 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
You now stand on a huge splintery pier which shifts unnervingly as the whitecaps crash in. Ponies, elves, and other less recognizable creatures hurry past you pulling crates or carrying armfuls (or backfuls) of silk as the screaming sea gulls spiral above them, begging for fish. Large ships (galleons?) solemnly creak from side to side as elves and pegasi dance along the masts, busy with knots, ropes, and sails. To avoid getting run over by the mass of creatures, you quickly retreat to the cobblestone street leading to the docks. As you catch your breath in the shadow of a roughly hewn tavern, you are amazed to hear someone singing . . . or, to be more precise, you are amazed that any singer could make himself heard over the unruly din of hundreds of sailors shouting, swearing, and bellowing. But the baritone voice rolls above the constant roar, easily discernable:
"--And the quay it is all garnished wi' the bonny sweethearts round! Looking around, you quickly spot the songster, a large blue Clydesdale pony with fiery red and yellow hair. Strangely enough, he's wearing a pirate hat and an eyepatch. He also spots you, tilting his head so he can look at you with his good eye. "You there! Where did ye come from? How did ye get here?" "I touched a little wave symbol--" you begin, and the Clydesdale nods in understanding. "So those still work? Hmm, who'd ha' thought! Well, young human, I'm Barnacle, scourge of the twelve seas!" "Whatever," mutters a smaller black Clydesdale with light blue hair as he shoulders past Barnacle, bracing his muscles against a gigantic chest of jewels nearly as big as himself. And in a louder voice: "Are you going to help load the ship or what?" Barnacle frowns. "When I was young, we had respect for our elders," he says loftily. The younger stallion rolls his eyes. "Oh, right. Are you going to help load the ship or what, sir?" "Keep a civil tongue in your head, Starboard!" scowls Barnacle. "I have to show our visitor around! Youngsters don't have the manners they used to, and that's a fact," he grumbles . . . but when the black pony is out of earshot, Barnacle proudly boasts "That's my son there . . . he's shaping up to be a fine sailor. Look at the way he throws his back into his work! Aye, he's a good boy. I remember a time when . . ." In the best tradition of proud parents everywhere, Barnacle rambles on for at least ten minutes before remembering his promise to show you around. "So where d'you want to go?" he asks at last. "Well . . .err . . . what's around here?" Barnacle considers. "Welll . . . there's the bazaar--you can get some pretty good deals from them. They even sell those My Little Pony toys that Hasbro made. Then there's the Frequently Asked Question Booth--if you have questions, that's the place t'go. Do you like souvenirs?" "Uh, I guess so--" "Then it's Crazy Jack's booth you'll be wantin'. He's got a little corner just inside the castle gates; I think they're too nervous to throw 'im out. Anyway, he's got piles of pictures, and he'll surely give some to you for free. But . . ." Barnacle glances around to make sure no one is listening, then ominously whispers (unnecessarily, since everyone around is bellowing as loudly as possible), "just don't forget to give him credit!" He raises his head solemnly. "Oh?" The dark blue stallion nods. "Yeah, 'cause if you don't, he'll go crazy! He's not called Crazy Jack for nothing, you know! And he's got connections, too; he's a member of L.I.N.K." "L.I.N.K.? What's that?" you ask. "You'll see," Barnacle says. "So where d'you want to go first?"
Crazy Jack's Free Pics
My Little Pony is copyrighted to Hasbro.
|
As your hand brushes the icon of
the tiny wave, the world blurs. Sea spray leaps around you in a whirlpool of mist, then
abruptly clears.