away to cause suspicion. With further observation, he saw that the filly had quite a mane-cut. It was the style you won't find on an ordinary filly. He assumed it was one of these fillies who tried to act tough and colt-ish. The other colt seemed much older than him, and was a unicorn. Unicorns were less common where Long Drive lived before, and so the face that the colt was a unicorn himself peaked his interest. He was also wearing an monocle on his left eye, and had simple but tidy clothing. He's like those rich ponies in those books...he reflected. He recalled the last time he saw an actual rich pony, which was an entrepreneur. He wondered how it was like to live in prosperity. Probably getting what they want all the time.

He spent all his time in thought he almost didn't notice the two. Looking at them again, he had the sensation that the two ponies were glancing back at him, and he guessed that it wouldn't be too long for them to raise suspicion. Quickly but casually as possible, Long Drive tried to hide his face with his map, acting like he was focusing his attention on finding his way. In fact, the symbols and roads on the map were too complex for him to fully understand. The intersections and roundabouts connected the roads that looked like a spider's web.

[Bellosh]

Babs Seed whispered harshly;[colour=#daa520] “A Scoltish nationalist? What in... uggh, geez.....”[/colour] Completely disregarding Psmith’s warning, the filly looked behind her only to see that golfer kid from before following them. “Dose ain’t bagpipes at all rube,” Babs quietly berated the injured unicorn;[colour=#daa520] “’Dere’re golfclubs! Do yaw’ need your eyesight checked or somethin’?”[/colour]

Of course, it wouldn’t do for Miss Seed at all to have somepony stalking her, not when she was busy escorting Psmith to the hospital. Wishing to quickly send the trailer packing, she crossly shouted in the direction of the map-reading spy; [colour=#daa520]“Hey kid; yeah, you! What’s yawr big idea followin’ us? Why don’t yaw scram and botha’ somepawny else?”[/colour] Babs didn’t mean to be rude, but she also didn’t like to be reminded of the days not so long ago when the filly couldn’t get a break from that obnoxious bully pack from her old school.....

[Blueblood]

Babs had only known Psmith for one day, which wasn't long enough to realize just how much of what he said were words as empty as the speech balloon on his flank. He was mature enough to understand his talent, but not quite enough not to use it frivolously. If anyone called him out on his piffling, that only encouraged him to pile it on thicker. "[colour=#996699]Ah, do not let your guard down on that account, comrade. He may not carry them, but it is not without precedent to stow bagpipes around a city for bagpipe emergencies. I have done the same, only with clothes, in my own native city. But, now, the question is, have anything to fear? I put on my Sherlock Hooves cap and examine him-[/colour]"

The goldenrod filly had, by now, stopped paying attention to Psmith, and had turned her head to shout back at Long Drive. This had jostled the lavender unicorn's sprained forehoof, cutting him off mid-babble and jostling the monocle from his eye. Taking a few deep breaths, he levitated the eyeglass back in place and examined the interloper through it. "[colour=#996699]He holds a map, and from that alone we deduce he is not a native. He is young, and unaccompanied; by permission or not we cannot say. Therefore, he is probably lost, and seeking for a guide. Well comrade, we are in the same boat, only we are in need of a hospital, which you, fortunately, seem not to require.[/colour]" The pain-suppressant of piffle worked its magic again on the speaker, and he was able to resume walking.