Oh, hello there. You may be wondering several things right now, dear reader. Who am I? How is my hoofwriting so immaculate, even on a roll of toilet paper in a Canterlot jail cell. Why am I in jail to begin with? All will be made clear eventually; maybe even I'll understand things once this is all over. But to answer your questions for now: Octavia, superior dexterity acquired through many years of playing the cello, and concerning that last question - that necessitates the telling of a story. It all begins with a bow.
***
"Octavia! Where did you go, you silly mare! We're on in less than ten minutes!" a light brown stallion asked, his brow feverish as he hunted up and down the halls of the Poofy Meadows country club.
"Please Frederick, do you think I'd be tardy for a performance, even if it is less than... interesting venue." the gray mare replied.
"You know as well as I do that these pithy functions serve a purpose all the same." he was indignant, leveling his eyes as Octavia poured herself another cup of punch.
"Yes, yes. We need to network and grow a list of references." Octavia looked listlessly into the rippling, red surface of her drink.
"That we do! As you well know, chamber music is-" he was cut off mid-sentence.
"Chamber music is not appreciated as much as it once was. I've heard this speech too many times!" her speech was fast and deliberate.
"Good, because I have it on good authority that a pony who belongs to this club named Ivy League is good friends with a Canterlot high-society mare named Upper Crust. You know how those Canterlot types are." He waltzed over to the punch bowl and poured himself a cup too.
"That I do," Octavia began, taking a sip. "Collecting culture to fool others into thinking that they're cultured."
"And while I normally abhor such a shallow appreciation of the arts, if it will get us closer to Carneighgy Hall, I'll be more than willing to ride somepony's superficiality!" he downed the rest of his punch.
"Isn't that the truth..." Octavia gave a long sigh as she walked with Frederick back behind the stage, her mind turning from politics to fugues.
"Also," Frederick turned to face her. "You could use the extra money. That bow of yours looks awfully frayed. I'd rehair it sooner than later."
"Ahg! My poor bow! We do so much travelling, I wish I could stay in Manehattan just for a few days! And I want it rehaired right this time! I'd even give my own tail hair for the job! Not that I could afford anything else." She grumbled.
"Who knows? Maybe we'll get to perform at the Royal Palace one day, and Celestia herself will donate some of her tail hair." He laughed, sauntering over to the stage, beyond which a crowd of deadpan socialites waited.
"What did you say? Celestia's tail hair?" She had stopped cold.
"Why, yes! Just imagine stringing a bow with hair like that! It would sound... well, it would sound downright celestial! Come now, we're ready to begin."
And like that, Octavia could think of nothing else. What in Equestria would that even sound like? Could it even be done? Surely somepony had to have thought to do so at one point. Throughout the afternoon concert and proceeding party, the idea wouldn't shake itself loose - the flowing, ethereal hair of a princess. She thought of how it rippled even when there was no wind and the way light refracted through it like water. This had to be done. It was necessary. And Octavia would be the pony to do it.
