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Original Description:
Original Description:
Skywind said:
We should start by checking out the local stands or music shops around the park to find out if anypony knows about dirt’s bandmates and where they like to go spend their time in this seaside city.
After some deliberation, you figure that a local music store might be a good place to start asking about Dirt Flaxen’s old band. You find one not far from the park: a small record and instrument shop called The Indie Dogs.
As your party enters the shop, the chatter of crowds and trundle of carts are replaced by soft jazz music. Dozens of record shelves take up the better half of the room, displaying a vast collection of albums categorized by genre. To the side, some guitars, woodwinds and brass, a few drums, and a piano line the soundproofed wall.
For an instant, memories of foalhood echo in your mind. A younger Honourshine sits at the ivory keyboard, one hoof playing a melody while the other struggles to join in. You turn to your friend, and ask her if she remembers.
Honourshine: “I do. I haven’t had the chance to play since the orphanage.”
Moonflower: “S’kinda big so you can’t jus’ carry one of those around with ya.”
Honourshine: “Mhm. Perhaps one day, I’ll have somewhere to keep one.”
You nod, and continue on your way to the counter. However, when you catch sight of the shopkeeper behind it, a heavy feeling of hesitation slows your walk. You lift your head to meet the intimidating gaze of a large diamond dog. Then, a gruff voice breaks the silence.
Shopkeeper: “Can I help you?”
You suddenly get the feeling that this won’t be easy. But in an attempt to shake it off, you decide to get right down to business, and ask the shopkeeper if he knows anything about the whereabouts of Halfpipe Avenue.
Shopkeeper: “I know them. But I don’t know you.”
You concede his point, and take a moment to properly introduce yourself as a member of the Equestrian Voyagers Agency. The diamond dog glances over to your official document, then back to you, not the slightest hint of interest in his citrine eyes.
Shopkeeper: “Not buying it.”
A pause.
Honourshine: “What, do you think he’s lying?”
Shopkeeper: “No, I believe him. I just don’t care.”
After mentally lamenting the dog’s coldness toward you, you decide to gather yourself, and try asking if you said anything wrong.
Shopkeeper: “Look, it’s nothing personal. I don’t know you, so I don’t trust you. And I don’t give this kind of information to ponies I don’t trust. You can’t buy a backstage pass — same deal here.”
You admit that this is reasonable; you could have ulterior motives, after all. But that not being the case, you ask about how you can earn his trust.
Shopkeeper: “That takes time. Unless you can somehow prove that you’re part of the scene, then you’re out of luck.”
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