Counterpointby TerrasoraChaptersFirst ImpressionsHearths WarmingTavi in Wonderland Part 1First Impressions“Hail, Master Horseshoepin! How dost thou, sweet pianist?” The stallion turned, his white mane making him seem far older than he was. He grinned as a purple shape slid to a stop. “How now, composer! Whither wander you?” “Would that I could wander!” lamented Harpo. “‘Tis a wide world we inhabit, yet I trapeze the same path with a guard’s armored hoof! Nay, good sir, I march for want of wandering and wail my woes, wading through waffled ways!” Frederic Horseshoepin raised a brow. “And how long have you been working on that one?” Harpo shrugged. “A few wasted weeks.” “Impressive.” “Thank you sir, I try.” Frederic smiled, turning back onto his path. Harpo fell into step next to him. Canterlot Conservatory was buzzing with students again, the great green expanse of its square filled to bursting with aspiring musicians. A few were throwing frisbees around. An impromptu string quartet had popped up in a corner. A couple of lovebirds were strewn around the grass, oblivious to everything around them. Harpo never tired of the sight. “And how is your schedule this term, Nadermane?” Harpo dug into his saddlebags, taking out a crumpled half-sheet of paper. “Not overly bad. I have most of my classes in the afternoon and I’ve heard that Professor Arpeggio’s pretty good.” Frederic nodded, quickly glancing through the paper. “Yes, he most certainly is. Have you spoken to him before?” “No, not really.” “I’d be more than happy to stop by and introduce you. Professor Arpeggio likes me.” “Must be nice,” said Harpo. “Being a teacher’s pet, I mean.” “I am not a pet, Nadermane. I am a good student.” “You’re saying that I’m not a good student?! I turned in, like, half of last term’s assignments!” Frederic sighed. “It’s a wonder that you haven’t been kicked out.” Harpo shrugged, a cheeky smile curling the corners of his mouth. “What can I say? Ponies like me. Not that they can help it.” “Of course not. Then again, you only speak to two ponies in the Conservatory.” “I speak to more than that!” Frederic grinned. “Don’t worry, Nadermane! Lyra and I like you. After all, you’re just so charming.” “You’re mocking me.” Harpo narrowed his eyes. “You’re discriminating against me because I’m younger, aren’t you Grandpa?” The pianist’s eye twitched slightly. “Don’t start with me.” “What, do you not like being old? Or is your ulcer acting up, old sport?” Frederic turned his neck slightly, forcing a loud crack out of it. “I may be a proper gentlecolt, Nadermane. But I am not above publicly beating your flank. Again.” “How daring of you, Master Horseshoepin, absolutely daring! You should save talk like that for someplace more private.” Harpo winked suggestively. Frederic twitched forward, a light brown hoof suddenly inches away from Harpo’s face. Harpo reeled back, tripping over his hooves and nearly falling. “Sometimes,” said Frederic, dusting off his hooves, “I think you forget who you’re talking to.” “Of course, of course. Master Horseshoepin, the fighter who plays piano on the side.” “Martial arts, Nadermane. Not ‘fighting.’ You should be thankful for that distinction. A fighter would have knocked your head off months ago.” Frederic seemed to brighten slightly. “You should meet more ponies! Maybe you’ll come across a fighter and you won’t be my problem anymore.” Harpo placed a hoof on his own cheek. “I rather like my head.” “Well, not a fighter then. But honestly, Nadermane, it would do you good to speak to other students.” “Mmmmmmm, I suppose,” said Harpo reluctantly. “If only to have somepony to copy notes from.” “I cannot, in good conscience, support that reason. But yes, that is certainly a good reason.” Frederic looked around the square. “Most of the students are on break now. Do you recognize any of them from your classes last term?” Harpo gave a quick scan. Happy ponies. Dating ponies. Exercising ponies. Musical ponies. A sour note floated over the grass, making the composer cringe. Ponies trying to be musical. Harpo turned back towards Frederic. “I can’t relate to any of them.” “Oh,” said Frederic with a sly smile. “I’m sure that some of them are alcoholics.” “Haha.” Harpo’s eyes roamed over the square. The same happy scene that would probably be on a brochure by the end of the day. Seriously, it was uncanny. The group of ponies in a circle, laughing. Pegasi with unicorns with earth ponies of all different cutie marks. And frisbees! Harpo was pretty sure that owning a frisbee was a becoming a requirement for students. Except for hacky sacks, you could probably get away with not owning a frisbee if you owned a hacky sack. Where was I? Harpo shook his head, driving away his tangential thoughts. Ah yes. Happy pony, happy pony, two happy ponies, frisbee. Harpo followed the bright orange disk as it sailed across the grass and right through a pony’s waiting hooves. “Honestly, Nadermane, just go and talk to somepony already! I have to get to class.” Frederic stared at the composer, testily tapping his hoof. “Alright, alright! Don’t get your black belt in a knot.” Harpo turned back to the square. A pony, holding that orange frisbee, was walking away in a huff from a grey mare. The mare was completely oblivious to the world, diligently flipping through the pages of a book and taking occasional notes. He couldn’t quite see the book’s cover from the distance, but that hardly mattered as much as the fact that this mare was able to piss off overly happy students. Harpo could appreciate that. “Alright Frederic, I’m going to go make friends.” Harpo trotted off towards the mare. “Good for you! That’s a very--” Frederic looked in the direction Harpo was going “--Nadermane! No! Nadermane, come back!” But, being a gentlecolt and a proponent of schadenfreude, Frederic Horseshoepin did not shout to save his friend. “He’s going to die.” A pause. He shrugged and walked away, slightly regretting that he wouldn’t be able to watch. “Pardon me, is this seat taken?” Harpo gestured towards the other side of the bench with what he hoped was a charming smile. The mare’s eyes darted upwards, then back down to her book. Too charming, Harpo, too charming! He allowed his smile to slip slightly before holding out his hoof. “I’m Harpo,” he said, “Harpo Parish Nadermane.” The mare looked up, regarding the hoof for a while. She took it with reluctance “Octavia Philharmonica.” “A pleasure to meet you.” Harpo smiled. Octavia turned back to her book. Well, this is certainly a riveting conversation. Maybe Frederic and I still have time to… Harpo looked around. Frederic left. Oh, beautiful. Thanks for that, friend. Miss Philharmonica’s attitude certainly isn’t helping any matters. I’m trying to be a friend and you’re reading a… what are you reading? Harpo craned his neck, only able to make out a few words past Octavia’s charcoal mane. ‘The syncopated rhythms of’... What does that say? Octavia’s purple eyes flicked upwards angrily. Harpo flinched back, trying to look absolutely fascinated by the group of ponies tossing a frisbee. He failed miserably. “Er… What are you reading?” asked the composer with an awkward smile. “If you don’t mind my asking.” Octavia’s right eye twitched. She lifted her book, showing off a pristine white cover. The title, “A comparison of the Composition Styles of the Modern Era,” was written in simple, black lettering. “That sounds… interesting.” Octavia gave a tight nod. Her head dove back into the book. “So,” began Harpo, “you’re a composer?” “No. A cellist.” “Ah.” Silence fell on the bench, only occasionally broken by the rustling of Octavia’s book pages and the occasional scratching of her quill on paper. Harpo got to his hooves. “Well, it was nice meeting you.” Octavia nodded and took a few more notes. Harpo offered one last awkward smile and tried not to run as he turned away from the mare. *** “Octavia Philharmonica is one of our resident geniuses.” Frederic sat in front of his dormitory’s piano, coaxing random scales and arpeggios from the keys. “I’m surprised that you haven’t met her; she’s your year, after all.” “She was in some of my classes. I never spoke to her.” Harpo flipped through a slightly unsavory magazine, glossing over the slightly risque foldouts. Frederic played a quick chord progression, a questioning, slightly disbelieving tune. “And you’d never even heard of Miss Philharmonica?” Harpo shrugged. “Since when do I pay attention to ponies?” “Fair point.” Frederic absentmindedly played the first few measures of one of Johann Sebastian Beak’s toccatas. “But you’ve never even heard somepony else mention her?” “Is it really that big of a deal?” Frederic seemed to consider this for a moment. “How in-tune are you with us plebeians of the Conservatory?” The magazine lowered slightly as Harpo turned towards his friend. “Pardon me?” “Octavia is one of the Conservatory’s geniuses Harpo. Care to guess who the other one is?” Harpo thought for a moment. “Lyra is rather talented. As are you, Frederic. And… those are pretty much the only two ponies that I can name.” Frederic scowled, and banged out a discordant melody on his piano. “It’s you, Nadermane. Octavia Philharmonica and Harpo Parish Nadermane, the two miracles of the freshpony class.” “Me?” asked Harpo. “What did I do to deserve that?” “How long do you actually spend on your work?” “I work!” “That’s not what I asked. If I remember correctly, you spent most of last term trying to hunt down a particular brand of whiskey. There was a week where you completely disappeared, only to reappear with your midterm symphony which was, if memory serves, originally written on the back of various napkins.” “That was a good week,” said Harpo happily. Frederic shook his head, closing the lid on the piano’s keys. “Good night, Nadermane. I have to actually study for my classes.” He trotted out of the common room. Harpo watched him leave. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve done something wrong. He flipped through a few more pages of his magazine then tossed it aside, onto the desk where he had found it. Harpo glanced up at a nearby clock. It wasn’t particularly early, but it was nowhere near the time he was used to sleeping. Maybe a walk is in order. The composer walked out of the common room and into the open air. Harpo took a deep breath, the brisk night stinging his nose slightly, then began his wanderings through campus. Past the dormitories, past the small convenience shop where Harpo had worked for a time, into the maze of buildings and gardens that constituted the main campus of Canterlot Conservatory. What shall I think about, me and myself? thought Harpo. Frederic? Octavia? Neither of those topics seemed quite right. They were strained topics, ones that would require serious thinking on Harpo’s part. Not suited for musing while wandering. The Conservatory, then. That’s always good. A little town of musicians tucked away inside of Canterlot, complete with its own housing and restaurants. It’s a school, but not a school in the traditional sense. A university, I suppose. Except that everyone here has some semblance of rhythm so there’s less awkward dancing at parties. Or, rather, at the parties that I’ve been to. Which is none. But that’s besides the point! My point is… well, I don’t know what my point is. Harpo stopped walking. Look at me, I’m rambling. That’s something that Conservatory students do. “I’m a real Conservatory student now,” he said with a laugh. “... Where am I?” Harpo looked around. The concrete building and square lights of students studying late into the night had faded away though Harpo could still see them in the distance if he squinted. The composer’s wanderings had taken him into the middle of the Conservatory gardens, a well-maintained piece of controlled nature. The gardens always seemed a little bit colder than the rest of campus, the trees casting ever-present shade. A pond sat in the middle of it all, its resident set of turtles looking up at the composer. Harpo waved. The turtles stared. “Wait, you can’t answer. You’re turtles!” Harpo chuckled. The turtles remained silent. Now I’m talking to turtles, thought Harpo with a sigh. He walked over to a tree and sat down. A light blue flower stood in the moonlight among a patch of slightly taller than normal grass. Harpo reached out and picked the flower, absentmindedly tearing off the petals and tossing them into his mouth. “This is a rather sad sight.” “Just a bit.” Harpo jumped, tuning his head too quickly and straining his neck in the process. Lyra Heartstrings laughed, trotting around the tree and joining Harpo on the ground. “What brings you out here, Harpo Parish Nadermane?” Harpo rubbed at his neck with one hoof and held up the flower with the other. “A late night snack.” Lyra nodded. “That’s not a bad reason. Though Rose Petal would throw a fit if she saw you eating her garden.” Harpo gave a half-hearted smile and turned away, popping another petal into his waiting mouth. The two sat in silence for a while, the composer steadily working on his flower and the lyrist looking up at the sky. “And whither wander you, Lyra?” Harpo threw a few more petals into his mouth. Lyra turned towards the composer, blinking her golden eyes a few times. “You know that I don’t understand any of that fancy crap.” Harpo chuckled. “Why are you out here, philistine?” “I heard the call of a moping composer and came to see if I could make fun of him.” “I’m not moping!” Lyra shrugged. “I guess you’re just talking to the turtles.” Harpo flicked the last petal into his mouth. “They’re terrible conversation.” Lyra smiled. “Wanna talk?” “No, not right now,” said Harpo with a shake of his head. “It’s the first day back to the Conservatory; my problems will only grow from here. Talk later?” There was a pause. “Alright then.” Lyra got to her hooves. “Maybe you just have to get out a bit more. I’m heading to Tritone’s party right now. Are you gonna show up?” A pause. “Who’s Tritone?” “I’ll take that as a no.” Lyra sighed. “Well, don’t stay out too late Harpo. You’ll make ponies sad if you just sit out here eating things.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” *** Harpo unlocked the door to his room. The night had gotten a bit too chilly for his tastes. He shivered. Evidently, the chill had even gotten into his single. Harpo crossed the room in a few steps, past the small bed, the desk, and the closet, and slamming his window shut. He drew the curtains for good measure. It was still a bit cold, but a bit more of a manageable cold. And the closed window was able to muffle a bit of the music, though some infernal bass still rattled his windows. White noise, thought Harpo, maybe Tritone’s music will help me get to sleep. The bass picked up, vibrating his window rapidly, like an opera singer holding up a wine glass. Probably not. Harpo sighed, snatching a book from his desk before climbing into bed. He flipped through the tattered pages, stopping at a coffee stained page. Harpo had been reading at breakfast with his customary orange and cup of coffee. It was the story’s own fault, really, scaring him like that. It deserved to be scalded. The composer read a few pages, the rhythm of the words mixing with the outside music’s syncopated beat. With a sigh, Harpo laid the book aside, drawing the blankets up to his chin. He would fall asleep a few hours later. *** “Explain yourself, Mister Nadermane.” Harpo gestured upwards, waving a vague hoof at the magically projected sheet of music. “Bars eight through twenty-three. Striving Sky switches into the Phrygian mode from a major key. Modal scales can be seen as older forms of music as opposed to the modern method of writing music. Striving Sky is playing off of this, using a Phrygian mode to represent the more primitive ideas behind this piece, briefly allowing them to dominate. Later on in the piece, around bar fifty, the mode returns, this time alternating with the major key.” Professor Arpeggio gave him a questioning look. “And why does he do this?” Harpo paused for a moment. “It’s a battle. Between the positive major key and the more negative Phrygian mode.” “Yes,” said the professor with an amused smile. “But why does he do this?” “Because,” began Harpo. The word drifted off. “Because,” broke in a refined, Canterlotian voice, “this piece is meant to represent a conflicting state of mind, a common enough topic during Striving Sky’s time. The major key are happy thoughts, the easy parts of life, while the Phrygian mode are threats of depression; the parts of life that we don’t particularly enjoy.” “Very good, Miss Philharmonica.” Professor Arpeggio smiled warmly. “And you as well, Mister Nadermane. I wish that you both would share more often.” He paced slightly, his gaze sweeping to include the other students in the auditorium. “Striving Sky was a master of manipulating music to suit his needs. I want you all to choose one of his compositions, barring the one that Miss Philharmonica and Mister Nadermane began to explain, and analyze every technique that you are able to discern. Explain why he chose that particular technique for that particular moment in that particular piece. I want six pages, due in four days.” Arpeggio passed another gaze over his class, daring them to grumble about their assignment. Nopony did. “Very well then. Class dismissed.” Professor Arpeggio trotted over to his desk, gathering all of his things as the students stormed out of the hall. “Nadermane, Philharmonica, if you would be so kind as to stay a while?” Harpo and Octavia stopped in front of the desk, scarcely even glancing at each other as they waited. Professor Arpeggio shuffed a few papers around, stowing them in a beat-up leather briefcase. The students stood there for a few minutes before Arpeggio finally looked up. “I’ve heard only good things about you two,” said Arpeggio. “Mister Nadermane, I understand that you know Mister Horseshoepin.” “Yes, sir.” “Miss Philharmonica, your teachers from last term rave about you. They say the Conservatory has not had as hard-working and talented a performer as yourself in years.” Octavia nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. Professor Arpeggio turned back to Harpo. “Your teachers say much the same thing, replacing ‘performer’ with composer, and making specific mention of having to beat you within an inch of your life in order to make you work. That, or to threaten to confiscate your alcohol collection.” Harpo attempted to mask his fear with an awkward smile. “Pardon me, Professor,” said Octavia, "but I have another class in a few minutes." “Quite right, I’ll get directly to the point.” Professor Arpeggio glanced between the two of them. “I’d like you two to work together for this year’s End Concert.” Harpo’s eyes widened. Octavia remained largely impassive. Arpeggio smiled. “Yes, that End Concert. It will be a treat, I’m sure, to send off the seniors with the knowledge that future years are in rather talented hooves. We have not had a proper freshpony performance in quite a while. Will you do it?” “I’d be honored.” Octavia shifted her saddlebags. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get to class.” Professor Arpeggio nodded. The cellist trotted out of the room, leaving the two stallions alone. “And what’s your answer, Mister Nadermane?” Harpo stared after Octavia for a few moments. “She’s going to be difficult to work with.” “I‘m sure you’ll become fast friends,” said the professor with a smile. “Right. Friends.” Harpo set off towards the door. “Thank you Professor, I’ll do my best.” “I’m sure you will.” Harpo left the classroom. He glanced up and down the hallway, looking for any sign of the cellist. Damn, he thought to himself, she walks fast. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to speak to her. There was about an hour left until Harpo’s next class and a small cafe that was never overly busy this time of day. Harpo followed the hallway down. I think I’ll get a nice cup of coffee. And a cupcake, a cupcake sounds pretty good right now. That should be around… five bits? Well, maybe if I get a small coffee. Celestia, seems so expensive now tha-- Harpo turned a corner and promptly slammed into another body. Both ponies fell to the floor, Harpo’s saddlebags flying open, his books sliding out and onto the floor. The other pony wasn’t as lucky. Her books, which hadn’t been in a bag, spewed out onto the hallway. Harpo and the mare spoke at the same time. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Again, at the same time: “It’s alright.” Harpo looked up. He had crashed into a light blue mare, her brown mane now slightly dishevelled and her purple eyes looking directly into his green. She giggled slightly. “Well, that was rather strange. It’s not often that you crash into a mirror.” “Uh,” stuttered Harpo. “Y-yeah.” The composer laughed awkwardly. Pretty. Very pretty. The mare smiled, smoothing her mane back with a hoof. The hoof paused. “Wait, I’ve seen you before. Mister Nadermane, I believe?” “H-” Harpo’s voice cracked, “Harpo. Just Harpo’s fine.” The mare held out a hoof. “Beauty,” said the mare in introduction. Yes you certainly are. “Beauty Brass. But just Beauty’s fine.” Harpo smiled. “Care to stand up?” asked Beauty. The composer let out a laugh. “No, let’s keep sitting. I rather like it down here.” “I’d love to,” said Beauty with a smile, “but I really should be getting to class.” She got to her hooves, taking a few steps to shove some books into her bags. Harpo helped her, picking up a few books that had landed near him. Then he placed his books back into his saddlebags. Beauty took the books. “Thank you Harpo, it was nice to meet you.” “Likewise,” said Harpo. “Good-bye,” said Beauty Brass with a wave. She trotted away. Harpo watched her appreciatively. Well done Harpo, you didn’t make a complete ass of yourself! That’s a victory! He turned happily, a new spring in his step. A good first impression can make all the difference. Author's Note Striving Sky is Igor Stravinsky. Alright, this story is going to run a bit differently than most other stories. I'll be writing history that I want to put down, but I'll also be taking suggestions. I want to know what you guys want to hear about. Marcato and Legato? Fancy Pants and Fleur? Ma and Pa? Most anything is fair game, just put your suggestion down in the comments and if you read one that you like, vote it up. I'll write the most popular suggestion within a time frame of five days after I publish a chapter. Or, you know, I'll write something that pops into my head. Either one is fine, but I would very much appreciate hearing from you awesome people! Hearths Warming‘Twas the Eve of Hearths Warming, that magical day, Where hard work and trouble all give way to play. The snows had come down, painting Canterlot white, The sun had just risen, the whole town was bright. Octavia and Vinyl lay snug in their bed, The cellist woke first, took a moment, then said: “Vinyl, wake up! It’s finally here! You can’t miss Hearths Warming, there’s only one a year!” But Vinyl just grumbled, snuggling under the cover, Ignoring the holiday cheer of her lover. “Five more minutes Tavi,” she said half-asleep, “You can get up, but I’m gonna count sheep.” Octavia scowled, and her brow did furrow, As into the blankets Vinyl tried to burrow. “Get your flank up!” the cellist did shout “Off this bed, through the door, past the bathroom and out!” Octavia forced Vinyl Scratch to her hooves, Ignoring the DJ’s most humbuggy mood. And though Vinyl struggled, try as she might, Against a Holiday Octy, nopony can fight. Off the bed, through the door, past the bathroom they trotted, Onto their front lawn, the grass white and green spotted. “You stay here,” said Tavi, with a stamp on the ground, “I’ll go get the lights, don’t you dare make a sound!” Vinyl hardly heard her, as she let out a yawn, Standing all alone in the midst of her lawn. She stamped on the ground, breathing out a cloud “What’s the deal with Hearths Warming?” she wondered aloud. “It’s not something new, we’ve done it before, It’s cold and it’s damp, we should be indoors! But Tavi don’t think so; she’s all for this ‘cheer’ Decorations and lights that whole ‘once a year’. “What makes this day special? The history thing? Hardly worth the torture that carolers sing! The cold, the bright lights, those repetitive songs, Bah Humbug! I say, this day’s been too long.” Octavia trotted back with a smile, The lights trailed behind her, seeming almost a mile. “Now, most of it’s finished, but we’re still not quite done. Oh, don’t make that face, I promise it’ll be fun!” Vinyl rolled her eyes, a pout on her face, As she trudged towards the lights at a snail’s break-neck pace. Her magic flared sharply, shrouding her horn, The lights floated up quickly with intent to adorn. “Be more careful!” shouted Tavi, her nerves all a-shake, “Those lights cost a fortune, we can’t let them break! I think they’re off-center! A bit to the left! No, make that right! The right would be best!” “That light looks dim, that one’s slightly bent, Move the lights down! Wait, that’s not what I meant! Up a bit more, to the left once again, Try turning them slightly, a bit more, and then--” “Tavi!” shouted Vinyl, “The lights look just fine! Each and every one is in a perfect line! I don’t have to turn them, the lights aren’t too dim, There’s no room for more, the house’s filled to the brim!” Vinyl dropped her magic, shaking from the cold, She turned towards her marefriend and declared loud and bold: “I’m heading back in, I’m done with preparing For a holiday that is barely worth bearing!” And with that, Vinyl left, her nose in the air, Fed up with Octavia’s Hearths Warming flair. The cellist cried out, “Why the attitude nonce?” “Bah Humbug!” was the other mare’s only response. Octavia watched as she trotted away, Then glanced at the lights placed for this holiday. They were crooked and dim, too lighted in places, The green wasn’t perfect, the red slightly faded. Tavi imagined the ponies walk by, Watching her house with disapproving eyes. Pointing out dimness and straightness and color, Laughing at lights that seemed more like squalor. They would walk by and judge and prod, Exchanging mean glances and meaningful nods. “How pathetic,” she thought that they’d certainly say, “That there could be such slackers on this auspicious day.” Then away they would trot, laughing all the while, Tossing back manes coiffed in Canterlot style; That gesture that Octy had seen before, That same expression that Vinyl’s old parents once bore. “I swore,” thought the cellist, “I swear that I swore, Not to see that face High and Mighty once wore. Vinyl can stay in, I’ll do this alone, It won’t be long until she changes her tone.” Octavia nodded, her jaw firmly set, Determined to work through the cold and the wet. She brought out the ladder, climbed onto the roof, And straightened out the lights with a discerning hoof. She worked out the kinks with all of her care, Changing and fixing and working out tears. The wind howled as she worked, a terrible gale, That made the roof slick and almost froze her tail. Yet, Octavia worked, not one to be daunted, Not on Hearth’s Warming; the day so highly vaunted. So she worked and she worked and the wind blew its course, Making flurries and chilling cellists with its force. Octavia sneezed and she pulled her scarf tight, Reaching over the edge to get her lights just right. She mumbled her curses towards cold and towards snow, Towards forecasts of blizzards and of five below. Tavi hung over the edge of the roof, Balanced on the ground by the tip of a hoof. The wind quickly gusted, the snow shifting sloppily, Octavia’s hoof slipped, she felt herself toppling. The cellist flailed out and let loose a cry, The ground rose up sharply as she fell through the sky. Tavi felt a tug at the end of her tail, A powerful pull, stopping Tavi’s wail. Octavia silently hung in the air, A shiny white aura holding up her hair. Vinyl rushed out, her glasses askew, Her mane was a mess, every strand of blue. The DJ breathed heavily, her face slightly flush, With the effort of running and magic and such. “What are you doing?” Vinyl Scratch shouted out loud, “Are those lights worth your life, are you really so proud?!” Octavia closed her eyes in relief, Feeling a few tears threaten to seep. “Thank you,” she said, her voice very soft, “But I’d rather that you not hold me aloft.” Vinyl nodded and put Octavia down, Looking at the cellist and the lights with a frown. “Well, if that’s it, then I’ll head back inside,” She gave one last nod before turning aside. “Tavi,” said Vinyl, still looking away, “Do you mind if we talk about… today?” Octavia gave one last glance towards the roof, Then she nodded and walked forward, hoof before hoof. Vinyl had built a fire, blazing in its place, She sat herself down, a frown on her face. Tavi sat across from her, quietly shaking, The cold and the fall left her slightly aching. The DJ spoke first: “Harpo’s busy, right? No chance of seeing him this Hearths Warming night?” Octavia nodded, and Vinyl Scratch sighed, Using a hoof to knead at her eyes. “Alright, then I think that I should explain, Why I’ve been used today to be such a pain.” Vinyl Scratch paused, thinking back a bit, Calling forth thoughts that best seemed to fit. “Hearths Warming isn’t what I want it to be, Or, I guess, it was always different for me. “It’s a day for family, friends, and caring, Ponies drinking drinks, hearing music blaring, It wasn’t that way for me. “There’s supposed to be singing and playing and laughter, And no anger or worry until the day after, But it wasn’t that way for me. “Back in the day, when I lived with High and Mighty Hearths Warming Eve was always a bit flighty. I’d have to dress up, and they’d comb back my mane, And we’d go out to galas held in snow or rain. “They’d all say kind words and pat each others’ back, Then they’d walk away and their words would turn black. I did that for years until I ran away, Once a year every year on each Hearths Warming day. “So when I saw you worry about lights, About the way our house looked in a stranger’s sight…” Vinyl trailed off, tapping a hoof on her chair, “So that’s what I thought of when I saw you care--” “How about we stay inside?” Octavia blurted, “Here where it’s warm and we’ll leave the outside deserted?” Vinyl looked up to meet Tavi’s eyes, Her face graced with a look of surprise. Octavia smiled and glanced at the snow, The glare of the sun setting Canterlot aglow. “I’m done with all of the decorations, I think that it’s best if I took a vacation.” The DJ’s face lit up with glee, Then Vinyl asked, “So you’ll stay in with me?” Octavia gave one last look outside, Turned back to Vinyl and said, “Alright.” Vinyl jumped up and ran to the next room, Returning quickly with some drinks to consume. She gave Tavi a cup and she poured out the drink, Touching their glasses together with a clink. “This is gonna be awesome,” said Vinyl with a grin, “We’ll go play a game, sing some songs, drink some gin! Or if you’d rather just do nothing and stay in a heap, We’ll stay here by the fire, grab a blanket, and sleep!” Vinyl waggled her eyebrows with a lascivious smile, “But if you’d rather not sleep, I’ll make it worth your while.” Tavi rolled her eyes and brought her drink to her lips, “We’ll see how it goes,” she said, taking a sip. Vinyl’s magic flared, drawing the curtain, Looking forward to a day packed with fun, to be certain. And they stayed inside, away from the cold, The lights still outside, shining bright and bold. And ponies walked by, and some of them sneered, But what they saw didn’t matter when compared to real cheer. And the sun shone high, making Canterlot bright, As ponies all over saw their holiday sights. The day quickly past, Hearths Warming had ended, With memories made on a day most splendid. Octavia and Vinyl lay tangled in bed, Their breathing synchronized, their dreams in their heads. Empty cups all around them, used game boards, After a day of singing, eating, and drinking galore. They had kissed and cracked jokes and forgotten their lights, The world was for them and their Hearths Warming Night. Author's Note Alright, this was pretty fun. Hard to do, but fun. Happy Holidays to all of you! I hope that you've enjoyed these last few years! Tavi in Wonderland Part 1Octavia was beginning to get very tired of sitting alone in the park and of having nothing to do: she had listened to the tape player Vinyl had left behind, but it had no vocals or physical instruments in it, and what is the use of music, thought Octavia, without vocals or physical instruments? Vinyl had not been gone for very long, but a combination of the summer midday heat and the silence of a Vinyl-less environment had left Octavia feeling rather sleepy and slow. It is, therefore, rather understandable that when she saw a white colt pass by and spied the cello case slung across his back and read the words “Property of Octavia Philharmonica” printed along the side of the cello case, the first thought that crossed Octavia’s mind was: That colt has a very nice cello case. The second thought, for those who are curious, was That son of a bitch, followed by a flurry of activity as she slid off of the park bench and ran towards the colt. “You!” shouted Octavia. “Stop! Thief!” The thief was, however, a thief and thieves have a tendency to not listen when told to stop. In fact, they do almost exactly the opposite of stopping in that they tend to move faster. Typically in the direction away from whatever is telling them to stop. And so, Octavia found herself running through Canterlot’s central park, chasing after a white colt whom, despite the hindrance of the cello case, was very quick on his hooves. Indeed, he was a good deal faster than Octavia, steadily pulling ahead as the chase continued, but he was unable to escape Octavia and her rabid devotion to her cello. The thief wove in and out of trees, avoiding the set paths whenever possible, and Octavia followed him every step of the way, panting and sweating as she was. She followed even as the thief made a sharp turn and beelined towards the lake that was Canterlot Park’s central feature. “You’re kidding,” Octavia muttered in disbelief. Then, louder: “You’re kidding!” The thief did not respond, continuing his dash towards the water. “You’ll warp the wood!” Octavia put on an extra burst of speed, aiming to intercept the thief before he took his swim. As previously mentioned, however, the thief was a good deal faster than Octavia. The cellist let out a groan of frustration as the colt dove into the lake, a groan which turned into a yelp as Octavia tried to stop and instead found herself slipping against the grass. Oh, buck me, thought Octavia as she took a deep breath, tumbled forward and broke the lake's surface. And Octavia fell. And she fell. And she fell. And she fell. Octavia fell so far that she had the time to think: Well, I certainly am falling very far. I hope that there's nothing hard at the bottom of this fall, for it is a very long one. Oh, for some reason there's no need for me to hold my breath despite the fact that I'm underwater. Or, I think I'm underwater. How strange. Of course, this is not what Octavia thought, though she certainly had the time to think it, if she so chose. Instead, her thoughts were more along the lines of: This is going to be very cold. Then: This isn't cold at all. Then: What is happening? WHAT IS HAPPENING?! And then Octavia did not think very much of anything, merely wondered at her current situation as she floated down and down, never picking up or losing speed. Well, at least I'm not actually wet. Octavia landed in a shallow pool of water, thoroughly soaking her hooves. Joy. Octavia stepped out of the puddle, kicking out her hooves in an attempt to dry them. This was a largely useless activity, however, and mainly succeeded in dousing the area immediately around Octavia with several droplets of water while still leaving a rather wet layer of water on her hooves. “What a bother,” muttered Octavia, wiping her hooves on the grass she stood upon, “I would have brought a towel if I knew that I was going for a swim.” Her hooves now a fair bit drier than before, Octavia looked up from the ground. It was very green around the puddle; a sheet of dark green grass that stretched up to a wall of vines, bushes, and trees that formed an almost perfect ring around the puddle. Perfect, that is, save for a thin path that lead off in a perfectly straight line. However, Octavia was not focused on the grass nor the vines nor the bushes or the trees or the nearly perfect ring that they formed around the puddle. Octavia's eyes were focused on the acid green unicorn whose face poked from the ring of vines and bushes and trees. A face topped with a bright red propeller hat and flecked with droplets of water. "Quick Quill?" asked Octavia. "Is that you?" Quick Quill gasped, darting backwards into the wall of vines and bushes and trees. His voice was just audible: “She speaks! Falls down from the sky, lands in a pond, then speaks!” Another head, this one blue, but wearing the same propeller hat, poked through the plants. “Snap Shot?” asked Octavia. Snap Shot gasped as well, darting back into the bushes just as Quick Quill had. “She does speak! And speaks rather finely at that!” “Doesn’t she?” asked Quick Quill’s voice. “She does!” confirmed Snap Shot. “What are you two doing here?” asked Octavia. Both heads poked out of the wall of green, throwing a questioning glance at Octavia. “Doing here?” asked Snap Shot. “I don’t think we’re doing much of anything here,” said Quick Quill. “A bit of standing—” “—a bit of leaning—” “—a bit of speaking—” “—which you do wonderfully, by the way,” added Quick Quill. “You really do,” confirmed Snap Shot. “Especially for somepony who fell from the sky. You don’t even have a pair of wings.” “Indeed she doesn’t!” Octavia shut her eyes, reeling slightly from the onslaught of words. “Perhaps that was the wrong question. Where am I? Did you two fall into the pool as well?” “Pool, ma’am?” asked the pair in tandem, their heads tilting slightly. “Yes, pool. In Canterlot Central Park.” Their heads tilted the other way. “Canterlot, ma’am?” Octavia blinked, throwing her own questioning look at the two. “Snap Shot, Quick Quill, are you both feeling well?” “Quick Quill?” asked Snap Shot. “Snap Shot?” asked Quick Quill. “I’m afraid we don’t know anypony by those names,” said not-Snap Shot. Then, too not-Quick Quill: “Do we, Tweedledum?” “Do we, Tweddledee?” “I don’t think we do.” They nodded at each other, then turned towards Octavia. “We don’t,” they said resolutely. “I… I see.” Octavia took a step backwards. “It’s just, you both look remarkably like two ponies I know.” “Sounds about right,” said Snap Shot (who was really Tweedledee, but whom we shall continue to refer to as Snap Shot for convenience’s sake). “Indeed,” agreed Quick Quill (who was really Tweedledum, but whom we shall refer to as Quick Quill for convenience’s sake). Octavia narrowed her eyes slightly. “How so?” “Well,” began Snap Shot, “we look like two ponies—” “—two ponies that you know,” added Quick Quill. “Quite right, two ponies that you know. And we are, in fact, two ponies.” “Two ponies that you know.” “As we are two ponies that you know, I see know reason that we wouldn’t look like two ponies that you know.” “Marvelously reasoned,” complimented Quick Quill. Octavia took another step back. “Yes, fantastic. I really must be going, however; a thief made off with my cello some time ago. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a white colt with a cello case pass through here?” “Have we, Tweedledee?” asked Quick Quill. “Have we, Tweedledum?” “I think we have!” Again, the pair turned towards Octavia. “We have!” they said in tandem, adding nothing more. “I see.” Octavia paused. “Would you mind pointing me in the proper direction?” Each one of the Tweedles poked a hoof through the wall of plants, pointing towards the path behind Octavia. “He went that way,” said Snap Shot. “Indeed he did. Went that way very quickly.” Octavia turned her head, glancing down the very straight and rather narrow path. She turned back towards the Tweedles, nodding slightly. “Thank you for your help.” “No trouble,” said Quick Quill. “No trouble at all,” agreed Snap Shot. And without further ado, Octavia turned sharply, heading down the path and away from the puddle at perhaps a faster pace than was strictly necessary. “Those two,” she muttered to herself, “are enough of a headache in a normal situation.” The path was perfectly straight, without so much as a hint of a curve. For the first ten minutes, perhaps, dense vegetation surrounded its sides before giving away, and giving away rather abruptly at that, to a seemingly endless field of grass. Octavia took a few steps forward, squinting slightly and raising a hoof to defend herself against the sudden influx of sunlight. She hadn’t realized just how much protection the bushes and vines and trees had afforded her against the sun until she no longer had them. In time, however, Octavia’s eyes adjusted to the new lighting conditions. She looked down, prepared to follow her path once more. And she saw grass, same as all of the other grass in the endless sea of grass she currently stood upon. “Oh dear,” Octavia muttered to herself. “Well, no matter, I can simply turn around and reorient myself with the jungle path.” Octavia turned, feeling rather proud of herself for having come up with such a clever plan, only to find that there was no jungle at all behind her, merely more grass. “Joy,” said Octavia in a manner that was decidedly not joyful. “Well, there’s that. I suppose that I’ll simply have to carry on using only my natural sense of direction. The sun was in my eyes when I started, so I must have been going… this way! Maybe.” Having no better hunch to go on, Octavia headed towards the sun, squinting slightly as she did so, but carrying on in her struggle. She walked for quite a while. Or, it might not have been long at all. It was quite difficult to tell, really; Octavia could have sworn that the sun was rising and lowering as it pleased. All that could really be said was that, however much Octavia walked, she did not feel hungry or thirsty or tired, though she could have gone without quite so much sun. Keeping this in mind, one can imagine Octavia’s relief when she found that she had reached a rather expansive tree whose branches cast quite a lot of shade. “What a stroke of luck,” Octavia said to herself. “An immense tree at the exact moment that I’d gotten fed up with the sunlight. It’s far too convenient, really. Nothing could possibly come of this.” However, Octavia ignored her brief bout of cynicism, casting Harpo as the culprit behind her pessimism before finding a very comfortable spot right against the base of the tree. “I’ll just rest here for a while, allow my eyes to rest a bit. Then I’ll find the nearest city and find that thief. And a way back home, as well, I suppose. Cello takes priority.” And Octavia closed her eyes, nestling into her chosen space and breathing a sigh of comfort. Her eyes shot open. “But how strange,” Octavia wondered aloud, “to see Snap Shot and Quick Quill here. What did they call themselves? Tweedledee and Tweedledum? I think that was it. What a ridiculous prank to play, if that was indeed a prank.” A slight pause. “In any case, I’m likely worrying myself over nothing; they were probably just very similar looking ponies.” And Octavia shut her eyes once more. Her eyes shot open again. “But they weren’t! I’m certain that they were Snap Shot and Quick Quill! But then why didn’t they recognize me? Though they had neither camera nor pen, and I’ve never seen them without their tools before. And they’ve traded in their hats. Not exactly my taste in hats, but I must say that the propellers rather fit their personali—” “Would you shut up already!” came a rather scratchy voice from somewhere above Octavia’s head. “Some of us are trying to nap!” Octavia jumped, nearly slamming her head against the tree’s trunk. She looked up towards the branches, but saw nothing but wood and fluttering leaves. “Who’s there?” Octavia called. “I’m there,” replied the voice. “Well, actually, I’m here, but my here is your there, so it all kind of works itself out.” A pause. “Vinyl? Is that you?” A pair of bright purple shades faded into existence on the branches above Octavia. “Not Vinyl, but it’s definitely me. At least, I think it is. See, because this is me, and I’m pretty sure that your that is my this, but you might have been talking to a branch or something, so I’m not totally sure.” As the voice spoke, bits and pieces of the source of the voice manifested behind the shades. First a two-toned blue mane, then a cheeky grin, then the eyes, mostly invisible behind the purple lenses, until the entirety of Vinyl’s body had joined her voice. “Were you talking to a branch?” asked Vinyl. “I wasn’t.” “Yeah, they’re not very good conversation.” Vinyl’s head tilted slightly. “Are you any better?” “Better than a branch?” “Well, you never know.” Vinyl disappeared, reappearing a moment later, her face a few inches from Octavia’s. “Have you ever spoken to a pony that made you wish you were speaking to a branch instead?” “I’ve never wanted to speak to a branch. And I don’t think a branch would be able to respond, even if I did.” “But it’s easier to talk at a branch than to speak with a brick wall,” replied Vinyl with a grin. “That seems a rather cynical viewpoint.” Vinyl shrugged. “I can be cynical and still be right.” “You’re sounding like Harpo.” “Really? I think I’d like to meet him.” Octavia knit her brow. “What do you mean? Harpo is—” She broke off, staring at a spot just above Vinyl’s head. “Harpo is what?” “You… you have cat ears.” “Really?” asked Vinyl. She reached a hoof up to her very cat-like ears and plucked one off. “Hey, you’re right! I thought I’d lost them!” “Lost your ears?” “Better than losing my head.” Having said that, Vinyl returned her ear to its place, fixing Octavia with a wide grin. “Who are you?” asked Octavia. Vinyl pulled a face. “I hate that question. Anyone who asks that question always expects some big, fancy answer and I’m not very good at those.” “Then what’s your name?” “That’s an even worse question. It’s not really my name, after all.” “How do you mean?” “Well, a name is given, isn’t it? That means it must have belonged to somepony else at one point and I can never really own something that has belonged to somepony else.” “But you’ve stolen cellos.” “But I’ve never really owned one. Anyway, don’t you have another cello thief to be worrying about?” “You’re right!” Octavia jumped to her hooves. “You said that you’ve seen him. Which way did he go?” “He went This way,” replied Vinyl without pointing. “Which way?” “No, This way. Which way goes the other way.” “I wouldn’t know.” “No, you wouldn’t.” Octavia scowled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” “It means that Which way doesn’t really matter to you. What matters is that you can go This way”—VInyl gestured towards the left of the tree—“or That way.” And here, Vinyl gestured towards the right. “What’s the difference?” asked Octavia. “About three letters.” Octavia paced from left to right, glancing past the tree. “Both ways look the same to me.” “I’m sure they do.” “And you said that the thief went this way?” “He did,” confirmed Vinyl. “Then I should go this way.” “If you want to go down a thief’s path.” “Oh.” Octavia paused. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.” Vinyl shrugged. “The thief doesn’t mind it much.” “Do both ways take me to the same place?” Vinyl considered this for a moment. “If you followed them for long enough they’d probably reach the same place eventually.” “That’s not very reassuring.” “Yeah, but when has choosing a way ever been reassuring?” Octavia paced a few more times, looking as far down each path as she could. No matter how far she looked, she could see no differences. “Made up your mind yet?” asked Vinyl. Octavia frowned. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not follow in the path of a thief. I’ll head that way.” “Suit yourself,” said Vinyl with a shrug. “Whatever way you choose, just remember that there’s no way back. At least, no way along that way.” “And why is that?” Vinyl seemed surprised at the question. “Well, that’s the way ways work here.” “I see… Where is ‘here,’ exactly?” “Here is where we are right now.” “And where are we right now?” Vinyl grinned. “Well, we’re in a plain with one really big tree. It doesn’t really have a name, though. See, there’s only one place that really matters here, so that’s the only place that gets a name.” She paused, her grin growing slightly wider. “And that’s Wonderland.” Author's Note An idea that's been in my head for quite a while now. And Counterpoint has been long overdue for an update.
First Impressions“Hail, Master Horseshoepin! How dost thou, sweet pianist?” The stallion turned, his white mane making him seem far older than he was. He grinned as a purple shape slid to a stop. “How now, composer! Whither wander you?” “Would that I could wander!” lamented Harpo. “‘Tis a wide world we inhabit, yet I trapeze the same path with a guard’s armored hoof! Nay, good sir, I march for want of wandering and wail my woes, wading through waffled ways!” Frederic Horseshoepin raised a brow. “And how long have you been working on that one?” Harpo shrugged. “A few wasted weeks.” “Impressive.” “Thank you sir, I try.” Frederic smiled, turning back onto his path. Harpo fell into step next to him. Canterlot Conservatory was buzzing with students again, the great green expanse of its square filled to bursting with aspiring musicians. A few were throwing frisbees around. An impromptu string quartet had popped up in a corner. A couple of lovebirds were strewn around the grass, oblivious to everything around them. Harpo never tired of the sight. “And how is your schedule this term, Nadermane?” Harpo dug into his saddlebags, taking out a crumpled half-sheet of paper. “Not overly bad. I have most of my classes in the afternoon and I’ve heard that Professor Arpeggio’s pretty good.” Frederic nodded, quickly glancing through the paper. “Yes, he most certainly is. Have you spoken to him before?” “No, not really.” “I’d be more than happy to stop by and introduce you. Professor Arpeggio likes me.” “Must be nice,” said Harpo. “Being a teacher’s pet, I mean.” “I am not a pet, Nadermane. I am a good student.” “You’re saying that I’m not a good student?! I turned in, like, half of last term’s assignments!” Frederic sighed. “It’s a wonder that you haven’t been kicked out.” Harpo shrugged, a cheeky smile curling the corners of his mouth. “What can I say? Ponies like me. Not that they can help it.” “Of course not. Then again, you only speak to two ponies in the Conservatory.” “I speak to more than that!” Frederic grinned. “Don’t worry, Nadermane! Lyra and I like you. After all, you’re just so charming.” “You’re mocking me.” Harpo narrowed his eyes. “You’re discriminating against me because I’m younger, aren’t you Grandpa?” The pianist’s eye twitched slightly. “Don’t start with me.” “What, do you not like being old? Or is your ulcer acting up, old sport?” Frederic turned his neck slightly, forcing a loud crack out of it. “I may be a proper gentlecolt, Nadermane. But I am not above publicly beating your flank. Again.” “How daring of you, Master Horseshoepin, absolutely daring! You should save talk like that for someplace more private.” Harpo winked suggestively. Frederic twitched forward, a light brown hoof suddenly inches away from Harpo’s face. Harpo reeled back, tripping over his hooves and nearly falling. “Sometimes,” said Frederic, dusting off his hooves, “I think you forget who you’re talking to.” “Of course, of course. Master Horseshoepin, the fighter who plays piano on the side.” “Martial arts, Nadermane. Not ‘fighting.’ You should be thankful for that distinction. A fighter would have knocked your head off months ago.” Frederic seemed to brighten slightly. “You should meet more ponies! Maybe you’ll come across a fighter and you won’t be my problem anymore.” Harpo placed a hoof on his own cheek. “I rather like my head.” “Well, not a fighter then. But honestly, Nadermane, it would do you good to speak to other students.” “Mmmmmmm, I suppose,” said Harpo reluctantly. “If only to have somepony to copy notes from.” “I cannot, in good conscience, support that reason. But yes, that is certainly a good reason.” Frederic looked around the square. “Most of the students are on break now. Do you recognize any of them from your classes last term?” Harpo gave a quick scan. Happy ponies. Dating ponies. Exercising ponies. Musical ponies. A sour note floated over the grass, making the composer cringe. Ponies trying to be musical. Harpo turned back towards Frederic. “I can’t relate to any of them.” “Oh,” said Frederic with a sly smile. “I’m sure that some of them are alcoholics.” “Haha.” Harpo’s eyes roamed over the square. The same happy scene that would probably be on a brochure by the end of the day. Seriously, it was uncanny. The group of ponies in a circle, laughing. Pegasi with unicorns with earth ponies of all different cutie marks. And frisbees! Harpo was pretty sure that owning a frisbee was a becoming a requirement for students. Except for hacky sacks, you could probably get away with not owning a frisbee if you owned a hacky sack. Where was I? Harpo shook his head, driving away his tangential thoughts. Ah yes. Happy pony, happy pony, two happy ponies, frisbee. Harpo followed the bright orange disk as it sailed across the grass and right through a pony’s waiting hooves. “Honestly, Nadermane, just go and talk to somepony already! I have to get to class.” Frederic stared at the composer, testily tapping his hoof. “Alright, alright! Don’t get your black belt in a knot.” Harpo turned back to the square. A pony, holding that orange frisbee, was walking away in a huff from a grey mare. The mare was completely oblivious to the world, diligently flipping through the pages of a book and taking occasional notes. He couldn’t quite see the book’s cover from the distance, but that hardly mattered as much as the fact that this mare was able to piss off overly happy students. Harpo could appreciate that. “Alright Frederic, I’m going to go make friends.” Harpo trotted off towards the mare. “Good for you! That’s a very--” Frederic looked in the direction Harpo was going “--Nadermane! No! Nadermane, come back!” But, being a gentlecolt and a proponent of schadenfreude, Frederic Horseshoepin did not shout to save his friend. “He’s going to die.” A pause. He shrugged and walked away, slightly regretting that he wouldn’t be able to watch. “Pardon me, is this seat taken?” Harpo gestured towards the other side of the bench with what he hoped was a charming smile. The mare’s eyes darted upwards, then back down to her book. Too charming, Harpo, too charming! He allowed his smile to slip slightly before holding out his hoof. “I’m Harpo,” he said, “Harpo Parish Nadermane.” The mare looked up, regarding the hoof for a while. She took it with reluctance “Octavia Philharmonica.” “A pleasure to meet you.” Harpo smiled. Octavia turned back to her book. Well, this is certainly a riveting conversation. Maybe Frederic and I still have time to… Harpo looked around. Frederic left. Oh, beautiful. Thanks for that, friend. Miss Philharmonica’s attitude certainly isn’t helping any matters. I’m trying to be a friend and you’re reading a… what are you reading? Harpo craned his neck, only able to make out a few words past Octavia’s charcoal mane. ‘The syncopated rhythms of’... What does that say? Octavia’s purple eyes flicked upwards angrily. Harpo flinched back, trying to look absolutely fascinated by the group of ponies tossing a frisbee. He failed miserably. “Er… What are you reading?” asked the composer with an awkward smile. “If you don’t mind my asking.” Octavia’s right eye twitched. She lifted her book, showing off a pristine white cover. The title, “A comparison of the Composition Styles of the Modern Era,” was written in simple, black lettering. “That sounds… interesting.” Octavia gave a tight nod. Her head dove back into the book. “So,” began Harpo, “you’re a composer?” “No. A cellist.” “Ah.” Silence fell on the bench, only occasionally broken by the rustling of Octavia’s book pages and the occasional scratching of her quill on paper. Harpo got to his hooves. “Well, it was nice meeting you.” Octavia nodded and took a few more notes. Harpo offered one last awkward smile and tried not to run as he turned away from the mare. *** “Octavia Philharmonica is one of our resident geniuses.” Frederic sat in front of his dormitory’s piano, coaxing random scales and arpeggios from the keys. “I’m surprised that you haven’t met her; she’s your year, after all.” “She was in some of my classes. I never spoke to her.” Harpo flipped through a slightly unsavory magazine, glossing over the slightly risque foldouts. Frederic played a quick chord progression, a questioning, slightly disbelieving tune. “And you’d never even heard of Miss Philharmonica?” Harpo shrugged. “Since when do I pay attention to ponies?” “Fair point.” Frederic absentmindedly played the first few measures of one of Johann Sebastian Beak’s toccatas. “But you’ve never even heard somepony else mention her?” “Is it really that big of a deal?” Frederic seemed to consider this for a moment. “How in-tune are you with us plebeians of the Conservatory?” The magazine lowered slightly as Harpo turned towards his friend. “Pardon me?” “Octavia is one of the Conservatory’s geniuses Harpo. Care to guess who the other one is?” Harpo thought for a moment. “Lyra is rather talented. As are you, Frederic. And… those are pretty much the only two ponies that I can name.” Frederic scowled, and banged out a discordant melody on his piano. “It’s you, Nadermane. Octavia Philharmonica and Harpo Parish Nadermane, the two miracles of the freshpony class.” “Me?” asked Harpo. “What did I do to deserve that?” “How long do you actually spend on your work?” “I work!” “That’s not what I asked. If I remember correctly, you spent most of last term trying to hunt down a particular brand of whiskey. There was a week where you completely disappeared, only to reappear with your midterm symphony which was, if memory serves, originally written on the back of various napkins.” “That was a good week,” said Harpo happily. Frederic shook his head, closing the lid on the piano’s keys. “Good night, Nadermane. I have to actually study for my classes.” He trotted out of the common room. Harpo watched him leave. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve done something wrong. He flipped through a few more pages of his magazine then tossed it aside, onto the desk where he had found it. Harpo glanced up at a nearby clock. It wasn’t particularly early, but it was nowhere near the time he was used to sleeping. Maybe a walk is in order. The composer walked out of the common room and into the open air. Harpo took a deep breath, the brisk night stinging his nose slightly, then began his wanderings through campus. Past the dormitories, past the small convenience shop where Harpo had worked for a time, into the maze of buildings and gardens that constituted the main campus of Canterlot Conservatory. What shall I think about, me and myself? thought Harpo. Frederic? Octavia? Neither of those topics seemed quite right. They were strained topics, ones that would require serious thinking on Harpo’s part. Not suited for musing while wandering. The Conservatory, then. That’s always good. A little town of musicians tucked away inside of Canterlot, complete with its own housing and restaurants. It’s a school, but not a school in the traditional sense. A university, I suppose. Except that everyone here has some semblance of rhythm so there’s less awkward dancing at parties. Or, rather, at the parties that I’ve been to. Which is none. But that’s besides the point! My point is… well, I don’t know what my point is. Harpo stopped walking. Look at me, I’m rambling. That’s something that Conservatory students do. “I’m a real Conservatory student now,” he said with a laugh. “... Where am I?” Harpo looked around. The concrete building and square lights of students studying late into the night had faded away though Harpo could still see them in the distance if he squinted. The composer’s wanderings had taken him into the middle of the Conservatory gardens, a well-maintained piece of controlled nature. The gardens always seemed a little bit colder than the rest of campus, the trees casting ever-present shade. A pond sat in the middle of it all, its resident set of turtles looking up at the composer. Harpo waved. The turtles stared. “Wait, you can’t answer. You’re turtles!” Harpo chuckled. The turtles remained silent. Now I’m talking to turtles, thought Harpo with a sigh. He walked over to a tree and sat down. A light blue flower stood in the moonlight among a patch of slightly taller than normal grass. Harpo reached out and picked the flower, absentmindedly tearing off the petals and tossing them into his mouth. “This is a rather sad sight.” “Just a bit.” Harpo jumped, tuning his head too quickly and straining his neck in the process. Lyra Heartstrings laughed, trotting around the tree and joining Harpo on the ground. “What brings you out here, Harpo Parish Nadermane?” Harpo rubbed at his neck with one hoof and held up the flower with the other. “A late night snack.” Lyra nodded. “That’s not a bad reason. Though Rose Petal would throw a fit if she saw you eating her garden.” Harpo gave a half-hearted smile and turned away, popping another petal into his waiting mouth. The two sat in silence for a while, the composer steadily working on his flower and the lyrist looking up at the sky. “And whither wander you, Lyra?” Harpo threw a few more petals into his mouth. Lyra turned towards the composer, blinking her golden eyes a few times. “You know that I don’t understand any of that fancy crap.” Harpo chuckled. “Why are you out here, philistine?” “I heard the call of a moping composer and came to see if I could make fun of him.” “I’m not moping!” Lyra shrugged. “I guess you’re just talking to the turtles.” Harpo flicked the last petal into his mouth. “They’re terrible conversation.” Lyra smiled. “Wanna talk?” “No, not right now,” said Harpo with a shake of his head. “It’s the first day back to the Conservatory; my problems will only grow from here. Talk later?” There was a pause. “Alright then.” Lyra got to her hooves. “Maybe you just have to get out a bit more. I’m heading to Tritone’s party right now. Are you gonna show up?” A pause. “Who’s Tritone?” “I’ll take that as a no.” Lyra sighed. “Well, don’t stay out too late Harpo. You’ll make ponies sad if you just sit out here eating things.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” *** Harpo unlocked the door to his room. The night had gotten a bit too chilly for his tastes. He shivered. Evidently, the chill had even gotten into his single. Harpo crossed the room in a few steps, past the small bed, the desk, and the closet, and slamming his window shut. He drew the curtains for good measure. It was still a bit cold, but a bit more of a manageable cold. And the closed window was able to muffle a bit of the music, though some infernal bass still rattled his windows. White noise, thought Harpo, maybe Tritone’s music will help me get to sleep. The bass picked up, vibrating his window rapidly, like an opera singer holding up a wine glass. Probably not. Harpo sighed, snatching a book from his desk before climbing into bed. He flipped through the tattered pages, stopping at a coffee stained page. Harpo had been reading at breakfast with his customary orange and cup of coffee. It was the story’s own fault, really, scaring him like that. It deserved to be scalded. The composer read a few pages, the rhythm of the words mixing with the outside music’s syncopated beat. With a sigh, Harpo laid the book aside, drawing the blankets up to his chin. He would fall asleep a few hours later. *** “Explain yourself, Mister Nadermane.” Harpo gestured upwards, waving a vague hoof at the magically projected sheet of music. “Bars eight through twenty-three. Striving Sky switches into the Phrygian mode from a major key. Modal scales can be seen as older forms of music as opposed to the modern method of writing music. Striving Sky is playing off of this, using a Phrygian mode to represent the more primitive ideas behind this piece, briefly allowing them to dominate. Later on in the piece, around bar fifty, the mode returns, this time alternating with the major key.” Professor Arpeggio gave him a questioning look. “And why does he do this?” Harpo paused for a moment. “It’s a battle. Between the positive major key and the more negative Phrygian mode.” “Yes,” said the professor with an amused smile. “But why does he do this?” “Because,” began Harpo. The word drifted off. “Because,” broke in a refined, Canterlotian voice, “this piece is meant to represent a conflicting state of mind, a common enough topic during Striving Sky’s time. The major key are happy thoughts, the easy parts of life, while the Phrygian mode are threats of depression; the parts of life that we don’t particularly enjoy.” “Very good, Miss Philharmonica.” Professor Arpeggio smiled warmly. “And you as well, Mister Nadermane. I wish that you both would share more often.” He paced slightly, his gaze sweeping to include the other students in the auditorium. “Striving Sky was a master of manipulating music to suit his needs. I want you all to choose one of his compositions, barring the one that Miss Philharmonica and Mister Nadermane began to explain, and analyze every technique that you are able to discern. Explain why he chose that particular technique for that particular moment in that particular piece. I want six pages, due in four days.” Arpeggio passed another gaze over his class, daring them to grumble about their assignment. Nopony did. “Very well then. Class dismissed.” Professor Arpeggio trotted over to his desk, gathering all of his things as the students stormed out of the hall. “Nadermane, Philharmonica, if you would be so kind as to stay a while?” Harpo and Octavia stopped in front of the desk, scarcely even glancing at each other as they waited. Professor Arpeggio shuffed a few papers around, stowing them in a beat-up leather briefcase. The students stood there for a few minutes before Arpeggio finally looked up. “I’ve heard only good things about you two,” said Arpeggio. “Mister Nadermane, I understand that you know Mister Horseshoepin.” “Yes, sir.” “Miss Philharmonica, your teachers from last term rave about you. They say the Conservatory has not had as hard-working and talented a performer as yourself in years.” Octavia nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. Professor Arpeggio turned back to Harpo. “Your teachers say much the same thing, replacing ‘performer’ with composer, and making specific mention of having to beat you within an inch of your life in order to make you work. That, or to threaten to confiscate your alcohol collection.” Harpo attempted to mask his fear with an awkward smile. “Pardon me, Professor,” said Octavia, "but I have another class in a few minutes." “Quite right, I’ll get directly to the point.” Professor Arpeggio glanced between the two of them. “I’d like you two to work together for this year’s End Concert.” Harpo’s eyes widened. Octavia remained largely impassive. Arpeggio smiled. “Yes, that End Concert. It will be a treat, I’m sure, to send off the seniors with the knowledge that future years are in rather talented hooves. We have not had a proper freshpony performance in quite a while. Will you do it?” “I’d be honored.” Octavia shifted her saddlebags. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get to class.” Professor Arpeggio nodded. The cellist trotted out of the room, leaving the two stallions alone. “And what’s your answer, Mister Nadermane?” Harpo stared after Octavia for a few moments. “She’s going to be difficult to work with.” “I‘m sure you’ll become fast friends,” said the professor with a smile. “Right. Friends.” Harpo set off towards the door. “Thank you Professor, I’ll do my best.” “I’m sure you will.” Harpo left the classroom. He glanced up and down the hallway, looking for any sign of the cellist. Damn, he thought to himself, she walks fast. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to speak to her. There was about an hour left until Harpo’s next class and a small cafe that was never overly busy this time of day. Harpo followed the hallway down. I think I’ll get a nice cup of coffee. And a cupcake, a cupcake sounds pretty good right now. That should be around… five bits? Well, maybe if I get a small coffee. Celestia, seems so expensive now tha-- Harpo turned a corner and promptly slammed into another body. Both ponies fell to the floor, Harpo’s saddlebags flying open, his books sliding out and onto the floor. The other pony wasn’t as lucky. Her books, which hadn’t been in a bag, spewed out onto the hallway. Harpo and the mare spoke at the same time. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Again, at the same time: “It’s alright.” Harpo looked up. He had crashed into a light blue mare, her brown mane now slightly dishevelled and her purple eyes looking directly into his green. She giggled slightly. “Well, that was rather strange. It’s not often that you crash into a mirror.” “Uh,” stuttered Harpo. “Y-yeah.” The composer laughed awkwardly. Pretty. Very pretty. The mare smiled, smoothing her mane back with a hoof. The hoof paused. “Wait, I’ve seen you before. Mister Nadermane, I believe?” “H-” Harpo’s voice cracked, “Harpo. Just Harpo’s fine.” The mare held out a hoof. “Beauty,” said the mare in introduction. Yes you certainly are. “Beauty Brass. But just Beauty’s fine.” Harpo smiled. “Care to stand up?” asked Beauty. The composer let out a laugh. “No, let’s keep sitting. I rather like it down here.” “I’d love to,” said Beauty with a smile, “but I really should be getting to class.” She got to her hooves, taking a few steps to shove some books into her bags. Harpo helped her, picking up a few books that had landed near him. Then he placed his books back into his saddlebags. Beauty took the books. “Thank you Harpo, it was nice to meet you.” “Likewise,” said Harpo. “Good-bye,” said Beauty Brass with a wave. She trotted away. Harpo watched her appreciatively. Well done Harpo, you didn’t make a complete ass of yourself! That’s a victory! He turned happily, a new spring in his step. A good first impression can make all the difference. Author's Note Striving Sky is Igor Stravinsky. Alright, this story is going to run a bit differently than most other stories. I'll be writing history that I want to put down, but I'll also be taking suggestions. I want to know what you guys want to hear about. Marcato and Legato? Fancy Pants and Fleur? Ma and Pa? Most anything is fair game, just put your suggestion down in the comments and if you read one that you like, vote it up. I'll write the most popular suggestion within a time frame of five days after I publish a chapter. Or, you know, I'll write something that pops into my head. Either one is fine, but I would very much appreciate hearing from you awesome people!
Hearths Warming‘Twas the Eve of Hearths Warming, that magical day, Where hard work and trouble all give way to play. The snows had come down, painting Canterlot white, The sun had just risen, the whole town was bright. Octavia and Vinyl lay snug in their bed, The cellist woke first, took a moment, then said: “Vinyl, wake up! It’s finally here! You can’t miss Hearths Warming, there’s only one a year!” But Vinyl just grumbled, snuggling under the cover, Ignoring the holiday cheer of her lover. “Five more minutes Tavi,” she said half-asleep, “You can get up, but I’m gonna count sheep.” Octavia scowled, and her brow did furrow, As into the blankets Vinyl tried to burrow. “Get your flank up!” the cellist did shout “Off this bed, through the door, past the bathroom and out!” Octavia forced Vinyl Scratch to her hooves, Ignoring the DJ’s most humbuggy mood. And though Vinyl struggled, try as she might, Against a Holiday Octy, nopony can fight. Off the bed, through the door, past the bathroom they trotted, Onto their front lawn, the grass white and green spotted. “You stay here,” said Tavi, with a stamp on the ground, “I’ll go get the lights, don’t you dare make a sound!” Vinyl hardly heard her, as she let out a yawn, Standing all alone in the midst of her lawn. She stamped on the ground, breathing out a cloud “What’s the deal with Hearths Warming?” she wondered aloud. “It’s not something new, we’ve done it before, It’s cold and it’s damp, we should be indoors! But Tavi don’t think so; she’s all for this ‘cheer’ Decorations and lights that whole ‘once a year’. “What makes this day special? The history thing? Hardly worth the torture that carolers sing! The cold, the bright lights, those repetitive songs, Bah Humbug! I say, this day’s been too long.” Octavia trotted back with a smile, The lights trailed behind her, seeming almost a mile. “Now, most of it’s finished, but we’re still not quite done. Oh, don’t make that face, I promise it’ll be fun!” Vinyl rolled her eyes, a pout on her face, As she trudged towards the lights at a snail’s break-neck pace. Her magic flared sharply, shrouding her horn, The lights floated up quickly with intent to adorn. “Be more careful!” shouted Tavi, her nerves all a-shake, “Those lights cost a fortune, we can’t let them break! I think they’re off-center! A bit to the left! No, make that right! The right would be best!” “That light looks dim, that one’s slightly bent, Move the lights down! Wait, that’s not what I meant! Up a bit more, to the left once again, Try turning them slightly, a bit more, and then--” “Tavi!” shouted Vinyl, “The lights look just fine! Each and every one is in a perfect line! I don’t have to turn them, the lights aren’t too dim, There’s no room for more, the house’s filled to the brim!” Vinyl dropped her magic, shaking from the cold, She turned towards her marefriend and declared loud and bold: “I’m heading back in, I’m done with preparing For a holiday that is barely worth bearing!” And with that, Vinyl left, her nose in the air, Fed up with Octavia’s Hearths Warming flair. The cellist cried out, “Why the attitude nonce?” “Bah Humbug!” was the other mare’s only response. Octavia watched as she trotted away, Then glanced at the lights placed for this holiday. They were crooked and dim, too lighted in places, The green wasn’t perfect, the red slightly faded. Tavi imagined the ponies walk by, Watching her house with disapproving eyes. Pointing out dimness and straightness and color, Laughing at lights that seemed more like squalor. They would walk by and judge and prod, Exchanging mean glances and meaningful nods. “How pathetic,” she thought that they’d certainly say, “That there could be such slackers on this auspicious day.” Then away they would trot, laughing all the while, Tossing back manes coiffed in Canterlot style; That gesture that Octy had seen before, That same expression that Vinyl’s old parents once bore. “I swore,” thought the cellist, “I swear that I swore, Not to see that face High and Mighty once wore. Vinyl can stay in, I’ll do this alone, It won’t be long until she changes her tone.” Octavia nodded, her jaw firmly set, Determined to work through the cold and the wet. She brought out the ladder, climbed onto the roof, And straightened out the lights with a discerning hoof. She worked out the kinks with all of her care, Changing and fixing and working out tears. The wind howled as she worked, a terrible gale, That made the roof slick and almost froze her tail. Yet, Octavia worked, not one to be daunted, Not on Hearth’s Warming; the day so highly vaunted. So she worked and she worked and the wind blew its course, Making flurries and chilling cellists with its force. Octavia sneezed and she pulled her scarf tight, Reaching over the edge to get her lights just right. She mumbled her curses towards cold and towards snow, Towards forecasts of blizzards and of five below. Tavi hung over the edge of the roof, Balanced on the ground by the tip of a hoof. The wind quickly gusted, the snow shifting sloppily, Octavia’s hoof slipped, she felt herself toppling. The cellist flailed out and let loose a cry, The ground rose up sharply as she fell through the sky. Tavi felt a tug at the end of her tail, A powerful pull, stopping Tavi’s wail. Octavia silently hung in the air, A shiny white aura holding up her hair. Vinyl rushed out, her glasses askew, Her mane was a mess, every strand of blue. The DJ breathed heavily, her face slightly flush, With the effort of running and magic and such. “What are you doing?” Vinyl Scratch shouted out loud, “Are those lights worth your life, are you really so proud?!” Octavia closed her eyes in relief, Feeling a few tears threaten to seep. “Thank you,” she said, her voice very soft, “But I’d rather that you not hold me aloft.” Vinyl nodded and put Octavia down, Looking at the cellist and the lights with a frown. “Well, if that’s it, then I’ll head back inside,” She gave one last nod before turning aside. “Tavi,” said Vinyl, still looking away, “Do you mind if we talk about… today?” Octavia gave one last glance towards the roof, Then she nodded and walked forward, hoof before hoof. Vinyl had built a fire, blazing in its place, She sat herself down, a frown on her face. Tavi sat across from her, quietly shaking, The cold and the fall left her slightly aching. The DJ spoke first: “Harpo’s busy, right? No chance of seeing him this Hearths Warming night?” Octavia nodded, and Vinyl Scratch sighed, Using a hoof to knead at her eyes. “Alright, then I think that I should explain, Why I’ve been used today to be such a pain.” Vinyl Scratch paused, thinking back a bit, Calling forth thoughts that best seemed to fit. “Hearths Warming isn’t what I want it to be, Or, I guess, it was always different for me. “It’s a day for family, friends, and caring, Ponies drinking drinks, hearing music blaring, It wasn’t that way for me. “There’s supposed to be singing and playing and laughter, And no anger or worry until the day after, But it wasn’t that way for me. “Back in the day, when I lived with High and Mighty Hearths Warming Eve was always a bit flighty. I’d have to dress up, and they’d comb back my mane, And we’d go out to galas held in snow or rain. “They’d all say kind words and pat each others’ back, Then they’d walk away and their words would turn black. I did that for years until I ran away, Once a year every year on each Hearths Warming day. “So when I saw you worry about lights, About the way our house looked in a stranger’s sight…” Vinyl trailed off, tapping a hoof on her chair, “So that’s what I thought of when I saw you care--” “How about we stay inside?” Octavia blurted, “Here where it’s warm and we’ll leave the outside deserted?” Vinyl looked up to meet Tavi’s eyes, Her face graced with a look of surprise. Octavia smiled and glanced at the snow, The glare of the sun setting Canterlot aglow. “I’m done with all of the decorations, I think that it’s best if I took a vacation.” The DJ’s face lit up with glee, Then Vinyl asked, “So you’ll stay in with me?” Octavia gave one last look outside, Turned back to Vinyl and said, “Alright.” Vinyl jumped up and ran to the next room, Returning quickly with some drinks to consume. She gave Tavi a cup and she poured out the drink, Touching their glasses together with a clink. “This is gonna be awesome,” said Vinyl with a grin, “We’ll go play a game, sing some songs, drink some gin! Or if you’d rather just do nothing and stay in a heap, We’ll stay here by the fire, grab a blanket, and sleep!” Vinyl waggled her eyebrows with a lascivious smile, “But if you’d rather not sleep, I’ll make it worth your while.” Tavi rolled her eyes and brought her drink to her lips, “We’ll see how it goes,” she said, taking a sip. Vinyl’s magic flared, drawing the curtain, Looking forward to a day packed with fun, to be certain. And they stayed inside, away from the cold, The lights still outside, shining bright and bold. And ponies walked by, and some of them sneered, But what they saw didn’t matter when compared to real cheer. And the sun shone high, making Canterlot bright, As ponies all over saw their holiday sights. The day quickly past, Hearths Warming had ended, With memories made on a day most splendid. Octavia and Vinyl lay tangled in bed, Their breathing synchronized, their dreams in their heads. Empty cups all around them, used game boards, After a day of singing, eating, and drinking galore. They had kissed and cracked jokes and forgotten their lights, The world was for them and their Hearths Warming Night. Author's Note Alright, this was pretty fun. Hard to do, but fun. Happy Holidays to all of you! I hope that you've enjoyed these last few years!
Tavi in Wonderland Part 1Octavia was beginning to get very tired of sitting alone in the park and of having nothing to do: she had listened to the tape player Vinyl had left behind, but it had no vocals or physical instruments in it, and what is the use of music, thought Octavia, without vocals or physical instruments? Vinyl had not been gone for very long, but a combination of the summer midday heat and the silence of a Vinyl-less environment had left Octavia feeling rather sleepy and slow. It is, therefore, rather understandable that when she saw a white colt pass by and spied the cello case slung across his back and read the words “Property of Octavia Philharmonica” printed along the side of the cello case, the first thought that crossed Octavia’s mind was: That colt has a very nice cello case. The second thought, for those who are curious, was That son of a bitch, followed by a flurry of activity as she slid off of the park bench and ran towards the colt. “You!” shouted Octavia. “Stop! Thief!” The thief was, however, a thief and thieves have a tendency to not listen when told to stop. In fact, they do almost exactly the opposite of stopping in that they tend to move faster. Typically in the direction away from whatever is telling them to stop. And so, Octavia found herself running through Canterlot’s central park, chasing after a white colt whom, despite the hindrance of the cello case, was very quick on his hooves. Indeed, he was a good deal faster than Octavia, steadily pulling ahead as the chase continued, but he was unable to escape Octavia and her rabid devotion to her cello. The thief wove in and out of trees, avoiding the set paths whenever possible, and Octavia followed him every step of the way, panting and sweating as she was. She followed even as the thief made a sharp turn and beelined towards the lake that was Canterlot Park’s central feature. “You’re kidding,” Octavia muttered in disbelief. Then, louder: “You’re kidding!” The thief did not respond, continuing his dash towards the water. “You’ll warp the wood!” Octavia put on an extra burst of speed, aiming to intercept the thief before he took his swim. As previously mentioned, however, the thief was a good deal faster than Octavia. The cellist let out a groan of frustration as the colt dove into the lake, a groan which turned into a yelp as Octavia tried to stop and instead found herself slipping against the grass. Oh, buck me, thought Octavia as she took a deep breath, tumbled forward and broke the lake's surface. And Octavia fell. And she fell. And she fell. And she fell. Octavia fell so far that she had the time to think: Well, I certainly am falling very far. I hope that there's nothing hard at the bottom of this fall, for it is a very long one. Oh, for some reason there's no need for me to hold my breath despite the fact that I'm underwater. Or, I think I'm underwater. How strange. Of course, this is not what Octavia thought, though she certainly had the time to think it, if she so chose. Instead, her thoughts were more along the lines of: This is going to be very cold. Then: This isn't cold at all. Then: What is happening? WHAT IS HAPPENING?! And then Octavia did not think very much of anything, merely wondered at her current situation as she floated down and down, never picking up or losing speed. Well, at least I'm not actually wet. Octavia landed in a shallow pool of water, thoroughly soaking her hooves. Joy. Octavia stepped out of the puddle, kicking out her hooves in an attempt to dry them. This was a largely useless activity, however, and mainly succeeded in dousing the area immediately around Octavia with several droplets of water while still leaving a rather wet layer of water on her hooves. “What a bother,” muttered Octavia, wiping her hooves on the grass she stood upon, “I would have brought a towel if I knew that I was going for a swim.” Her hooves now a fair bit drier than before, Octavia looked up from the ground. It was very green around the puddle; a sheet of dark green grass that stretched up to a wall of vines, bushes, and trees that formed an almost perfect ring around the puddle. Perfect, that is, save for a thin path that lead off in a perfectly straight line. However, Octavia was not focused on the grass nor the vines nor the bushes or the trees or the nearly perfect ring that they formed around the puddle. Octavia's eyes were focused on the acid green unicorn whose face poked from the ring of vines and bushes and trees. A face topped with a bright red propeller hat and flecked with droplets of water. "Quick Quill?" asked Octavia. "Is that you?" Quick Quill gasped, darting backwards into the wall of vines and bushes and trees. His voice was just audible: “She speaks! Falls down from the sky, lands in a pond, then speaks!” Another head, this one blue, but wearing the same propeller hat, poked through the plants. “Snap Shot?” asked Octavia. Snap Shot gasped as well, darting back into the bushes just as Quick Quill had. “She does speak! And speaks rather finely at that!” “Doesn’t she?” asked Quick Quill’s voice. “She does!” confirmed Snap Shot. “What are you two doing here?” asked Octavia. Both heads poked out of the wall of green, throwing a questioning glance at Octavia. “Doing here?” asked Snap Shot. “I don’t think we’re doing much of anything here,” said Quick Quill. “A bit of standing—” “—a bit of leaning—” “—a bit of speaking—” “—which you do wonderfully, by the way,” added Quick Quill. “You really do,” confirmed Snap Shot. “Especially for somepony who fell from the sky. You don’t even have a pair of wings.” “Indeed she doesn’t!” Octavia shut her eyes, reeling slightly from the onslaught of words. “Perhaps that was the wrong question. Where am I? Did you two fall into the pool as well?” “Pool, ma’am?” asked the pair in tandem, their heads tilting slightly. “Yes, pool. In Canterlot Central Park.” Their heads tilted the other way. “Canterlot, ma’am?” Octavia blinked, throwing her own questioning look at the two. “Snap Shot, Quick Quill, are you both feeling well?” “Quick Quill?” asked Snap Shot. “Snap Shot?” asked Quick Quill. “I’m afraid we don’t know anypony by those names,” said not-Snap Shot. Then, too not-Quick Quill: “Do we, Tweedledum?” “Do we, Tweddledee?” “I don’t think we do.” They nodded at each other, then turned towards Octavia. “We don’t,” they said resolutely. “I… I see.” Octavia took a step backwards. “It’s just, you both look remarkably like two ponies I know.” “Sounds about right,” said Snap Shot (who was really Tweedledee, but whom we shall continue to refer to as Snap Shot for convenience’s sake). “Indeed,” agreed Quick Quill (who was really Tweedledum, but whom we shall refer to as Quick Quill for convenience’s sake). Octavia narrowed her eyes slightly. “How so?” “Well,” began Snap Shot, “we look like two ponies—” “—two ponies that you know,” added Quick Quill. “Quite right, two ponies that you know. And we are, in fact, two ponies.” “Two ponies that you know.” “As we are two ponies that you know, I see know reason that we wouldn’t look like two ponies that you know.” “Marvelously reasoned,” complimented Quick Quill. Octavia took another step back. “Yes, fantastic. I really must be going, however; a thief made off with my cello some time ago. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a white colt with a cello case pass through here?” “Have we, Tweedledee?” asked Quick Quill. “Have we, Tweedledum?” “I think we have!” Again, the pair turned towards Octavia. “We have!” they said in tandem, adding nothing more. “I see.” Octavia paused. “Would you mind pointing me in the proper direction?” Each one of the Tweedles poked a hoof through the wall of plants, pointing towards the path behind Octavia. “He went that way,” said Snap Shot. “Indeed he did. Went that way very quickly.” Octavia turned her head, glancing down the very straight and rather narrow path. She turned back towards the Tweedles, nodding slightly. “Thank you for your help.” “No trouble,” said Quick Quill. “No trouble at all,” agreed Snap Shot. And without further ado, Octavia turned sharply, heading down the path and away from the puddle at perhaps a faster pace than was strictly necessary. “Those two,” she muttered to herself, “are enough of a headache in a normal situation.” The path was perfectly straight, without so much as a hint of a curve. For the first ten minutes, perhaps, dense vegetation surrounded its sides before giving away, and giving away rather abruptly at that, to a seemingly endless field of grass. Octavia took a few steps forward, squinting slightly and raising a hoof to defend herself against the sudden influx of sunlight. She hadn’t realized just how much protection the bushes and vines and trees had afforded her against the sun until she no longer had them. In time, however, Octavia’s eyes adjusted to the new lighting conditions. She looked down, prepared to follow her path once more. And she saw grass, same as all of the other grass in the endless sea of grass she currently stood upon. “Oh dear,” Octavia muttered to herself. “Well, no matter, I can simply turn around and reorient myself with the jungle path.” Octavia turned, feeling rather proud of herself for having come up with such a clever plan, only to find that there was no jungle at all behind her, merely more grass. “Joy,” said Octavia in a manner that was decidedly not joyful. “Well, there’s that. I suppose that I’ll simply have to carry on using only my natural sense of direction. The sun was in my eyes when I started, so I must have been going… this way! Maybe.” Having no better hunch to go on, Octavia headed towards the sun, squinting slightly as she did so, but carrying on in her struggle. She walked for quite a while. Or, it might not have been long at all. It was quite difficult to tell, really; Octavia could have sworn that the sun was rising and lowering as it pleased. All that could really be said was that, however much Octavia walked, she did not feel hungry or thirsty or tired, though she could have gone without quite so much sun. Keeping this in mind, one can imagine Octavia’s relief when she found that she had reached a rather expansive tree whose branches cast quite a lot of shade. “What a stroke of luck,” Octavia said to herself. “An immense tree at the exact moment that I’d gotten fed up with the sunlight. It’s far too convenient, really. Nothing could possibly come of this.” However, Octavia ignored her brief bout of cynicism, casting Harpo as the culprit behind her pessimism before finding a very comfortable spot right against the base of the tree. “I’ll just rest here for a while, allow my eyes to rest a bit. Then I’ll find the nearest city and find that thief. And a way back home, as well, I suppose. Cello takes priority.” And Octavia closed her eyes, nestling into her chosen space and breathing a sigh of comfort. Her eyes shot open. “But how strange,” Octavia wondered aloud, “to see Snap Shot and Quick Quill here. What did they call themselves? Tweedledee and Tweedledum? I think that was it. What a ridiculous prank to play, if that was indeed a prank.” A slight pause. “In any case, I’m likely worrying myself over nothing; they were probably just very similar looking ponies.” And Octavia shut her eyes once more. Her eyes shot open again. “But they weren’t! I’m certain that they were Snap Shot and Quick Quill! But then why didn’t they recognize me? Though they had neither camera nor pen, and I’ve never seen them without their tools before. And they’ve traded in their hats. Not exactly my taste in hats, but I must say that the propellers rather fit their personali—” “Would you shut up already!” came a rather scratchy voice from somewhere above Octavia’s head. “Some of us are trying to nap!” Octavia jumped, nearly slamming her head against the tree’s trunk. She looked up towards the branches, but saw nothing but wood and fluttering leaves. “Who’s there?” Octavia called. “I’m there,” replied the voice. “Well, actually, I’m here, but my here is your there, so it all kind of works itself out.” A pause. “Vinyl? Is that you?” A pair of bright purple shades faded into existence on the branches above Octavia. “Not Vinyl, but it’s definitely me. At least, I think it is. See, because this is me, and I’m pretty sure that your that is my this, but you might have been talking to a branch or something, so I’m not totally sure.” As the voice spoke, bits and pieces of the source of the voice manifested behind the shades. First a two-toned blue mane, then a cheeky grin, then the eyes, mostly invisible behind the purple lenses, until the entirety of Vinyl’s body had joined her voice. “Were you talking to a branch?” asked Vinyl. “I wasn’t.” “Yeah, they’re not very good conversation.” Vinyl’s head tilted slightly. “Are you any better?” “Better than a branch?” “Well, you never know.” Vinyl disappeared, reappearing a moment later, her face a few inches from Octavia’s. “Have you ever spoken to a pony that made you wish you were speaking to a branch instead?” “I’ve never wanted to speak to a branch. And I don’t think a branch would be able to respond, even if I did.” “But it’s easier to talk at a branch than to speak with a brick wall,” replied Vinyl with a grin. “That seems a rather cynical viewpoint.” Vinyl shrugged. “I can be cynical and still be right.” “You’re sounding like Harpo.” “Really? I think I’d like to meet him.” Octavia knit her brow. “What do you mean? Harpo is—” She broke off, staring at a spot just above Vinyl’s head. “Harpo is what?” “You… you have cat ears.” “Really?” asked Vinyl. She reached a hoof up to her very cat-like ears and plucked one off. “Hey, you’re right! I thought I’d lost them!” “Lost your ears?” “Better than losing my head.” Having said that, Vinyl returned her ear to its place, fixing Octavia with a wide grin. “Who are you?” asked Octavia. Vinyl pulled a face. “I hate that question. Anyone who asks that question always expects some big, fancy answer and I’m not very good at those.” “Then what’s your name?” “That’s an even worse question. It’s not really my name, after all.” “How do you mean?” “Well, a name is given, isn’t it? That means it must have belonged to somepony else at one point and I can never really own something that has belonged to somepony else.” “But you’ve stolen cellos.” “But I’ve never really owned one. Anyway, don’t you have another cello thief to be worrying about?” “You’re right!” Octavia jumped to her hooves. “You said that you’ve seen him. Which way did he go?” “He went This way,” replied Vinyl without pointing. “Which way?” “No, This way. Which way goes the other way.” “I wouldn’t know.” “No, you wouldn’t.” Octavia scowled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” “It means that Which way doesn’t really matter to you. What matters is that you can go This way”—VInyl gestured towards the left of the tree—“or That way.” And here, Vinyl gestured towards the right. “What’s the difference?” asked Octavia. “About three letters.” Octavia paced from left to right, glancing past the tree. “Both ways look the same to me.” “I’m sure they do.” “And you said that the thief went this way?” “He did,” confirmed Vinyl. “Then I should go this way.” “If you want to go down a thief’s path.” “Oh.” Octavia paused. “That doesn’t sound very pleasant.” Vinyl shrugged. “The thief doesn’t mind it much.” “Do both ways take me to the same place?” Vinyl considered this for a moment. “If you followed them for long enough they’d probably reach the same place eventually.” “That’s not very reassuring.” “Yeah, but when has choosing a way ever been reassuring?” Octavia paced a few more times, looking as far down each path as she could. No matter how far she looked, she could see no differences. “Made up your mind yet?” asked Vinyl. Octavia frowned. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather not follow in the path of a thief. I’ll head that way.” “Suit yourself,” said Vinyl with a shrug. “Whatever way you choose, just remember that there’s no way back. At least, no way along that way.” “And why is that?” Vinyl seemed surprised at the question. “Well, that’s the way ways work here.” “I see… Where is ‘here,’ exactly?” “Here is where we are right now.” “And where are we right now?” Vinyl grinned. “Well, we’re in a plain with one really big tree. It doesn’t really have a name, though. See, there’s only one place that really matters here, so that’s the only place that gets a name.” She paused, her grin growing slightly wider. “And that’s Wonderland.” Author's Note An idea that's been in my head for quite a while now. And Counterpoint has been long overdue for an update.
