On one cold winter's eve upon Canterlot's dark and dreary Coda Street, a lone divine cello rang out. As quickly as the notes started however they suddenly stopped, only to be heard as echoes ringing gloriously off the mountains. The poor denizens of the streets had been getting tired of having their emotions toyed with. Not only had that cellist been playing the most beautiful music they had ever heard a few seconds at a time, but whoever it was had played that same section for the fifteenth time this evening. For to the untrained ear beautiful music is just that and nothing more.
But to the musician every note matters and to them even the slightest delay between notes can make or break a piece. She(the cellist) had transitioned from hunched over her desk to being hunched over her cello for the eighty-fifth time that day, and the pain was starting to wear on her back. So to remedy this she stood up fully and began to pace. Her mind never leaving her work, and her foot steps never pausing for longer than it would take for her to draw imaginary notes in the air.
Once she had thought she had fixed the error in her melody and proceeded to hoist the cello up close to her body once more and with a heave of “eighty-six” she slowly played her problem onto the oversized instrument. Most other musicians, upon hearing this little snippet, would have deemed the problem fixed.
“Close but it's still lacking something,” The elder artist thought wearily as she moved once more to her desk.
She gripped one of her quills, in that magical sort of way that ponies seem to be able to grip things, and moved to write what she had figured out on that last playing. Disaster struck however, in the form of the tip of her quill breaking. Normally this wouldn't have been a problem, but this happened to be the sixteenth quill she had broken this day, and the pack she had bought had only contained sixteen quills.
In a bit of a huff and desperately trying to retain what she had wanted to write down, she gently clamped both front hooves around the flame of the candle next to her work which extinguished with a hiss. She then rose up and walked stiffly towards the front door of her flat. She quickly bundled her light grey body up in a thick worn coat and wrapped a long blue scarf around her neck and snout. Upon her head she pulled down a small smug warm cap. Her last measure before rushing out into the freezing snow was to tuck her dark grey hair (being ever lightened by rampant streaks of silver) under her winter's cap, and with that she was out the door.
The street was bare with the soul exclusion of those who had nowhere else to be, and even they had all sought out some form of niche to hide themselves in. Her pace was only as fast as the wind would allow, and she was now bitterly muttering under her breath about the distance she had lived from the general store at the end of her block.
She hated the cold almost as much as she hated company, which was the precise reason she had decided to live so far from either end of her street. She liked the solitude, in fact she reveled in it. Now that wasn't to say she didn't enjoy company as well. It is more of the fact that company, like her symphony, was missing something. It gave her no time to think for herself, even if she wasn't the hostess.
Upon reaching her destination she quickly bolted into the brightly lit room which stood in complete contrast with the world outside. Octavia paused a moment on the ridiculous notion of this warm little shop melting all the snow around it due to it's warmth. It was an impossible little idea, but it was hers.
Behind the counter sat a white feathered pegasus tending the store. “Good evening 'Tavia wha' brings ya here?” The shop keeper spoke in a broken accent and a warm heart. “Just here to pick up some more quills Tom, and how many times have I asked you not to call me that?” Octavia's words(despite her age) flowed beautifully revealing the elocution of a master of the craft of sound. “Naw, I'm sorry Miss Melody, the quills 'sa in tha back jus' like they always are.” Tom Drum's broken words apologized.
Octavia made her way to the back of the store which was barren aside from one other patron. Ignoring the brown unicorn, she quickly headed to the back where plenty of quills had been bundled and stacked on many levels of shelves. Of which she scoured looking for the perfect set of quills. Her eyes darted around from the small packs of eight to the larger sets of sixty-four. She pondered and mentally compared them.
Then out of the corner of her eye she saw them. A broken pack of thirty-two. They had been placed on the bottom in a corner, and it was clearly obvious that almost half of them were either broken or damaged in some way. These quills however, had something to them that none of the others had. This something was the thing she still lacked in writing her symphony.
Carefully, ever so gently, she reached out a hoof to try and pry them free. The neighbors to this simple pack of quills however, were so heavy and he was so tightly wedged in his corner that no force Octavia could produce would be able to free them without breaking several of the weaker quills.
She pulled down her scarf and attempted again with her mouth, but to no avail. This pack of quills was completely stuck. Octavia counter-wise, also refused to back down. Her mind reeled at how she was going to free this pack of quills. Then the answer came. She rejected it at first, for she knew he heard her name, but she slowly realized there was no other way.
“Excuse me sir,” Her words rang out dryly.
“Can you assist me for a second?” She called out boldly yet retaining her demure.
The colt nervously trotted over to the damsel silently muttering words of astonishment under his breath. He cleared his throat nervously before he truly spoke.
“Y...Yes Octavia.” His nervousness made clear that he did know of her.
“I...I'm a h...huge ffan of your work.” He stammered.
“I'm not Octavia anymore, please just call me Melody.”
Octavia corrected in a melancholic tone which denoted more annoyance than aggression. She had silently been hoping that he would not recognize her, and now she hoped he would not tack on that silly title usually associated with unmarried mare's last names.
“W...What can I...I help you with M...Miss Melody?”
He petitioned and persisted in his nervousness much to Octavia's dismay.
“Do you see this pack of quills down here?” She asked with a simple gesture.
The colt nodded in reply.
“Would you use your magic to lift the rest of the quills off of it?”
Without another word the entire stack lit up with a light blue aura. The stack continued to move just enough for Octavia to reach down and grab the broken set of quills. She gave a nod to the young colt, instructing him to release the spell. She then placed the pack on the ground and muttered a soft word of “thanks” before repicking up the package and moving away from the colt.
Octavia gently placed the quills and three bits upon the counter. The shop keep glanced at the broken bundle with a look of dismay. He drew in a deep breath before speaking.
“Naw are ya sure ya want this set, there's got to be a better set in tha back?”
“Would you buy this set for yourself?” Octavia responded quickly.
“Suppose not,” Tom responded.
“That's why I want them, they're unwanted.”
~“Wow I can't believe I just met Octavia, I can't wait to tell my family about this.”~
The words of the colt rang out through the small convenience store, effectively breaking Tom and Octavia's conversation. Tom then tried to keep his thoughts to himself, but inevitably couldn't.
“I think ya just made his day,” Tom chuckled with a quick flick of his wings.
“By doing what?”
These were Octavia's last words before pocketing her quills and bravely again confronting the snowstorm raging outside.
