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As evening time fell across the city, ponies closed up the market stalls, abandoned their studies, and most flocked either home or to a café or restaurant of choice. The air was still somewhat cool, as spring was only beginning to take root, and the sky was dark with clouds, which brought a drizzle with them. It was not the ideal way to bring ponies together in friendship and fellowship, but it was at least doing that on that eve. It was on that eve that a young stallion, fresh back from his frustrated attempts to study at the Royal Library, dropped off his canvas satchel of books next to his apartment bed and picked up his bódhran, a wide tribal drum with a stick to swing back and forth and make a fast or slow beat, depending on the player. He looked outside, cursed the precipitation under his breath, and donned a brown flat cap for warmth. He placed the drum in a cheap carrying case and set out, locking up his apartment door behind him and heading up the street towards Lucky’s Pub, where he intended to play with a few reels and jigs and drink some of his stress away for the night.
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