Chapters Chapter One: The Painting
Author's Note
Okay, so this story, originally a single chapter, has been switched up a little. I've corrected some spelling mistakes and grammatical issues, and I reluctantly inserted appropriate sections in the story into chapters upon realising that reading a 40K+ story in one go might not be ideal for some people. Hopefully, this makes things more simple for some of said people.
Anyway, this is Octavia's Painting, my most lengthy brony horror stories featuring everyone's favourite cellist, Octavia Melody, as she experiences some supernatural, psychological horrors after reluctantly receiving a supposedly haunted painting by one of Equestria's most famous surrealism artists.
Got to admit, I went a little ambitious with this one, and it is based upon true facts about a painting named, The Anguished Man , a very popular and creepy piece of art with a blood-chilling background story. It heavily influenced my work, and I hope that the effort and passion put into this story shows and captures your interest. With that in mind, I sincerely hope that this satisfies your horror and supernatural requirements!
Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments to let me know what you think!
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Chapter One: The Painting
Octavia's Painting
A Story by FireRain
*** *** ***
It was another chilly and crisp early spring morning in the town of Ponyville, and already awake, most of the townsponies were busy setting up shop in the middle of town, business as usual. They gingerly set up their stands and placed their goods on the display stands of their stalls or wagons, making their wares presentable to the public in order to peak their interest to lure them in.
From inside of her shared home with the local DJ, Vinyl Scratch, Octavia Melody was entering the kitchen with a yawn, her drowsy eyes adjusting to the morning light as she slowly came back to life.
The kitchen of the home she shared with Vinyl was medium-sized and quite spacious, but, as always, it was always very empty. She had Vinyl to thank for that one.
It consisted of nothing more than your average, standard-issue electric oven with a black-glass hob and a generously-aged oak table with a couple of chairs, big enough for a couple to share a morning quibble, and it was very ornate. After all, Octavia was the one that decided to purchase the dining table set, and she, like her housemate, had certain standards to live up to, even if her friend's tastes were more...ruffian.
Heading towards one of the kitchen worktops by the stove, one of Octavia's well-groomed grey hooves aimlessly felt around for her coffee pot, still under the influence of sleep. Finding it after a couple of moments, she began to heat up the coffee on the hotplate that it was housed in.
After it was heated and she found herself a mug, or, at least, the cleanest one that she could find, Octavia poured herself a generous helping of coffee, filling her mug to about half-full before she sat with it at the dining table, holding it between her hooves gently but firmly.
She smiled slightly to herself at the bitter-burned smell of coffee, highlighted by the fruity undertones, allowing it to waft up and circle around in her nostrils like a massage. Octavia wasn't exactly a lover of coffee, and she didn't care much for the taste, but, as usual, she hadn't been able to get herself out to the shops in order to buy some of her favourite tea from the local brewer. Again, she had Vinyl to thank for that.
''I can't even ask that pony to do the meekest of tasks,'' Octavia muttered to herself before taking a small sip of the beverage. It wasn't too hot to the point where it singed her lips, but rather at a temperature that warmed up her insides as it trickled down the back of her throat and entered into her stomach like a warm pool of brown-coloured elegance.
Speaking of Vinyl Scratch, Octavia was left on her own at the moment, her friend having been gone for a month on a tour around Equestria. She had recently gained some attention after her record producer, Neon Lights, had put out one of her latest tracks, and she eagerly and optimistically signed a contract with no hesitation. And so, she was off on her grand tour around the globe to wow crowds and rambunctious teens with her gigs and jives. It made Octavia feel a tad jealous, even if she knew it was a terrible way to feel over her friend's success.
Octavia, herself, had played in a number of concerts around Canterlot, of which she soon built a name and a reputation for herself and her orchestra. She would perform inside of the Royal Concert Hall for the hoity-toity public that resided with the area of Canterlot, the higher-ups, the one's in charge, the one's with the dough and the big bucks. Although she couldn't say she agreed with the snootiness of some of the ponies in Canterlot that trot up and about with their nose upturned to the sky like a shark's fin sticking out of the water, she didn't mind if they wanted to pay big money to see her perform.
Her family may have wanted her to remain in the city, to keep their daughter in the spotlight of the public and to keep their family name healthy and up and running, Octavia saw nothing healthy about it. Like her, her parents were both in an orchestra, both long-since retired today, but the crowds were not fully up to her tastes, if she was being honest. She can't recall a single time when she performed that 'the high and mighty' have turned their noses up at her like she was some kind of parasite to them, so below them that she was but a mere nanite.
To get to where she is today, her instrument of choice, a cello, ancient strings, an instrument of beauty and passion, it hurt her deep inside at the comments she had received every so often when she performed in the deep end with the sharks. And so, Octavia figured that her talents would be better appreciated in a small town such as Ponyville.
It was quiet and away from those parasitic higher-ups that saw the unwealthy as unworthy and disgusting. The ponies in Ponyville were the polar opposite to the Canterlot public, all down-to-earth and friendly. They smiled and saw each other as equal and in the same ball park. They were much easier to warm up to, and they even came to enjoy the sophisticated mare's talents, and she would perform more frequently around town whenever there was a special event taking place, and she only rarely came back to her home city of Canterlot to perform in formal concerts and traditional plays, such as the Hearth's Warming Eve Pageant.
''Everyone's a critic,'' Octavia said to herself, feeling the caffeine begin to restart her system with a slow, pleasant coaxing. She took a sip and tried to forget about the bitter memories circling in her mind, replacing them once again with the thought of Vinyl being out of town.
It was nice to wake up in the morning without having her ears deafened by the blare of one of Vinyl's turntables and subwoofers, something that she had become accustomed to every morning in the place of a bird singing. Half the time, she practically startled out of bed as if she had been prodded with an electric baton below the ribs, but to be able to wake up to the gentle and tender kiss of the morning sun and the long-missed song of a hummingbird was much more tranquil and soothing.
Looking around, Octavia's light purple eyes directed themselves towards the fridge and the cabinets around the kitchen, feeling herself to be a little peckish. Getting up from her seat at the table, she headed over towards the fridge and pulled at the handle, swinging the door open to see what was inside.
Octavia's lips tugged into a frown as she realised that the fridge was entirely empty. All three shelves inside of the fridge were completely void of anything edible, and the sight made Octavia's stomach grumble slightly. All that she could see was a couple tubs of natural and hay-flavoured yoghurt, both empty and laying on their sides, their lids half-popped off, a haytart, half-eaten and old-looking, as evidenced by the thin layer of light green mould growing on top of it, and a daffodil sandwich.
''Oh!'' Octavia's eyes brightened a little upon spotting the sandwich sitting on a plate on the middle shelf. She reached in and pulled it out, half-closing the fridge door as she brought the sandwich to the kitchen counter beside the fridge. She picked on of the sandwich halves up and gave it a whiff, smelling the vibrant, yellow-leafed flowers between the bread, only to recoil from the stench they gave off. ''Oh.''
They smelled like rot and decay, and as she peeled back the bread, she noticed that the flowers inside were wilted and paled in colour, and now that she could see them clearly, she also noticed that there was some kind of red-coloured sauce covering them. She didn't have to think to know what it was.
''Very funny, Vinyl,'' Octavia muttered, knowing full-well what that sauce was. It was hot sauce: Hayracha. She hadn't forgotten the first time when Vinyl had gotten her with that prank, laughing her flanks off at her as she tried in vain to cool her steaming hot tongue, trying first with the switched-off water supply to the faucet in the sink. She had ended up sticking her face into one of Applejack's juicy apple pies to cool her tongue off, and it did the trick, but she could still feel her tongue tingling violently from the heat the sauce conjured.
Octavia kicked the fridge door shut in anger as she gave a huff, the entire appliance jingling as it slammed shut. So, it looked as if she was going to be the one doing the shopping. Again. It was always Octavia's turn, and Vinyl always came prepared with an excuse.
''I've got a song to record!''
''I've got to clean my records and turntables!''
''Oh, I'd love to, Octavia, but I have to play a gig in an hour. Looks like it's your turn!''
That last one had caused a spark within Octavia's gut. She knew it wasn't true. Like Vinyl knew about her, Octavia knew when she had a concert or a gig to attend, and it became necessary for them to swap schedules per month or per year, just to keep themselves prepared for their daily duties as home owners. Somepony had to pay the bills and keep the house tidy and do all of the shopping around here, but it always ends up being Octavia. It was never Vinyl's turn to do any of the chores. All that her housemate did was bring in some of the rent money from her record sales and gigs, but she saw that as enough of a commitment. Sometimes, Octavia hated to say it, but it was true: Vinyl Scratch was a professional slacker.
However, she had to admit that she was a pretty decent DJ and artist. That was the only thing that she seemed to be great at.
''Well, I suppose I better get myself into the market while it's early,'' Octavia said to herself, glancing out towards the window through an open archway that lead into the main area of the house, where both her own and Vinyl's musical instruments were kept.
They had both agreed that they would have half of the house to themselves, tailored to fit their personality and tastes. Ponies who knew them thought that it was rather comical and queer that 'sophisticated' and 'reckless' could live together under one roof. Two exact opposites coming together to create something wonderful is how Octavia saw it, a sort of 'Ying-Yang' type of deal.
Orchestral and electronic dubstep beats may seem odd to some, but when both Octavia and Vinyl but their mind to something and they really work together, the results are always quite surprising. Their styles were quite significantly spaced apart, but even sophisticated types such as Octavia knew that a little experimentation every now and again could be quite beneficial for one's career and open doors to new possibilities that wouldn't otherwise be known if a pony didn't knock to see what was there.
Octavia smiled to herself as she recalled the wedding reception for Crankey Doodle Donkey and his mistress, Matilda. A wedding jam consisting of the deep, reverberating groans of her cello's thick strings that were remixed and 'Scratchified' to generate a lively, ecstatic and headbanging beat. She was very proud of the result, to say the least.
At the moment, on the left side of the main area of the house where Vinyl's turntables were usually placed, all that was there was an empty space, along with a couple of other empty spaces where her speakers and soundboards were once resting. Where they were once stood, there was only a bare, hardwood floor with outlines of squares and rectangles. They had been carted off with Vinyl for her Equestrian tour, and seeing the empty areas made Octavia feel a little alone herself.
What was a little sophistication worth without the reckless part to keep her on her hooves?
She didn't mind the quiet, but she had gotten very used to having the electric blue-maned unicorn around to spice things up, and the silence that came with her departure upset the balance a little. As loud as they were, Octavia found herself to be missing those thunderous booms of her partner's subwoofer and the caboom of her speakers in the middle of the afternoon.
''She'll only be gone for the rest of the month, Octavia,'' She told herself. ''She'll be back shortly. For now, just try not to think about it and enjoy the time to yourself,'' She said, taking in a deep breath to recompose herself before exhaling. She felt herself relax and her mind set itself at ease from her distracting thoughts.
Feeling refreshed, her system now fully awake, Octavia grabbed her signature lilac-coloured bow tie, taking her time to ensure that it was straight and uncreased, and then she grabbed her saddlebags. Her saddlebags were nothing too fancy, but they were a gift from Vinyl for their 'one-year-of-being-housemates-anniversary', she, like most everything else, having destroyed her previous pair.
Her new saddlebags were of decent quality and they were professionally-stitched with purple threads and charcoal-coloured fabric, the straps to hold the flaps in place in the shape of her cutie mark. As annoyed as she might have been about her previous saddlebag, a gift from her parents for her fifteenth birthday, Octavia accepted the gift with a smile and thanked Vinyl for the thought.
Finally seeing herself as fit enough to enter the market to start her first round of shopping, Octavia headed out of the front door of her house and headed towards her first destination: The tea shop.
*** *** ***
The golden bell above the cherry red door rang out as Octavia stepped through it and shut it behind her, alerting the owner of her arrival.
The aroma of the multiple varieties of teas instantly wafted and tickled at Octavia's nostrils as soon as she entered the shop. All along the walls, there were shelves upon shelves stacked neatly with colourful boxes of both herbal and fruity teas, herbal being on the left and fruity on the right.
At the far left corner of the room, there was a small table set up with a small tea pot on top of it, along with a couple of white tea cups with floral designs placed neatly on top of matching saucers, and from previous visits, Octavia knew that it was for testing the tea before purchase to see if it was up to a pony's standards.
Next to the table, right at the very bottom of the small shop, there was a long counter with a glass front, stocked up with small tea infusers, brewers and general tea-making utensils, such as filters and specialised spoons. Of course, due to their high quality and rarity, they were quite expensive, but well worth it for the lifetime guarantee. Behind the counter, there was an even bigger wooden series of shelves displaying high-end boxes of tea and special orders that are used for special occasions.
One of said high-end teas was a golden-yellow box of Summer Sun Tea, an expertly-blended concoction of summer berries to represent the warm sun, lavender to represent the night and a dash of molasses to deepen the flavour.
Another one of the special order teas was a red box of Chinsing and Merry Berry Tea, which was essentially just ordinary Chinsing with a mix of dark fruits that were laced with aniseed for a unique taste. It wasn't necessarily a special occasion brew, but it was normally sold around the winter season as a traditional beverage to enjoy around an open fire, and Octavia had found that she had developed a taste for the tea since the first time she took a sip.
Approaching the counter, the owner of the shop, Tea Tree, was a deep purple-coated mare with a vibrant, cherry-coloured mane with magenta eyes. She turned around from where she was rearranging the shelves to face the charcoal mare with a smile, recognising her.
''Octavia!'' She said in a chipper voice, her eyes brightening at the appearance of one of her best and loyal customers. ''How is everything? Back again for some more of your usual brew?'' She asked, motioning with a hoof towards the special selection of tea behind her on the shelves. Octavia waved a hoof.
''Quite, if you have any of it in stock, of course,'' Octavia said, to which Tea Tree nodded and hovered a hoof over the bottom shelf behind her, searching for the box of tea which her client came to retrieve on a regular basis. After a moment, she found the grey-coloured box, pulling it out and placing it on the counter in front of Octavia.
It was a grey-coloured box with a blackened front, a clip-art-style figure of a pony wearing a top hat printed in a glistening silver. Below the figure of the pony's head were the words, 'Pearl Grey'.
Tea Tree began to head on over to the opposite end of the counter to ring up the price of the tea, and while she was busy doing that, Octavia counted out the correct amount of bits from her saddlebags, having bought this variety of tea multiple times in the past. It was her favourite, of course.
''That'll be five bits, please, Octavia,'' Tea Tree said, gladly taking the bits from her regular customer. However, before she did, she glanced down to see the golden bits laid out on the table, and she gave Octavia a confused look. There were ten bits rather than five. ''Did you want another box?'' She asked, raising a brow at the grey mare. ''That's double than what I normally ask for.'' Octavia only smiled.
''Oh, I know, Tea Tree, but I figured that since your tea is always so delicious, I'd give you a bit of a tip this time,'' Octavia said, and the purple on Tea Tree's cheeks became rosy.
''Oh, you don't need to do that,'' She said modestly. ''You've been one of my best customers for years, next to Fluttershy,'' She said, and she only collected five of the bits for the tea. However, before she could sweep the money across to her, Octavia's hoof stopped her and she gave her a confused look, looking up to view the smile on the sophisticated mare's lips.
''Please, Tea Tree,'' She said. ''I insist.''
''Are you sure? I mean, I don't feel right taking more than what you owe,'' She began, but that smile held on Octavia's lips.
''It's quite alright,'' She said, sliding the remaining five bits over to Tea Tree's side of the counter. ''Take them.''
Reluctantly, Tea Tree took the bits and sweeped them into her hoof before dropping them into the cash register, but she smiled anyway. She never did feel right about accepting tips, even from regular customers that she considered as her friends, and Octavia was no exception.
''So, anyway, how's things, Octavia? Your orchestra treating you well?'' Tea Tree asked, and Octavia smiled politely. She would do this every time. She would always ask her how her life was going, and Octavia would ask her the same.
''Alas, it's been a little slower than I would like, but I can't complain. The more that we practice, the better we perform, and a good orchestra is always prepared to dazzle a crowd, wouldn't you say?'' She asked, her English accent singing. Tea Tree nodded. ''So, how about yourself? Is business steady as usual?''
''Well, business has been a little slow, but I still get customers every so often, normally yourself and Fluttershy, but I haven't seen much of Stencil Palette recently. He was my most frequent customer until about a week ago,'' She said concernedly. ''I hope nothing's happened to him.'' Octavia blinked.
''Stencil Palette? The artist?''
''Yes, that's the one.''
''Hmm, that's strange. I normally see him in the market selling some of his artwork,'' Octavia thought to herself, thinking for a moment before an idea came to mind. ''Tell you what, Tea Tree, when I head into the market to do my daily shopping, would it make you feel better if I paid him a visit at his stand and ask him if he's doing alright?''
''I think that's a wonderful idea, Octavia,'' Tea Tree said, smiling in appreciation. ''It would really put my mind at ease to know if he's doing alright.''
''It's no problem,'' Octavia said. ''Anything for an old friend,'' She said, picking up her box of Earl Grey and placing it gently into one of her saddlebags before saying her goodbye's to Tea Tree, on-route to her next destination: Ponyville Market.
*** *** ***
It was the early afternoon by the time Octavia had reached the market, and by this time, it was bustling with activity.
Entering the middle of town, like any other day, ponies were up and about, getting their daily goods from the local salesponies that were selling their wares. As usual, Berry Punch was at her station selling her locally-distilled fruity wine, Carrot Top was selling her vibrant orange carrots and celery, Bon Bon was stood behind her sweet wagon with buckets containing varieties of bonbons and Applejack was busy manning her apple cart.
So, it was business as usual. Octavia wasn't that bothered by it, having grown up in the city of Canterlot, where the shops and streets were always busy and crammed with ponies both left and right. The only difference was that Ponyville's community weren't as pompous or as toity about their shopping. Back in Canterlot, all ponies cared about was the latest fashion in elegant top hats and formal wear, and those that weren't up-to-date with the elegant lifestyle were singled out. It was always so tiring and gear-grinding to Octavia. She hated it.
As she walked down the streets of Ponyville, the idle chatter of friends and ponies in the middle of a transaction filling her ears, Octavia made her first stop at Applejack's apple cart, where there were a number of freshly-baked, juicy apple pies sitting neatly on a tray beside the apple buckets. They looked as good as always.
''Well, howdy, Octavia,'' Applejack said warmly as she noticed the mare approach her stand. Octavia held a smile at the farmer pony. ''Good ta see you again. What'll it be this time?''
''Good afternoon, Applejack,'' Octavia began smoothly, her eyes scanning over the apples on her cart. ''A bushel of apples, if you'd please,'' Octavia said. Applejack tilted her hat while Octavia opened up her saddlebag.
''Comin' right up,'' Applejack said. She grabbed a brown bag from underneath her cart where there was a small holder for them and she began to fill it with a variety of green and red apples. She proceeded to place the bag in the saddlebag that Octavia had opened before closing it. ''That'll be ten bits, please,'' Applejack requested.
Octavia counted out the correct amount of bits and paid Applejack, thanking her before moving off to her next stand. She only needed to make a few stops take have enough supplies to last her for a while. If it was only her living in the house for the time being, then there wasn't any sense in buying lots of goods, was there?
Octavia made a stop at Carrot Top's stand for a bunch of carrots and celery, then she moved over to Berry Punch's stand to get some of her special order wine. She didn't drink too much, but it was a luxury that she liked to partake in every once in a while. Because she was going to be on her own for a while, it seemed as good a time as any to indulge herself in some of Berry Punch's fruity red wine.
Lastly, Octavia made her way towards Lyra Heartstrings’ shop, which was situated next to BonBon's workplace. While she was shopping, she might as well make the time to visit Lyra to see if she's got any cello strings in-stock.
Lyra's shop was a medium-sized property that was seafoam green on the outside with white borders. There was a large window out front that viewed into a small display area that was full of stringed instruments. Some of them included harps, violins, lyres, and, of course, cellos.
Lyra was the only pony in town that Octavia could source new strings from. Not that many ponies in Equestria have an interest in stringed instruments from times of old, but those few that did dedicated their lives to keeping the sound of old music alive and well. In fact, the only ponies that Octavia knew that played stringed instruments was herself, Lyra, her orchestra and a few wealthy ponies back in Canterlot, such as her parents.
Entering her shop, Octavia looked around, seeing that it appeared to be empty. The walls were all lined neatly with well-preserved violins and cellos, all varying in age. Some of them were new modern-type cellos and violins, their bodies hollow and constructed from a specialised carbon fiber material, making them both highly portable and lightweight.
Walking forward towards the end of the shop where the counter was positioned, Octavia saw Lyra sat with her rear hooves propped up against a wooden crate as she was sat on a performance stool, a lean in her back as she held her lyre in her mint-green hooves. She was plucking the strings of her signature instrument with tender precision, playing a slow, romantic-sounding tune that one might hear on Hearts and Hooves Day.
Approaching the counter, Octavia didn't interrupt her. Instead, she stood and watched, listening to the tune the white and teal-maned unicorn was playing, seeing how long it would take for her to notice her.
For a brief moment, as Lyra continued to pluck at her strings, momentarily shifted her gaze from her instrument to face Octavia, then back down to her instrument. The second time her eyes glanced to see her, Lyra's hooves froze and she jumped a little, realising that she had a customer waiting for her.
''Oh!'' She gasped in surprise. ''Octavia, I didn't see you there!'' She said, getting up from her seat in a clumsy manner with a blush, resting her instrument off to the side as she stood professionally behind the counter. Well, as professionally as she could. She wasn't exactly a master at the trade.
''It's alright, Lyra, I was only walked through the door about a minute ago,'' Octavia said, a hint of amusement in her voice. By now, she was more than used to the mare's quirky attitude. ''I see that you've found something to keep you occupied,'' She said, motioning towards the wooden lyre behind the mint-coloured mare.
''I was only trying to pass the time!'' Lyra said defensively, a childishness in her voice that never ceased to amuse Octavia. ''So, what's up? Are you here to get some new strings or maybe a new instrument this time?'' Lyra asked, raising her brow and her lips tugged into a hopeful smile as she said that last part.
''No, I'm afraid that I'm quite happy with the cello that I have already, thank you,'' Octavia said politely, giving the mare in front of her a dismissive wave of her hoof. ''Actually, I'm here because I'd like to see if you've got any cello strings in stock, if you wouldn't mind,'' Octavia said, to which Lyra's face brightened.
''Sure thing!'' She said, and she was off like a rocket towards the very back of the shop which was used for storage and instrument maintenance. Her shop always smelled of wood oil and varnish, a type of oak and pine-like smell that Octavia had grown to love. It was sweet and strong as it drifted in the air, but it wasn't overwhelmingly pungent. It was nectar to any stringed instrument player.
Lyra even sold preserving oils and varnishes to brush on the wood of an instrument to give it either an aged or a glossy look, and it would guarantee a well-kept finish and lifetime durability.
Within mere moments, the sound of rummaging in the back room of Lyra's shop came to an end and she re-entered the room and placed a set of fresh strings on the counter. Octavia gladly took them and placed some bits on the glass surface of the counter, having done this deal many times in the past since her moving to Ponyville, and Lyra gladly accepted the money.
''Much appreciated, Lyra,'' Octavia said gratefully, to which the mint mare nodded. ''Lyra, would you mind if I asked you something?''
''Sure! Go ahead,'' Lyra said, leaning slightly on the counter.
''You didn't happen to see a pony named Stencil Palette around town in the past week, did you? The owner of the tea shop, Tea Tree, said that she hasn't seen him for a while and she was wondering if he's doing alright.'' Lyra's face went blank.
''Stencil Palette?'' She asked, trying to recall the name as she tapped a hoof to her chin. ''You mean the artist?'' Octavia nodded.
''That's the one.''
''Nope, haven't seen him,'' Lyra said with a shake of her head. Octavia felt herself deflate a little at the news.
''Oh, well, nevermind, then,'' She said. ''Thanks anyway,'' And then Octavia took her leave, heading towards the exit of the shop to head back into the market.
Heading into the market and shutting the door to Lyra's music shop behind her, Octavia continued to go along on her shopping routine around Ponyville's town square, buying household essentials and necessities.
Octavia continued shopping for up to an hour sourcing food and general goods until her saddlebags were just about full. She didn't need a lot, so she figured it would be best to end her routine. However, before she could, she remembered her promise to Tea Tree to see where Stencil Palette was.
Octavia has only met him a couple of times and mingled with him at a few events around Canterlot, and she found him to be...a tad strange. He was nice, but there was still something off about him that Octavia couldn't place.
Stencil was a middle-aged stallion with a dark coat and a black mane striped with silver and dark red highlights, always in a deranged mess, the silver matching his steely eyes. There was something about his eyes that stirred something within Octavia's stomach. They always seemed fully alert and observant, glassy and somewhat cold in temperature. Again, she had no idea what was lingering within the pony's eyes to make them so cold and almost lifeless, but it made her uneasy whenever she spent an extended period of time in his presence.
He was always wearing a white shirt, splotched with long-since dried paint of multiple hues, and on top of them was a fresh layer of splattered paint. It was on his thin grey-lined black trousers, too, the paint. He was, much what his name suggested, a very artistic and creative pony, and his talents didn't go unnoticed by the general public and well-known art critics. He was even featured in the Equestrian Artwork Hall of Fame.
Stencil Palette, regardless of what many may think of him on first glance from his manic and disheveled appearance, wasn't insane or a mad pony. In Octavia's opinion, he was nice to talk to and he had a great knowledge of artwork and famous painters. He knew which colours worked best together and which didn't, how to make a painting stand out from the rest and he had an abundance of abstract ideas. If anything, he labelled himself as a surrealist artist, and it definitely showed in his paintings.
The one that he became known for, 'The Silence in us All', was the very same one that made him an enrollee at the Equestria Art Hall of Fame, and when it was put on display for the very first time, it got ponies talking amongst themselves. Some thought that it was original and rather interesting in terms of the use of colours, mostly dark, while others said that it was an eyesore.
Octavia, on the other hand, didn't know what to think. Since she was playing that night in the Hall of Fame with her orchestra during his induction, she decided to take a gander herself before the actual initiation began.
The painting was, as others described it, strange. It depicted of an hourglass standing on a beaten mahogany table, dripping with miniature ponies rather than sand, their faces contorted into screams of tortured agony as they sank to the bottom, and it had a depressed-looking stallion with a haggard expression watching them fall with tired, icy-blue eyes. Beside the stallion with the distressed, emotionless expression, there was a window that peered into a street outside, the moon shining brightly. Standing in the window was a hooded figure with their elongated, abnormally large frame completely obscured by their cloak, and it soon became apparent to Octavia that the cloaked figure resembled none other than Death.
The dark, oily colours blended together with a haunting type of beauty that came together so naturally that it made the entire scene in the painting come to life, almost as if it were a scene on a stage in a theatre. The matted black hair on the dead-blue coat of the stallion looked so realistic that Octavia swore that it was actually a real pony with sweat matting their unkempt mane to their coat, and as she looked into the stallion's frosted-over eyes, she felt a shiver tingle up her spine.
So, looking around the market for Stencil Palette, Octavia ended up running across a stand that she wasn't so sure that she'd seen before. It was a kiosk rather than a stand, actually. It was a wooden kiosk that was much like the ones the Flower Ponies used, such as Roseluck, and it had a bright green tarp covering the top of it to protect the goods from the elements.
Approaching the stand, Octavia came to see that it was an art stand, full of creative material, ranging from simple hoof-drawn portraits to etchings to paintings. As she got closer, Octavia saw that it ranged from all different types and varieties of creative work, from self-portraits of famous ponies, such as Starswirl the Bearded, spiritual paintings depicting images of life and death, colourful and lush landscapes of fields and mountain ranges and famous cities, such as Canterlot and Manehatten.
There was a young pony occupying the kiosk, setting up some of the paintings and readjusting them to ensure that they were secure and in no danger of falling over. He was exceptionally young, likely only a few years younger than Octavia, if that, and he had a khaki coat and a long, silky-looking platinum blonde mane that hung around his ears and dangled above his shoulders slightly. He was wearing a similar set of clothing to Stencil, but he was wearing an expensive-looking double-breasted blazer made out of crushed burgundy velvet over his white shirt, of which the collar was only just visible.
His back was turned to her, but as she approached the art kiosk out of curiosity, the young stallion seemed to sense her presence and he turned on the spot after standing a painting upright, and he offered her a smile.
''Well, hello, Ma'am,'' He said, his accent tinged with a bit of Germane heritage, faint, but there. ''Come to browse some of my fine art?'' He asked, his tone hopeful for a positive response. Octavia stopped slightly in front of him and spoke,
''I'm actually looking for Stencil Palette, if you might know where I can find him?'' Octavia asked, and as soon as that name left her lips, the young stallion's face drooped and his light blue eyes dimmed, his ears wilting.
''Oh, I see...'' He said lowly, and Octavia tilted her head, giving him a concerned look.
''Is something the matter?''
The stallion looked up and he readjusted his collar, clearing his throat before speaking again.
''Well, you see, Stencil Palette is my uncle,'' He said. ''Well, he was,'' He added glumly, and Octavia's eyes became worried.
''Wait, he was? What do you mean by that?'' She asked.
The young stallion simply looked towards some of the paintings hung up inside of the kiosk, each with 'for sale!' stickers placed on them, all of them pricey and only affordable by those with deep pockets. His tan hoof moved up to motion towards one of his paintings, and Octavia's purple eyes rolled up to view it.
The painting that her eyes landed on was beautiful and cheery. It was a cavalcade of lush, bright greens and canary yellows, depicting of a landscape of a field in the afternoon sun during the middle of summer. The sky was a perfect shade of clear, open blue, so smooth and delicately brushed that it looked very real, as if one could feel the warmth in the air if their hoof were to touch upon it.
''That, right there, is one of my earliest works, Ma'am,'' He said, and his hoof then pointed down to a signature on the bottom in thin, black-painted cursive. It was the initials 'C' and 'P'. ''Name's Colour Palette,'' He introduced himself. ''Being a member of Stencil's family, once he passed away a week ago, he left me most of his artwork in his will along with some of his personal diaries. Not read them, but I don't reckon that I'll get around to it anytime soon,'' He said, and Octavia's face was surprised and sympathetic.
''Oh, my, that's dreadful!'' She said. Colour Palette nodded.
''Indeed it is. He always inspired me, you know? He's the reason that I got into painting in the first place. See it as carrying on where he left off, making his legacy live on, if you will,'' He said, and Octavia smiled warmly, touched by the sentiment.
''I'm certain that you'll do him proud. Stencil was a brilliant artist whom I've met a number of times, but I wouldn't say that we were friends, but rather good acquaintances,'' She said, and Colour smiled, too.
''Tell you what, seeing as you knew my uncle, I think I might have something here that you may like,'' Colour said, an idea forming on his face as he turned around to rummage through some of the paintings that were still inside of the shipping crate that they were brought to the stand in. They were all stacked together with sheets of thick but protectively soft linen separating them.
''That won't be necessary,'' Octavia began, but before she could object any further, Colour Palette had already taken out one of the paintings and he held it in front of her. The very sight of it caused her skin to crawl and she took a step back from it, her purple eyes becoming cold.
The painting was medium-sized and it was, much like the rest of Stencil Palette's work, only consistent of dark colours. This one had a pony's grey-blue coloured head taking up the majority of the canvas that it was painted on, the areas around the large head a charcoal black that lined around the head and it transformed into a grey-white colour as it spread out to the edges and corners of the canvas. The head itself looked distorted and horrific, like a demonic entity or malevolent spirit trying to break through the barrier between the Land of the Living and the Land of the Dead.
Where the mouth and eyes were expected to be, there was only three large, gaping and leaking black pools that seemed to pierce straight through Octavia's soul, like it was watching her. It made her feel numb. It was hard for her to say, but the black in the eyes and mouth looked like they were specked with something like a deep, dark red, like splattered cranberries had been used to enhance the colour and depth of the figure. Octavia could have sworn that the impossibly wide, O-shaped contortion of the pony's lips, as if howling in tremendous agony, a scream that was silent but full of pain, was moving discreetly, trying to be heard.
''W-What is that?'' Octavia asked cautiously, inching away from it.
''This, dear-''
''Octavia,'' Octavia interrupted, feeling embarrassed for not having told Colour Palette her name earlier.
''Right,'' He said, starting again. ''This, Octavia, was the very last and final piece of art ever produced by Stencil Palette. He spent days and nights working on this piece, and whenever he was busy with it, he'd remain locked in his art studio until he was done. Sometimes, me nor anypony else close to him saw him for days,'' He explained, his voice low, almost like a pony reciting an old folk legend or ghost story to captivate his audience.
''Stencil finished this painting about a week or so ago up until his death.''
That last part made Octavia's ear twitch.
''Um, I beg your pardon...?'' She asked, uncertain if she really did hear that right. ''You said that he finished this around a week ago?''
''I believe I did,'' Colour Palette said with a nod.
''That's...strange, actually,'' Octavia said, a mental puzzle forming within her muddled mind. This caused Colour to lower the painting and raise his brow at the grey mare, confused at what she was getting at.
''Strange? How so?''
''Well, you see, Colour Palette, I was looking for Stencil for a friend of mine that runs the local tea shop, and, well, she told me that it was around a week since he last visited her shop to buy some of his favourite tea,'' She explained, and she gave Colour a calculating expression. ''Doesn't that strike you as a bit coincidental, perhaps?''
''Nope, not really,'' He said, apparently not seeing the pattern. ''Miss Octavia, ponies die all the time, so I highly doubt that there's anything coincidental about it,'' He said, and his tone held traces of mild annoyance and impatience.
''I'm dreadfully sorry if I offended you, Mr. Palette,'' Octavia said apologetically.
''None taken,'' He said, suddenly shifting his attitude back into gear, as if nothing ever happened, his eyes once again becoming bright. ''Now, this painting was the very last thing that my uncle worked upon, and, well, as you can see for yourself, I'm more than stocked up,'' He said, motioning to the abundance of paintings, portraits and etchings hung up and displayed around his kiosk. ''So, I'm going to propose something, if you'd like to hear me out,'' He asked, and Octavia smiled.
''Very well. What's on your mind?'' She asked, curious as to what his proposal might entail.
''Well, Octavia, seeing as I'm likely going to be stuck with some of these paintings and artwork that belonged to my late uncle, I was wondering if you'd maybe like to do me a favour and help lighten my load a little,'' He said, smiling all the while.
''What are you...?''
''I want you to take this painting,'' He said, motioning to the portrait of the screaming pony portrait in his hooves. ''And, if you'd like, I'd be willing to let a few other paintings slip your way,'' He said, a hoof pointing to the kiosk behind him. ''Some of Stencil's earlier stuff, insignificant little pieces and the like. What do you say?'' He asked, waiting eagerly and hopefully for Octavia's response.
Octavia looked between Colour Palette and the creepy painting, hoping for certain that he wasn't being serious. She looked between him and the painting numerous times as her brain was doing cartwheels, thinking of a polite way to turn his offer down.
Octavia couldn't really do this, could she? Could she really separate a pony from a recently-deceased relative's possessions left in his will, even if it was offered to her? She didn't feel right about the whole situation that she found herself in, but, looking into those hopeful and dreamy blue eyes of Colour Palette, she could sense the desperation within them, as if he was eager for the assistance. She wanted to help him out, but would she be able to live with herself without tainting her conscience?
''Mr. Palette, I do appreciate the offer, and I would like to help you out, but I simply do not have that much space for some of these paintings, as wonderful as they are,'' She said, cringing internally at her light use on the word 'wonderful'. She also felt a twinge in her heart. She did have sufficient space for the paintings at home, but, if it would get her out of it, she was willing to lie.
''Oh, come now, you'd be doing me a favour, Miss Octavia,'' Colour Palette said, giving her a charming smile that probed at Octavia's slowly-building guilt. She had to force herself to remain strong in her malleable state of mind. Her brain felt like a warm wad of putty, and he was deep inside of it, massaging it and creasing it as he saw fit. That smile and the charisma that shined through his eyes infected her.
''I...I don't wish to keep you from what is rightfully yours, Mr. Palette, and I'm sure you can understand that?'' She said, looking between him and the painting yet again.
''Of course I understand!'' He persisted. ''Now, if you'd like, I can help you cart some of these paintings off to your residence, if that'd be preferable to you?'' He offered, motioning to the heavy-looking saddlebags laid across Octavia's back.
It was true that the weight bearing down on her from the saddlebags was getting a little straining on her spine, but she didn't let that break through her barrier of confidence. She didn't want him to help her with such things, and that goes double if it meant that she didn't end up with the painting, or anything else.
''Thank you for the offer, but I'm afraid that I have to decline,'' Octavia said, and she was about to turn away to walk, but then Colour Palette said to her,
''Miss Octavia? Are you sure that there's no other way that you'd reconsider my offer?'' He asked, his eyes becoming disappointed and dull again. Octavia gave a sigh.
''I'm sorry, but I wouldn't feel right about it if I took it from you,'' She told him. ''It's yours, Mr. Palette, not mine, so I can't accept the painting,'' She said, feeling a little bad on the inside.
''I see,'' He said slowly, and his eyes became glassy as he looked down and furrowed his brow, as if thinking. He looked back up again after a couple of seconds. ''Well, if you won't do it for me, would you maybe do it for Stencil Palette?'' He asked. ''If you said you met him and you liked him enough, then maybe you could take it off my hooves as a sort of keepsake. A memorial of his talents, if you will,'' He said, and Octavia thought deeply about this.
It would be nice to have something that belonged to one of Equestria's famous artists, let alone, one that she knew and had engaged in a few rounds of conversation with, but it was still something she wasn't sure about. She didn't necessarily view Stencil as a friend of hers, but she couldn't deny that he had a very artistic talent when it came to expressionism through the medium of painting.
''Mr. Palette, are you sure that you'll be okay with this?'' Octavia asked slowly, and Colour Palette nodded and gave a 'Mmm-hmm'. ''Well, then I suppose, if it's alright with you, I might be able to take one or two paintings back home with me to remember Stencil by,'' She said, feeling guilty for having agreed to his offer, but she blocked out her thoughts.
''Splendid!'' He said, clomping his hooves together as he smiled brightly, apparently very glad to be relieved of the creepy painting. ''My offer still stands if you'd like for me to transport it to your home! I'll even throw in a couple other small paintings if you'd like!''
''Oh, um, that's alright, Mr. Palette,'' Octavia began slowly, but Colour Palette didn't seem to be listening. He was loading up a couple of other paintings with the creepy painting that he had offered to her in a wooden, pony-pulled wagon that had clearly seen better days. Not surprisingly, the wagon had a fair share of multi-coloured paint specked over it and staining the wood.
''So, should we get moving? The kiosk will be fine in my absence, so you needn't worry,'' Colour Palette said, able to read Octavia's mind before she could speak. She shut her mouth and ceased any further conversation, her mind rolling in regret for accepting the painting.
As it was being pulled along in the cart as Colour Palette trotted slowly beside her with the harness to the wagon around his body, Octavia felt a tingle sliver down her spine as she sensed somepony (or something) staring at her all the while.
Chapter Two: The First Nightmare
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Chapter Three: The Second Nightmare and Stencil's Journal
Octavia had a nightmare again that night. This time, it was worse.
She was back in her decayed and rotten home, but it appeared to be more dark and slumped than the last time she experienced the dream. All of the walls were peeling, the light white paint had grown a thick layer of flaking mould and it produced such a strong stench that Octavia found herself to be gagging and gasping for fresh air.
Holes had formed in the walls as well as the floorboards, and they peered through directly into the desolate, misty and silent streets of Ponyville outside. The mist was so thick and overwhelming that it was impossible to see an inch inside of it. It was as if she was trapped in some kind of void or state of limbo in which she awaited her judgement. Octavia even believed for a brief moment that she had somehow died.
There was no other way to explain it.
This time, Octavia was stood in the middle of the living room, her hooves crunching underneath the rotten, damp wood that was once her furniture. At least, that's what she thought it was. It was so rotten and eaten away that she couldn't tell what it was. It could have been some moth-eaten rag or scrap of curtain fabric for all she knew!
She took a few steps, the front door left open slightly ajar, as if somepony had entered and forgotten to close it after them. A cold, chilling wind creeped its way in through the open crack, sifting into the room and dropping the temperature so low that Octavia could see her own breath. Her entire home and living room had slowly transformed into a walk-in freezer.
''My, it's so cold,'' She said, rubbing herself to generate warmth, pulling up her shoulders and giving a shudder from the bite of the cold.
She looked both left and right, and her eyes landed on the kitchen to her right, and as she entered, she walked into it, still looking around for anyone or anything that might tell her a story of hint what's going on.
The table and the chairs off to the corner were rotten and tattered, still standing, but they were in a terrible state. They looked more like they belonged in some deserted and haunted mansion by this point, the wood faded and split and cracked in multiple placed from exposure to moisture. It had rotted it long ago to where most of its integral strength had entered a gradual decline, and rendered any attempt to sit on it impossible. It would surely crumble if Octavia had chosen to try and sit on it, so that was out of the question.
It really stank in the kitchen. It smelled like old drainage pipes and years' worth of food pile up which had deteriorated into something so disgusting that it was unfathomable. Whatever was in those pipes now was beyond the comprehension of a pony's mind.
Octavia crinkled her nose as she walked towards the sink to see what was causing the smell, but, as she did, she stopped and gave a squirm of pain as something sharp pierced her hooves, followed with a loud crunch. Looking down, Octavia took a step back as she lifted her front left hoof, wondering what she had stepped on.
It was the bottle that she had tossed into the sink, the same one that she had bought from Berry Punch only a couple of days ago, only this time, it was shattered all over the tiled kitchen floor.
That can't be right! Octavia thought inwardly. I'm certain that I put that bottle into the sink! I know for a fact that I did!
She was right, too. That night when she brought that horrid painting home, she had indeed placed the bottle into the sink after it fell to the floor, and she knew that it didn't smash, either. So, how did it end up on the floor? She was sure that she didn't touch it or move it, and nopony else could have done it!
Looking at her hoof, Octavia saw that a small shard of glass was stuck inside of it, a small trickle of blood leaking out of the wound that it had created. It wasn't too deep, but it still stung quite a bit, and it made Octavia bite her lip in pain. She pulled it out and tossed it into the sink, squirming a little at the protest her nerves gave to the shard being coaxed out of her skin.
From behind her, Octavia heard the front door to her house open, the door giving a loud and ear-piercing shriek as it moved on its rusted brass hinges. Octavia practically whipped around on the spot to see who the entrant was, and she froze once she met the pony's gaze, recognising him instantly.
There, standing in front of her, was Stencil Palette.
Stencil Palette was tired-looking and pale in the face. He looked more disheveled than usual, his black mane with red and silver highlights creased and tangled, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. His steel eyes were so pale and dull that they appeared colourless, drained, as if the life had completely left his being. (Well, it had, actually. By now, ponies must have heard the news that he had passed on. Perhaps where Octavia stood really was limbo where ponies await their judgement, whether or not they are worthy of being accepted into life after death.)
Octavia had noticed that his white shirt looked heavily creased, like it hadn't touched or seen an iron for months, and the dried paint mixed in with the fresh paint was more prominent and pronounced. There was a smell wafting over from his shirt, too, one that smelled to Octavia like paint mixed with strong, lingering, vinegar-like body odour and...blood.
She saw it on his shirt. It was caked in thick, dry layers, flicked and flecked and specked around his shirt, like he had been bombarded with plump and juicy cranberries. There was no mistaking that copper-like smell, and it made Octavia feel both queasy and concerned.
Stencil Palette stared at her like a mindless zombie, so silent and emotionless, his lips sagging into a frown as he remained dormant, as if spellbound by her. However, he didn't speak a word, and the longer that he remained silent, Octavia grew more nervous. She didn't know what he was liable to do.
''Stencil Palette?'' Octavia asked quietly, trying to mask her shock and surprise at his presence, hoping it might snap him out of it. ''Mr. Palette?'' She asked, watching him and keeping his distance. There was a coldness around his being, and it sweeped and pooled around her legs like icy, ghostly hooves.
''Hmm?'' He eventually started, blinking slowly before he cocked his head at her. ''Oh, Miss Octavia! Delightful to see you again!'' He said, recognising her, too. Like his being, his voice was also drained of energy. He was like a socket with a blown fuse.
''C-Charmed, I'm sure,'' Octavia said with a forced smile. ''Mr. Palette, what are you doing here, may I ask?'' She asked, doing her best to put on a smile and act out the situation.
''Why, I'm just admiring the view, dear,'' He said, leaning slightly closer to the sophisticated mare, his eyes become lidded, almost smitten-looking as he stared at her. Needless to say, it creeped Octavia out. Very much so.
''M-Mr. Palette, pl-please,'' She said, waving a hoof in front of his face and backing up a step, cautious and mindful of the broken glass behind her. He seemed to get the picture. ''Stencil, how could this be? Y-You're not...''
''Living?'' He finished for her, his voice carrying like a ghost's whisper.
''Y-Yes,'' Octavia said, unnerved by the word. ''Your nephew, Colour Palette t-told me about...''
''Ah, Colour Palette!'' Stencil said with a smile, stepping back on the spot and giving a little whirl as he turned himself around to face the living room.
''Such a good lad, my nephew, he really is! So ambitious, so creative, so...artistic!'' He said merrily as he walked, his tone suddenly so chipper that it actually managed to form a block of ice in Octavia's gut. Stencil walked towards the front door, next to where the paintings had been left in a small box by Colour Palette the day he gave Octavia the painting.
Currently, they were still residing within said box, their linen sheets covering them. He was eyeing them like a hawk. To Octavia's eye, he looked and acted more like a mad scientist hovering over one of his most prized and recent scientific achievements with a crazed, frightening anticipation to reveal it to his peers.
Octavia could see that wide, unearthly grin of his as she watched him, and he proceeded to practically throw off the linen sheeting from his 'masterpiece', his hoof waving over his head in a showpony's gesture as he tossed it aside. It was the same painting that Colour Palette had told him was his last - the one with the screaming pony.
''I call her 'The Periled Mare'! '' He proclaimed in such a low, gravel-like voice that it scratched against Octavia's ears. She had to suppress a cringe. ''Quite fitting, wouldn't you say, Miss Octavia? It's truly a brilliant masterpiece!''
''Y-Yes, of course, Mr. Palette,'' Octavia said slowly, her smile so wonky and forced upon her own lips that she knew that it must have broken through the barrier and made itself visible. However, it apparently went unnoticed. That, or Stencil was so caught up in his 'grand reveal' that he simply didn't care. ''It is truly something.''
''Well, of course it is!'' He said, caressing the paint on the canvas with a paint-smeared hoof as he touched it with an unnatural, unsettling affection. ''This is my baby, my crown, my magnum opus! '' He proclaimed, thumping his chest with his hoof as he straightened his posture and gazed up to the sky, hanging his sturdy chin, like some kind of godly figure. ''Nopony has ever seen anything quite like it, Miss Octavia!'' He said, eyes wide and hyper-alert, so purely engaged with the grey mare that it made her want to crawl away and hide, as if she would melt beneath his manic gaze. ''This isn't art, Miss Octavia. No, this. Is. MAGIC!'' He practically shouted, inching closer to Octavia's face with each word, causing the mare to back up in fright.
Upon pronouncing that last word, he threw his hooves up with such force that Octavia half-expected the bones in his hooves to fracture or maybe blast off of his body. He shoved his snout directly against Octavia's own, and a lone, drooling line of spit lolled out of the side of his mouth and hung and dangled from the side of his lip. He didn't care.
Octavia was microscopic beneath him, and she shriveled herself up so that she was almost pressed into the floor, feeling herself vibrate from the fear produced by his looming over her.
''Mr. Palette, p-please,'' Octavia began, her voice so meek that it was mousy and almost inaudible.
''Bah!'' He scoffed, turning his nose up at her as he rolled his eyes and turned his back on her. ''Everypony's a critic!'' He said, heading back towards the painting. Octavia slowly picked herself from the floor and watched him, not wishing to get close to him.
''What does anypony know about art? It's not about the colours, space, linear patterns, shapes or even the textures,'' He said, pausing for a moment in his monologue to turn his head slightly to view Octavia standing behind him. ''No, it isn't, Miss Octavia,'' He then turned around and faced Octavia fully, his features once again lifeless as he seemed to slowly decay like the rest of the house they were standing in. ''It's about what it can do,'' He said, closing his eyes as he spoke just above a whisper.
Stencil Palette kept his eyes closed as he began to fade away. Octavia stared with wide, terrified purple eyes as she watched it happen. Ever so slowly, Stencil Palette's being became transparent as his skin and clothing began to deteriorate and break themselves apart, layer by layer, molecule by molecule.
As pieces of his body began to break apart and hover in the air, the exposed painting, 'The Periled Mare' , began to absorb them as they drifted into it, becoming one with the painting. His body began to fully break apart, starting at his rear hooves and working up to his front.
Stencil's mane began to pull itself apart and join in with the painting as he began to rot right before Octavia's very eyes, and the last things to go were his eyes and mouth. They both remained while the rest of his body had disassembled itself and incorporated itself into the painting. Two white orbs for eyes and a set of dull, grey lips hovered in the air for a moment before they also drifted into the painting.
The mouth set itself in place first, inserting itself into the gaping maw that served as the mare's mouth while the eyes inserted themselves into the black pools that served as eye sockets. Octavia watched on in horror as the eyes suddenly came to life. Stencil Palette's eyes.
Stencil's disembodied eyes blinked and looked down at her, his irises dilating as they rolled down and gazed into her very soul. His lips began to mouth of the mare began to move slowly on the painting, contorting and twisting as it began to form words. Nothing came out at first, but then the painting began to scream in a deep, ground-shaking rumble, and Octavia instinctively shielded her ears with her hooves.
The ground began to shake all around her and the unstable, rotten interior and exterior walls of the house began to shake along with the floorboards before they cracked and split. Spiderweb cracks ran along all of the stained, filthy and marred window panes while cracks elongated and ran up the walls of the house, becoming wider and wider as they spread.
Chunks of rotten flooring began to break apart and crumple as the walls started to fall down like mega-sized dominoes, collapsing and breaking apart into dust like an old salted cracker. Chunks of the ceiling began to break apart as dust rained all over the living room from the weakened structure of the house, like grey-coloured flour as it embedded itself into Octavia's coat and charcoal mane.
The house began to rock side to side like a deck of stacked cards catching a breath of wind before it collapses, and Octavia glanced up to view the ceiling moments before it finally became too unstable and caved in.
Octavia's muscles ceased to function as she tried to move herself out of the way and dive through the front door to safety, no matter how hard she tried to force herself to move. The last thing that Octavia's terrified, tear-welled eyes saw before she was crush was the crumpled, heavy ceiling heading straight for her.
*** *** ***
Knock-Knock.
''Miss Octavia!''
Knock-Knock
''Miss Octavia!''
The mighty banging of a hoof against her front door startled Octavia out of her bed and she gave a loud, surprised gasp. She felt her heart heave within her chest and she looked around the room wildly, caught off-guard by the sudden and loud rapping on her front door.
Knock-Knock
''Miss Octavia!''
The knocking followed by shouting sounded again, more urgently.
Octavia turned her head to the side to view her bedside clock, frowning and giving a frustrated sigh at seeing what it displayed. 10:38 AM.
''Who's at my door at this time in the morning, on a Sunday, of all days?'' Octavia muttered to herself angrily as she pulled herself out of her bed with great reluctance, heading for the front door of her house. ''Whoever it is, it better be important,'' She grumbled.
Reaching the front door, Octavia was about to swing it open and give whoever was knocking on the other side a right good telling off, but as she yanked the door open after unlocking it, she froze. She didn't expect to see this pony on the other side of the door, but here he was!
Colour Palette stood in a state of distress, his face paler than usual and his double-breasted blazer unbuttoned, showing his white shirt underneath. He looked at Octavia with a visible wave of relief washing over his face.
''Colour Palette?'' Octavia asked, confused, all anger forgotten the moment she saw his distress. ''You look dreadful! Is something wrong?'' She asked, motioning to his unkempt appearance.
''Miss Octavia!'' He breathed, winded, as if he had been running in order to get here. ''Terribly sorry if I awoke you, but there's something urgent that I need to go across with you!'' He spoke in a fast pace, clearly unsettled by something.
Octavia wouldn't normally open her door to the sounds of somepony in distress or in a frantic bout of panic, but as she looked into Colour Palette's cold and pleading eyes, she gave an inward sigh and said,
''Fine. Come on in,'' She said, moving aside and letting the young stallion enter her home. He entered without question in a hurried manner, heading towards the kitchen and finding a seat at the table. Octavia joined him and took a seat across from him, wondering what this was all about.
She hadn't noticed it in the heat of the moment, but Colour Palette had brought along his own saddlebags and he was placing them onto the table, undoing one of the straps on the left bag. They were a bright green in colour and Octavia eyed the cutie mark strap lock in particular - a painter's palette with a multi-coloured star and a paintbrush dipped with yellow paint hovering next to it.
He opened the bag and pushed the flap back, sticking his hooves inside and rummaging around for something before he pulled it out, placing it in front of him on the table. It landed with a dull, heavy-sounding thud, and Octavia gazed down to see what it was.
It was a beat-up-looking, black leather-bound book of some kind with scuffs, dings and paint splotches scattered over its cover. It had a golden double-line design bordering the covering as a decorative feature, but it had no identifying markings of any kind. If Octavia had to guess, she would have said that this book was likely to be some kind of personal journal or diary.
''What is that thing?'' Octavia asked, looking down at the item and wrinkling her nose at the musty smell that emanated from it. It smelled as if it belonged in an old and crumby antique shop rather than on someone's bookshelf.
''This, Miss Octavia,'' Colour began, tabbing his hoof onto the cover of the book. ''Is Stencil Palette's personal journal.'' And so, Octavia was correct on her judgement.
It made her all the more curious about why Colour had brought this item to her attention. What possible reason could there be for this? Considering the amount of distress that he had been in when he came banging away at her door, it must have been pretty important that he felt that she needed to know about this.
''Stencil's personal journal?'' Octavia asked. ''I'm not sure that I understand.''
''Miss Octavia, please, there is something that I need to talk about with you,'' Colour Palette said, his face serious. ''It is imperative that you listen to me. Understand?'' He asked, eyeing her closely, and his assertive attitude made her feel uncomfortable, on-edge.
''Very well,'' Octavia said, deciding to humour him. ''What is it?'' Colour Palette gave a deep sigh, preparing himself.
''If you recall the day I offered you the paintings that my uncle left me, you'll know that he also decided to leave me some of his journals in his will. Correct?'' He asked. Octavia thought for a moment and then nodded.
''Well, of course, but I don't see what it's got to do with---''
''Well,'' He started up again, cutting her off. ''I began to sift through some of his things the other day after leaving the market, and I came across his journal. I haven't read too much into it, seeing as it's not exactly my business to go nosing around in my uncle's private life.''
''I can understand that,'' Octavia said, nodding in understanding. This time, Colour Palette began to become nervous and he tugged at his collar, becoming more distressed. Octavia saw it in his eyes, something hidden, or, at least, trying to remain hidden. ''Is everything alright?'' She asked upon noticing it.
''No,'' He shook his head. ''Miss Octavia, it isn't alright,'' He said. ''Do you remember asking me to tell you how my uncle died and I refused to tell you?'' He asked, slumping in his seat.
''Of course.''
''Miss Octavia...do you mind if I share something with you?'' He asked, scratching the back of his neck as he watched her closely and intently, tracking each and every little shift and motion her muscles created.
''Do what you must,'' Octavia said. ''What is it that you want to talk about?'' She asked calmly, not sure if she really wanted to dig too deep into this situation.
Colour Palette looked down to the journal in front of his hooves and pushed it towards Octavia, sliding it across the table slowly. Octavia looked down at it with uncertainty written across her face, and she glanced back up to Colour with a confused expression, her brow raised as she wondered what she was asking of him.
''I've bookmarked the page,'' He said, and, sure enough, Octavia saw what he was talking about. There was a thin red strip of fabric sticking out like a serpent's tongue trapped between the heavy weight of the pages almost near the end of the journal. ''I want you to read where I bookmarked it. I think it's something you deserve to know,'' He said.
Slowly and reservingly, Octavia gripped the journal's pages where the bookmark was inserted and opened the book, instantly being hit with a smell she could only describe as vintage. This book certainly had some years on it before it came to be owned by Stencil, that's for sure.
Coughing from the musty smell that hit her nostrils and filled her lungs, Octavia cast her eyes down at the old, faded and partially-smudged ink staining the surface of the pages and she began to read them.
07/02
Finally, my genius has been realised by these fancy-pants ponies and their marble-sized brains. What passes for art in the city of Canterlot is truly an absurd and disgusting monstrosity. It mocks the very word, 'art'!
I have delivered to them an exciting new array of colour and meaning, and I have managed to woo them with my work after years of practice and patient, carefully-paced learning. It wasn't too much of a feat. These morons should be lining up to shake my hoof for introducing them to the true meaning of art and the emotions it can evoke.
Tonight at around a quarter to seven, I'm scheduled to have my work enrolled at the Equestria Art Hall of Fame! Me, Stencil Palette! I can see it now, with those stuck-up snobs pressing their nose against my work, trying to become it, wishing they could be something so definitive and so meaningful. I'm everything they wish they could be.
Octavia blinked as she read the entry, knowing when it was from. After all, Octavia was there that night, the seventh of February, the day she played with her orchestra as Stencil was enrolled.
Reading the entry, it stirred something within her, a feeling of apathy, knowing somewhat where his opinions originated. She, too, did not hold such high and mighty words about the Canterlot breed of ponies, and she was related by the law of inheritance, by her family's blood. She was a full-breed Canterlotian. Even still, she did not agree with some of the higher-ups' behaviour and snootiness, even if it was on the agenda.
Moving on with the next entry, Octavia read,
10/02
I decided to paint again. I have been thinking about this idea for quite some time, and my creative energy doesn't hold any restraint and it holds no boundaries. If there is something that needs to be said, then it should be said. If something should be frowned upon, then it must be frowned upon. If something should be given life for, then it must be given life in order to exist.
I've once had wonderful and thought-provoking dreams that I would one day paint something so tremendous that it would dazzle ponies for days, weeks, months, years and even centuries, lasting throughout the generations for as long as the Equestrian breed of ponies exist.
There are two types of ponies in this world - The Gifted and The Ungifted. Those with a gift, a talent, may burn brighter than any star with what they wish to give the world, something that they feel must be done. Those without the gift of creativity do not burn so bright. Instead, they serve only the role of observing what might be while they wait for their time to end. That's what separated a pony from his or her breed: a talent.
So, tonight, I'm going to prove my worth as an artist. From this day forth, I, Stencil Palette, vow to put my creativity on the rails and push my limits, see how far I will provoke thoughts of those who gaze upon my work, admire it, adore it, love it, feel inspired by it.
Octavia turned the page.
12/02
For two days, I have set the stage for what will be my masterpiece, my crowning achievement.
This project will take a while to finish, and it may be moons before I set hoof outside of my art studio, but with a great talent comes a great cost. Nothing is more precious than an artist and his voice, and that voice yearns to be heard within every second that grinds by. The more you wait, the longer it nags and bites, the more it pulls at your collar and asks you, ''What are you waiting for?''.
You see, it is not about what the craft involves or what the outcome of the final product is, it's about what it can do.
At that, Octavia looked up and glanced at Colour Palette, her featured pale and her blood chilled.
That last phrase: ''It's about what it can do.''
The voice of Stencil Palette spoke, a ghostly recollection of the dream she had experienced flashing before her eyes, an image she hoped and wished to forget. Stencil standing in front of her as he began to decay away and fade, his skin, flesh and bones ripping themselves away and hovering in the air, drifting and compiling themselves into the painting that he was referring to in his journal. It must be what he was talking about - it was the very last painting that he ever created, and it was sitting in her living room.
Glancing in its direction but not directly at it, Octavia sensed that it was also looking her way, as if Stencil was in the room with her in spirit. It terrified her. Colour Palette said nothing, seemingly waiting for her to continue reading through to where he had marked for her to stop. And so, Octavia began reading again.
14/02
I've had my fair share of endeavours in the game of romance, the challenge known as life, the oppression of family, the heartache of losing a loved one and the torment of being ridiculed. In a sense, I have experienced it all.
With this painting, with a title I'm yet to decide on a title for, I intend to not just paint a picture like all of my other works of art, but rather make a statement, a loud and proud prominent spectacle! It's going to make ponies think, make them contemplate and dig deep, make them ask, ''What if?''
The voices are nagging me now, begging me and telling me that I should get this statement out while the moon still shines, niggling and clawing at me! My mind...it hurts. It only started yesterday when I was in my studio, but it just got worse today. By Celestia, it hurts.
I feel the burn of fire within my heart and stabbing in my limbs, chest and brain each time I move. My genius simply can not wait to make itself heard! I need to get this statement out there for all to see! It must be done! I can't wait! IT CAN'T WAIT!
Octavia grimaced as she read that last part.
''It?'' She asked, lost and hopeless for an explanation as to what that might mean. She looked over to Colour and knitted her brow. ''What does he mean by that? Do you know what he's talking about?'' She asked. Colour shook his head.
''I'm afraid not, Miss Octavia,'' He said regretfully. ''I read that part over and over and still came up empty-hoofed,'' He admitted.
Octavia kept reading.
15/02
The voices are displeased. They are everywhere now!
I hear them wherever I go and they are always asking me the same thing: ''When's it going to be ready?''
You can't rush perfection! You can't demand what requires precious time! You can't ask for wealth and then expect people to love you. You simply cannot ask for anything to be expected. It takes however long it might take to perfect it!
I'm almost done with the painting. The voices told me that I should continue painting through the night. I know I should sleep, but sleep isn't acceptable over success. I must continue, if not for me, then for all of Equestria, for ponies everywhere!
The voices told me that I should work until I drop dead. They told me never to stop even for a break. Not to slack, not to eat, not to drink, not to use the bathroom. I simply must paint.
The voices told me that my paint wasn't enough. They told me to use more red. I cut my hoof open, used what blood fuels my creative veins. So much red, so much blood, so cold, so dull, so much nagging!
Octavia winced as she read that last paragraph.
Octavia remembered something sinister about the painting. She recalled when she looked into its eyes for the first time, or rather, the absence of eyes. She noticed the faint glimmer of red within the black pools that were in place of where eyes should have been.
According to what Stencil had wrote, Octavia had this gut feeling that she was not looking at an innocent use of paint, but rather the blood of the one that created the painting. If that was the true fact in accordance with the journal entry, then Octavia felt sick to her stomach, wanting to retch her disgust away in the kitchen sink. No matter, she continued to read.
I have finally finished my masterpiece.
At last, after tireless moons of paintings, flicking, bleeding and sweating, it is finally done. The voices have stopped nagging me, but they still remain as a phantom to my ears, a reflection of my conscience that drives my genius, telling me that I should add something more, a finishing touch to make it glow.
The voices spoke to me and I obeyed their command. With greatness comes and even greater sacrifice, and the voices gave me an idea. I bled myself dry, drained some more of my creative fuel, purged it from my body, let it leak and soak into my brush. I offered it up to the voices, and they accepted it into the painting.
I call it 'The Periled Mare'.
Now...I can rest. Finally rest. I'm bled dry. I'm finally done...I'm finally-----
The quill slides off of the page and drags down the side.
Chills surged through Octavia as she realised what she had just read. This painting, 'The Periled Mare' , it was painted with blood! That was the smell that hit her nostrils when she saw it! It had the scent of copper! It all made sense!
When she encountered the apparition of Stencil Palette in her dream, there wasn't only paint staining his shirt, there was also massive amounts of blood, caked and layered. The smell clung to him and hung around his being like a cancerous tumour. The blood in the painting was still relatively fresh, so it was no wonder why Octavia could pick up on its scent.
Octavia looked up with wide, sympathetic and angry eyes, a flurry of emotions building up within her. She almost glared at Colour Palette, feeling her chest grow warm from the anger firing up inside of her.
''Why didn't you tell me?'' She asked, her voice low and forced to remain calm. Colour Palette tensed at her tone, and he knew she could sense it.
''I...I, um, well, I didn't know how to t-tell you, Miss Octavia, I---''
''You should have told me from the beginning!'' Octavia snapped, her anger taking control as she leaned forward on the table, banging her hooves against it. ''You could have at least told me why you wanted me to take the painting in the first place!''
''Y-You wouldn't have believed me i-if I did,'' Colour Palette replied, a little shaken from the sudden fiery attitude the usually collected, sophisticated mare was displaying towards him. ''Besides, I didn't exactly know,'' He said, to which Octavia backed away from him a little, but her eyes still burned brightly with anger, a hurt betrayal.
''You didn't know?'' She asked, almost annoyed by the bogus-sounding claim. ''How could you not know?''
''Miss Octavia, that painting belonged to me for a week after his death,'' Colour Palette said, feeling ashamed for having lied to Octavia earlier. ''I'm sorry if I never told you, but that painting,'' He said, leaning over the table slightly, looking into Octavia's eyes closely, concernedly and seriously, tuning his voice down to whispering level. ''There's something off about it. Something isn't right,'' He said.
''After my uncle died and I inherited his work, I had no choice but to let it sit in my art studio. It remained in my home for a week, and the moment it came in through the door, I noticed that things were not right. It's hard to explain it, Miss Octavia, but it's like the painting put a spell on my house, something that I can tell has happened here,'' He said, keeping his voice low, almost as if he was afraid that the painting might be listening.
''I don't know what it is, but that painting, it's evil,'' He said, and Octavia gave him an expression of confusion, but she didn't disagree with him.
''What do you think it might be?'' Octavia asked. Colour shrugged.
''It's hard to say,'' He said, shrugging his shoulders deflatedly. ''I never used to believe in life after death or anything of the kind, but after I ended up with his painting, I am no longer a skeptic, Miss Octavia,'' He said.
Octavia thought about his diary entries.
Stencil Palette was a fantastic artist, there was no denying that, and it definitely remained a strong trait within the family bloodline, as shown by Colour Palette's artistic talent, but Stencil apparently wished for something more ambitious. It seemed that he was never fully satisfied with his art, always wishing and trying for something more, something that was thought to be unobtainable.
Octavia was no psychologist, but she could tell without thinking twice that Stencil's obsession with pushing his limits and sacrificing his own needs for the sake of his own creative prowess may have driven him into a deep and merciless pit of paranoia and insanity.
She may not have had the pleasure of knowing him long, but when Octavia first met Stencil at his induction to the Equestria Art Hall of Fame, she knew that there was something special about him. The determination just radiated off of Stencil's being, and if one were to glance towards him, they would be able to see it, too. He was incredibly passionate, if not, opinionated about the topic of art and creativity.
''Everypony's a critic!'' He had said to her in his dream, and Octavia could relate to that in her own right as a cellist. Octavia knew that, no matter what you do in life, there was always going to a group of ponies that were going to critique your work and tear you to shreds to the point your heart develops a gaping black hole. She could empathise that much.
She had heard it many times over, orchestra to orchestra, it was the same routine. Canterlotians were a brutal, vicious bunch that know what strings to pluck and which ropes to pull in order to critique a performance. No matter how perfect a performer might be, a Canterlotian always found an error or a fatal flaw in the performance.
It went without saying that Octavia felt sorry for the stallion, as crazy as he might be.
''Mr. Palette,'' Octavia began. ''This may sound strange, but I had another nightmare last night involving Stencil Palette. He seemed rather odd, more odd than usual, I mean,'' Octavia said, realising how ridiculous she must have sounded. However, at this point, she doubted that there was anything that sounded stupid or strange.
''How so?'' Colour asked, curious.
''Stencil came into my house and went towards his painting. He said to me, 'It's what the art can do'. What do you think he meant by that?'' Colour Palette became thoughtful.
''If I had to guess, Miss Octavia, I'd say that he meant that art can do much more than be hung up on a wall as a decoration,'' He said. ''My uncle was always very critical about art and what should and shouldn't be classed as such. He hated most art forms, so he became a surrealist, his way of voicing his thoughts, I suppose,'' He offered, to which Octavia nodded, paying close attention to his words. ''Stencil believed that art could do so much more than just make ponies think. He wanted to make them feel inspired and intrigued, to push their limits and see what happens if you push different buttons and pull certain levers. He was obsessed with the idea of life being portrayed as something unusual and strange. He believed that life was a blessing and that care, love and patience should be taken in every little thing. That's why all of his work is so realistic - he took his time creating it,'' Colour Palette explained.
Octavia thought about this for a moment.
So, Stencil fancied himself something more than an average artist? She thought. Then what about that screaming mare in the other room?
It never occurred to her that some disheveled, untidy-looking pony such as Stencil Palette, now enlisted into the Equestria Art Hall of Fame, could be such a perfectionist with the way he appeared. Then again, if one was always going to be covered in paint from working, then why would they feel the need to clean themselves up when they would always end up getting dirty again? Of course, they wouldn't.
From what she had been told, it shined a new light on Stencil in Octavia's eyes. He had a fantastic eye for detail and he had a unique, well-rehearsed way of showing the world through his own eyes so that others may see what creative genius and pony rested beneath that rough exterior. He may have already been labelled as a mad pony, but Octavia had to hand it to him when it came to making his voice heard. It may have been a judgmental, nit-picky and often narcissistic voice laced with decades' worth of opinions, but it was his voice.
If nothing was perfect to Stencil's eyes, it was not worthy of a place in the world. He stood by that rule with an iron hoof.
''When I took that painting in, Octavia, it brought with it nothing different than what you're experiencing,'' Colour Palette told her. ''I, too, began to experience nightmares and the occasional encounter with the unexplainable. For instance, I heard somepony crying their eyes out in the dead of the night,'' Colour said, and Octavia noticed him shiver, as if chilled by the very thought and mention of it. She shivered, too.
''E-Excuse me?'' Octavia asked in disbelief. ''You heard crying?''
''And banging,'' Colour nodded. ''I could never find out what was causing it. I left the painting in my storage room so that it would be out of the way. Most of the time, whenever I came into the room, my painting equipment and easels would be thrown across the floor but the painting itself would be the only thing standing up,'' Colour explained, and the shivers never ceased as he told Octavia of his experiences during his ownership of the painting.
''What do you think we should do with it?'' Octavia asked, now frightened from the tales that the young stallion had told her about. The thought of anything of the kind happening to her in her own home was scary enough, and she didn't know what to expect to happen from the painting as long as it existed underneath her roof.
''Miss Octavia, I hate to tell you this, but I don't reckon there is anything that could be done about it,'' Colour Palette said with great regret. ''I'm not even sure that the painting can be destroyed, if that's what you're suggesting?'' Octavia scoffed and rolled her eyes.
''Well, of course it can be destroyed, Mr. Palette!'' Octavia said. ''Have you even tried anything to dispose of it appropriately?'' She asked. Colour shook his head.
''Not really, no,'' He responded.
''And why's that?'' She asked. ''Surely, you could easily destroy it if you so much as set fire to it, couldn't you?'' She asked, hoping to get a positive response.
''You know, I doubt that setting fire to it would do much of anything,'' Colour said. ''You can't get rid of evil, Miss Octavia. Hopefully, you knew that already,'' He said, but Octavia remained undeterred.
''You can always try, Mr. Palette,'' She said. ''That painting needs to be destroyed one way or the other. It's too dangerous to be in the possession of anypony,'' Octavia said with great distaste. ''There has to be a way to get rid of it,'' She said.
''Maybe there is, maybe there isn't,'' Colour said with a shake of his head, not once breaking his gaze from Octavia's. ''If there is, then I can guarantee you that it won't be easy or even willing,'' He said, and Octavia's ear twitched.
''Willing?'' She asked.
''Yes. My uncle's blood is what is mixed into the paint, meaning that he's somehow tied in with whatever energy resides within it. I'm not so convinced that it's going to be willing to let go so easily,'' He said, leaning over the table as his eyes glanced over Octavia's shoulder, out to the living room where the painting sat.
As hard to believe as it might be, Colour Palette may be on to something. Octavia has heard about some of these happenings before, but none of this calibre. She has heard of blood transfusion spells and host-dependent experiments that rely heavily on some kind of life force in order to sustain itself. In layman's terms, it was a form of black magic.
Unicorns with incredible power and unnatural magical integrity were the only ones able to pull off such tasks to perform the forbidden type of magic. It was a power reserved for only the highly experienced and the royals who hold the status of alicorn, something only they were permitted to do through their own authority if the right moment and time calls for it. On any other day, if a unicorn or alicorn was to be caught in the middle of an ill-intentioned act of the use of black or dark magic, they were likely to be executed.
So far, in the land of Equestria, only one single ancient relic exists with ties to black magic: The Alicorn Amulet.
However, Octavia had doubts on this being the doing of some form of black magic. It didn't seem right. Stencil Palette was not a unicorn, so there was no possibility that he had done such a thing in the first place. That was when Octavia once again focused upon the book.
Octavia glanced down at it and considered it and its age. It was old, a lot older than Stencil Palette and most of the ponies alive today. It had too great of a musty, antique scent to be deemed as such. She couldn't be sure on where Stencil might have gotten it, but she knew enough from the appearance of the book to understand that he couldn't have been the first pony to use the journal.
Octavia's hoof grazed one of the pages and turned it, rummaging through the pages until she got to the very front of the journal, where personal info was usually kept in case of loss of the item. She wanted to see if there was a name or some kind of credential written or printed onto the book's inner cover or the first page, like most ponies would do.
Eventually, Octavia came to find what she was looking for.
Caravaggio 'Aramatta' Palette
''Caravaggio?'' Octavia said out loud, confused by the name that she was seeing. It was written on the back of the front cover of the journal in a deep but faded red ink. At least, she hoped that it was ink and not what she thought it was.
The name was written in an elegant cursive, clearly written a long time ago. She wasn't sure how long ago, but it goes without saying that the writing is indeed old and holds some age behind it.
''Caravaggio?'' Colour Palette asked. ''Caravaggio is my uncle's ancestor. He lived a very long time ago, Miss Octavia,'' Palette said. ''He, like the rest of my family, was a very talented and brilliant artist. He even had work at some point in his life as a royal painter! He would spend time making them self-portraits and whatever paintings they requested of him,'' Colour explained. ''At least, that's what my father always told me.''
''He was a royal painter and Stencil's ancestor?'' Octavia asked, thinking, looking down at the journal for a moment before she looked up again to view the young stallion. ''Mr. Palette? Would you mind if I kept this journal for a little while so I can look into the matter a bit deeper?'' She asked.
''As long as you take care of it,'' He said, seemingly concerned and tentative about letting the journal go. ''I haven't taken a look into it myself, so there's no telling what you might find. If you think it'll help get to the bottom of what's going on with that painting in there, then I guess I don't mind,'' He said, getting up from his chair with great haste, yanking his saddlebags from the table. ''Well, I don't want to hold you up on your investigation.''
Colour Palette headed for the front door, saddlebags slung over his bag, but before he exited the house, he turned back for a moment and viewed the grey mare, whom stared back at him curiously.
''Miss Octavia,'' He began. ''In the event that you do find something strange or out of the ordinary, my house is on the other end of the market. It's the one to the right of the town hall, can't miss it,'' He said, but before she could answer him, he had already left.
Octavia blinked and stared back down at the book. She observed it for a moment, took it in, enveloped herself in the shroud of mystery surrounding it. She stared down at the name, 'Caravaggio', pondering to herself.
''Tell me,'' She began. ''What secrets are you hiding?''
Chapter Four: Obsessive Behaviour
Octavia spent the majority of her morning reading through the journal she had been left by Colour Palette. She had remained seated at her dining table in the kitchen so that she could observe and analyse the contents closely in the peace of her home, which was made easier by the absence of Vinyl. Although, given the circumstances, Octavia only wished that Vinyl would come home.
Day had slowly transitioned into the late afternoon and then into the evening, the light in the kitchen becoming so minuscule and scarce with the passing hours that it had become hard to read. And so, Octavia had opted for the use of the kitchen light to continue her research, also pausing and taking a break to brew herself a fresh mug of coffee.
She needed it, too. Her eyes were starting to ache and become dry from her constant reading while her limbs were becoming tired and slowly turning numb from her inactivity. It did the trick in reviving her energy to a certain extent, just enough for her to keep her eyes open, but that was about it.
She had been at it still by the time that the kitchen clock had struck 8:00 PM, and she had hardly shifted her gaze from the ancient ink staining the even older paper within the journal, only breaking her attention away to take ample, reserving sips at her coffee.
So far, the search for answers had been fruitless in finding a lead. The writing was significantly different in terms of similarities to Stencil Palette's, but it was still written in elegant, smooth cursive. The writing of Caravaggio was much more refined in terms of how steadily and evenly spaced it seemed to be while Stencil's was more untidy and unsteady, but it remained coherent enough to be readable to Octavia. However, it made Octavia curious in the terms of how evenly matched Stencil and Caravaggio were with their intellect and phrasing.
''It's about what the art can do,'' Was a constant comment that popped up in Caravaggio's writing as well as Stencil's. It made Octavia wonder if Stencil had picked the phrase up from the journal itself when it was in his possession. It definitely seemed plausible enough.
Caravaggio 'Aramatta' Palette's journal was so far turning up empty, and the only information that Octavia had been able to dig up was nothing more than the personal life of Colour Palette's ancestor. Mostly concerning his basic routine and the names of some of the clients that he had worked for in his career as a painter and general artist, one of which surprised Octavia: Princess Dawn, the mother of Princess Celestia.
Octavia read about how Caravaggio had spent a couple of months in The Royal Castle by invitation of Princess Dawn herself while he worked on creating her self-portrait. He had written about the stay in one of the royal suites and his amazement with how hospitable the staff and personal caterers were while he expressed his love of the plush queen-sized bed he was set up with. That and some rather...intimate details regarding him and one of Princess Dawn's assistants. Octavia had read the page with a glowing red face, skipping past most of the details.
''It seems like somepony was a bit of a hit with the royals,'' Octavia had murmured to herself upon reading the page, feeling embarrassed. Some of the details she had been unable to restrain herself from seeing has burned a series of clear images into her brain, and she knew that she was never going to be able to purge herself of her sins of sifting through another pony's private life. ''I guess I was asking for that,'' She said.
Caravaggio, according to what the details in his journal entailed, was an artist dedicated to multiple artistic types, ranging from traditional, landscapes and even surrealism. He was even a bit of a known abstract artist around ancient Equestria, and he seemed to be quite popular among ponies. So, it made some sense where Stencil had gained his talent from, a set of creative traits passed on throughout the Palette bloodline.
After reading a bit deeper into the personal thoughts of the pony who's journal she was reading, Octavia found herself to be somewhat enthralled and hooked on what she was learning. She was about one third through the journal when a particular section caught her eye. Reading, she scanned over the ink with her attention cranked up. It read,
The Royal Family has been a very gracious and exquisite host to me in this past month, and I'm more than pleased to say that the portrait which I am in the middle of painting for Princess Dawn is coming along both smoothly and nicely. There's still a lot of work ahead of me, but you can't rush an artist or perfection. It can't be done.
Princess Dawn is a rather beautiful mare, and I can't help but admire her beauty at times. Although I know it's wrong to feel this way about royalty of all ponies, I can't suppress a spark of jealousy towards her relationship to the Prince. Those two daughters of theirs, Lu-Lu and Celly, show their beauty, too.
Lu-Lu, or Luna, has got her father's eyes and Celly, or Celestia, has got her mother's eyes. They radiate with kindness, something unmatched by your average pony. Both of The Royal Sisters are not your average pony, not by a long shot. One day, they will both mature and develop into gracious rulers of Equestria, carrying on the line of royal blood for moons to come.
So wonderful the innocent and uncorrupted mind of a young foal is. With this painting I'm creating for the princess, I vow to capture that beauty by any means necessary. If Her Highness demands it, then only the best shall do to best define her in all of her glory.
Octavia read the journal and pursed her lips, raising her brow as she finished reading, finding herself at a loss for words.
''Someone had a crush,'' She said to herself with amusement. She even laughed a little to herself at the idea of a prolific artist being in love with one of the rulers of Equestria. It seemed like a cheesy romance novel that was waiting to happen. Octavia could picture it now.
Turning her attention back to the journal, she continued to read.
Last night, I was continuing my work on the portrait of Princess Dawn in her throne room. She was such a sweet and patient client, and she remained as still as a statue as she sat on her throne for the better part of a few hours. She's very regal and pleasant in that retrospect.
We spoke for a while as I focused on the task at hand, and she was such a dear, always asking me if I would like a refreshing beverage or maybe one of her special pancakes as a snack. Of course, I accepted, and I was delighted by how marvelous of a cook she is. It was like edible diamonds sprinkled with gold dust! The absolute best!
By the time the night was out, I was almost to the end of the project, on the very verge of putting the finishing brush strokes that would see the portrait to its completion, but I felt like there was something that I was missing. Something crucial.
I had taken the portrait with me back to my royal suite for the night to look it over before I was due to hand it in for the following morning, wondering what was missing from the puzzle. I had captured her beauty and grace, that much was true, and I had added the royal crown and jewels in with life-like effect, but there was still something not right.
I had decided to head out for a walk around the castle during the late hours of the evening to collect my thoughts and ponder upon what it was that I was missing. Nopony was around to interrupt me or to intervene in my plagued mind, so I found solace in my pacing up and down the castle's stone-cold corridors and vast hallways.
Half of the time, the battle armour in the corridors on display outside of the royal throne room seemed to be watching my every move, and I believed it, too. Those suits of armour have always unnerved me and brought about unpleasant images within my mind. It was those empty helmets shielded by shadows and pitch black. The night only made them seem more alive.
I had passed by the archives during my late night stroll, and I stopped by the front gate when I overheard the sounds of a conversation on the other side of the magically-secured gate. I wasn't able to gather much context on what was being said, but I did hear something about what I believe was 'black magic'.
It was something regarding the concerns of the use of black magic in unicorns to carry out ill-intentioned deeds and magic abuse. I have heard tales in the past about such forbidden magic, tales and stories that end in nothing but insanity and corruption, sometimes death. It never resulted in a happy ending, to be brief about it.
However, it gave me a perfect idea of what I was missing from my painting of the princess. It was then that I had a little thought come to mind, one that I knew was incredibly risky and would result in an instant order of execution if I were to be caught in the act.
If black magic could enhance a unicorn's or an alicorn's magical abilities and give them a power boost for their own personal gain, then what can it do for a simple earth pony like myself? I knew right then and there that this could be the chance to enhance my career and reinvent myself, not just as a pony, but as an artist!
Octavia stopped right there, shocked at what she was reading. She had doubts and suspicions thrown together in the mix, but what she was reading right now from the hoof-written pages of ancient ink was causing an unsettling feeling to bubble within her gut. It made her heart sink as she assumed only the worst to happen, and it did.
I had stalked back and forth in my own thoughts for moons after learning about concerns of black magic being expressed from within the royal archives. I had learned recently that the voices I had heard were Princess Dawn and Prince Stardust swapping their thoughts on the matter. I had even learned as much to know that they were both hiding and securing some of the more deadly and forbidden black magic spells in their archives.
I observed their behaviour for a while, learning their daily routines and trying to figure out how to gain entry. The lock to the archives was kept secured by that of a magical lock, meaning only a unicorn could gain entry and access the secured, preserved files within.
I soon came to learn from my investigation into how to gain entry to the archives that it wasn't only the princess and prince that had the means of access to the files, but also a keeper, a mare by the name of Night Watch, one of the prince's guards, a creature called a bat pony. Strange hybrids, but beyond loyal and fierce in a fight.
I kept a close eye on her the few nights after my discovery of black magic being stored in the castle, and I noticed that there was a steel necklace around the bat pony's blue neck, a large steel key on the end of it. It gave me an idea, the start of a plot to possess the key for myself, something easier said than done.
Bat ponies - they are nocturnal. They have incredibly sensitive hearing and they are hyper-alert and on the move if they hear something go 'bang' in the middle of the night. Not so good to know on my end. I would likely be striked down in a split second by one of their claws, decapitated, if and only if I was lucky enough for a swift death. I dread to think about what damage those fangs can inflict on an enemy.
Octavia stopped for a moment and became horrified as she skipped over a couple of paragraphs to find the resolution to the entry, now curious and somewhat reluctant to know if she wanted to find out what she thought was inevitable. She wished she hadn't read the next part her eyes landed upon.
I...I killed Night Watch.
I clubbed her in the back of the head with one of the blunt weapons propped up by the battle armour outside of the throne room.
The mace sounded like it had shattered and caved in around her brain. She went down without a sound, hitting the floor with such force that I heard the royal armour she was wearing click and grind into the floor, bending and breaking the plating.
I didn't mean to kill her! Honestly, I never meant to inflict serious harm upon her, but...but I suppose that there's no turning back now. I am now certain that there's a gallows reserved for me and calling my name, and that's if I'm lucky enough to have earned that fate. I have no idea what judgement awaits a royal murderer, and I don't want to live to find out.
I took the key from her body and I unlocked the gate to the archives. I dragged her carcass in after me and stuffed it inside a small storage room that appeared to be disused. Hopefully, she won't be found until I have a chance to make my escape.
Octavia stopped reading and felt her chest grow warm while her grey cheeks tinted a deep green. She dropped the book down from her hooves and rushed towards the sink, whereupon she vomited into it, spewing the coffee she had drank earlier backup, the brownish stream of bitter-tasting puke showering the broken wine bottle and tea towel that was still laid broken in the sink, pooling around it.
She leaned shakily against the sink, her body hunched and her hooves shaking from the repulsive act she had read about, her hooves jingling like a winter's howl drifting in and tickling her nerves with its bitter, frosty bite. She had to force herself to resist the urge to vomit once more.
Octavia had to force a shaky breath to regain her composure, trying not to think about what she had just discovered in the most disgusting and heinous journal entry she had ever gazed upon. She simply could not believe it!
There has not been a reported murder in the land of Equestria for over a century! If it happened, it was rare and it was relatively easy to narrow down a list of suspects and track the prime culprit down. Civilisation had come a very long way since the time of Caravaggio, and although it may not be completely perfect in some respects, it was peaceful and full of harmony.
Alliances had been formed between past enemies, where the most unlikeliest of bonds had formed between clans and factions. Ponies, dragons, hippogriffs and griffons were now joined in unity with each other, having learned to set aside their differences and take on the culture of each others' way of general life, growing stronger from it.
To read that, a long, long time ago, a pony, a famed artist, had committed a murder against the royal family, unintentionally or not, was shocking and disgusting to Octavia. There has been no recent or past tragedy involving the death of a royal family member or their associates, such as Luna's bat pony army, but this one...it was the only one to Octavia's knowledge, and knowing this made her feel queasy.
It felt like she had found something out that she was never meant to find out, and she cussed mentally to herself for having requested the possession of the journal from Colour Palette. It wasn't hers to have, even temporarily, and it certainly wasn't hers to read. However, the damage had already been done.
Octavia forced herself to sit back down after swallowing the bile back down her throat, breathing slowly and controllingly before she found the will to continue reading the journal, wanting to know what happened next in the story. She took a deep breath in preparation and sighed before picking the journal back up.
I stole a document from the archives.
It seems worthy and genuine enough to work, but I always feel on-edge and scared that I may be found out. More importantly, I fear for the discovery of the body of Night Watch. It dominates my mind, actually.
As awful as I feel about being found out and labeled as a murderer, I can't let the guilt drown me and pull me under the waves. As long as nopony discovers what I've done until after I leave, then I should be clear on biding my time.
This forbidden document, this spell of sorts, I have read and re-read it multiple times over, trying to figure it out. It's old, that's for sure, older than myself, and it seems like something only the great and almighty Starswirl the Bearded can understand and possibly conjure.
Old, strange-looking symbols and phrasing is what appears to be written on the document, but the most unsettling feature that I've noticed about the spell is that it doesn't appear to be written in black ink. As a matter of fact, a quick sniff of the 'ink' clarifies enough to me to allow me to understand that it's written in the blood of a pony, most likely to be from a unicorn. Magic blood.
Despite being written by a unicorn, the creators of all spells in Equestrian history thus far, I understand from the writing on the document that it was intended to be able to be utilised by earth ponies, too.
In my suite, I locked my door and pulled the dead bolts on both the top and bottom before I shut my curtains, obscuring myself from view, should I be discovered from one of the windows by security. In front of me, I have my painting of Princess Dawn, set at the ready for the spell.
A symbol of a griffon's talon and the word, 'Califar' follows it. It seems strange to me, but after summarising what I could from the document's contents, I decided that I would at least try and prevail in understanding the black magic it contains.
Octavia's eyes went wide as she paused again from her reading, shocked. She couldn't recall an instance in history that an earth pony had conjured a forbidden spell. It was very unheard of, indeed. Sure, spell books do exist and are available to purchase from certain shopkeepers around Equestria, but they are hard to come across and they are legal, medicinal or helpful spells the majority of the time. But black magic? This was something else entirely. Something not meant to be.
The spell worked! By all the stars that shine, it worked!
With a sacrifice from my own life force, my blood came to stain the canvas, and the oil and my creative energy have intertwined and become one! My genius has truly surprised me, and my expectations have been raised for future work!
The spell was a complete success! However, I am unsure of the long-term consequences it might have on my being. However, I am not undeterred from my craft! I have made a copy of the spell within the journal, written by my own blood as to tie in with the demands the spell has, a crutch or a failsafe, if you will. Any and all artifacts crossed and intertwined with my creative blood will carry with it The Curse of the Booster Spell.
It's strange, really. I feel warmer on the inside like the embers of a Hearth's Warming fire, and I have a renewed energy that pulsates within my heart and my soul, like a spark of endless energy. It feels as if I have been granted the ability to perform any task with tremendous ability, absolutely free in the realm of possibilities!
For as long as I might live and breath, or for as long as my blood remains soaked into whatever it touches, art or otherwise, the curse will remain. A small sacrifice for a big payout, wouldn't you know? With these powers at the tips of my hooves, I could become the most well-known artist that ever walked on Equestrian soil!
That last paragraph had caused Octavia's heart to flip and her stomach to sink. Her doubts had turned out to become a reality, and it brought about a sense of dread within the sophisticated mare.
A Booster Spell? Octavia had heard of them before, and it was a fairly common spell among unicorns, but the one that Caravaggio had discovered in the heavily-guarded royal archives seemed to be a modified version of the spell, likely a tampered variation. As the journal suggested, it was developed for the use of not only unicorns, but earth ponies and possibly even pegasi, at the cost of a little bit of their life force, a bond of their being to the magic so that it intertwines and melds their bodies with untold magical power.
So, it was not only The Periled Mare that possessed this magic, but also the journal and the portrait of Princess Dawn!
Octavia turned the page of the book and found what Caravaggio had used to perform the spell. It was written across the page, as he had said, in his own, aged red blood. The blood had darkened and browned as the years progressed, and the smell of copper lingered within the fibers of the ancient paper.
Octavia didn't fully understand what she was looking at, and she had no way of comprehending any of the strange, foreign symbols, hieroglyphs and phrasing used in the spell's chemistry. She doubted if anypony alive today could understand them and maybe decipher their meaning.
As she inspected the copy of the dark spell, Octavia felt cold and clammy, her senses telling her that something or somepony was watching her closely. She thought about the painting in the next room, and she thought about the blood staining the eyes and mouth of the mare in the portrait that belonged to Stencil Palette. She could feel his presence.
Looking up from the journal to view into the open archway that lead into the living room, Octavia noticed that there was a thin mist-like substance forming in the air, like warm breath freezing over in the winter season.
Watching it form, unsure of where it might be generating from, Octavia witnessed it become thicker and more dense, bringing with it a stronger chill, causing the grey mare to rub her hooves together and hold her breast tightly to conceal her warmth.
All the while, her eyes came to view a shadow of a pony standing in the middle of a mist, a silhouette of a figure, just standing there and unmoving. She knew it was watching her. She could feel it. Moreover, she knew who it was.
Stencil Palette.
She saw his empty breath crystalise in the chilled air as he stared at her emotionlessly, and although she couldn't actually see his eyes, she knew they were fixated upon hers. However, Octavia did not feel scared this time. Instead, she felt sympathetic and she gave a sad frown as she faced him.
Stencil, if her hunch was correct, had likely read into Caravaggio's personal entries himself and come across the painting, whereupon he came across the Booster Spell, only to inadvertently corrupt his own being with the black magic it held. He had inherited the curse from Caravaggio without knowledge of what it would do to him, and he had paid dearly with his life.
This had to end, and it had to end now.
''Stencil,'' Octavia spoke, her voice mellow but firm as she kept her eyes trained upon the form of Stencil Palette. ''I'm sorry that this ever happened to you,'' She said, pulling herself out of her chair and coming to a stand, grabbing up the journal after her. ''I'm going to make this right.''
Stencil didn't speak a word. Instead, his form began to fade and slowly disperse along with the frosty mist that had formed. Just as the mist was clearing up to the point where it was almost completely gone, Octavia heard a voice whisper through the air.
''Set me free.''
Knock-Knock
''Mr. Palette!''
Knock-Knock
''Mr. Palette!''
Octavia called as she banged upon the front door of Colour Palette's residence.
His home residence was fitting with the traditional styling of Ponyville's accommodations, but it was slightly bigger than your typical house. It was a double-storey residence with what looked to be a built-on art studio on the right side of the house.
While she was banging on the front door, Octavia kept glancing wildly at each individual window, hoping that she would see a light turn on or the figure of Colour Palette show up at the glass to see her there. Eventually, after a few minutes of banging hard and shouting, a light turned on upstairs.
In the middle of the yellow glow, the silhouette of a figure came into view, likely just stirred out of bed by the commotion and on his way to see what all the fuss was about. Octavia heard a series of thumps, presumably Colour heading down the stairs, followed by a metallic click and clang as the lock and chain on the inside were being released.
Eventually, the front door creaked open and one of Colour's sleep-dulled eyes peered through the crack to witness the unsettled face of Octavia.
''Octavia?'' He asked, right before he fully opened the door upon seeing the distress on her face, written so clearly that it was akin to a copper etching.
''What's the matter? You look dreadful,'' He said, gradually growing more concerned the longer he took in her features, the sleep forgotten from his eyes.
''Terribly sorry to wake you, Mr. Palette,'' Octavia said as she paced anxiously on the spot, knowing how terrible she must have looked in her state of distress and unease. ''But I know what happened to your uncle and your ancestor,'' She said, to which Colour Palette's eyes brightened, yet they held a sense of uncertainty upon hearing the news.
''Why don't you come in? You can tell me everything if you'd like to,'' He offered, opening his door and allowing the flustered mare to enter his home, which she did with great haste, not wasting a single second. Before closing the front door, Colour stuck his head out and glanced both left and right to make sure that nopony overheard their conversation or saw Octavia enter his home. After deeming it safe, he shut the door.
*** *** ***
Colour Palette's home was very much in the way that Octavia had expected it to be - an artistic, creative mess. Unlike her own living room, while the layout was very similar and the room was slightly bigger, almost double the size of her own.
To the right, there was a couple of wooden tables covered in paint-smudged and splattered tarps, an explosion of colour, while the tops of the tarps had paint pots, wooden palettes, specialised art tools for generating various effects and water tubs and trays. There was a couple of medium-sized tarps protecting the floor, too. They were also splattered with bombardments of colour, some paint brushes resting on top of them with their tips stained with dried up paint, mostly dark colours, such as red, black and grey. The very same type of colours that Stencil preferred the use of.
Also on top of the tables, that caught Octavia's curious gaze, was a number of half-painted and blank canvases that looked to be some kind of landscape. Remembering the first one that Colour had shown to her at his art kiosk the day she took in the haunted painting, she gathered enough to see that they were various landscapes and places that she knew of. Ghastly Gorge, Rock Canyon, Canterlot Gardens, Ponyville Square, the works.
On the left side of his home, opposite to the art studio, there was an old-looking easel next to a couple of half-opened wooden crates, a large paper label secured to the front of them - Stencil Palette's Belongings.
Seeing them there, Octavia could only be lead to assume that the easel was also the very same one that belonged to Stencil. It was a large and cumbersome-looking easel, too. It was made from aged timber and it looked more like a torture device, such as the main body of a guillotine, than an art tool.
The darkened wood appeared to be well-cared for and there was a glimmer reflecting from its body from the electrical light in the middle of the living room, hinting that it still had a coat of protective varnish shielding its wood and preserving it from the elements. If that was the very same one that Stencil used to create The Periled Mare , then Octavia had the dark thought that it was possible that the easel could have a couple of small blood stains against the varnish. It was a terrible thought to think, but it entered her mind out of nowhere, and she immediately felt ashamed for it.
Like in her house, Octavia and Colour Palette were seated in the kitchen area of the house, Octavia sat waiting eagerly while Colour Palette sat motionless in his seat across from her. His face was blank and emotionless, his eyes small as his ear gave the occasional twitch. His blonde mane suddenly became dull and his blue eyes paled, becoming almost as colourless as Stencil's steel eyes.
Octavia noticed his lips move silently as he tried to process what had been told to him in great detail. She had told him absolutely everything that she had learned from the journal, from the murder of Night Watch to the theft of the key to the royal archives and Booster Spell's curse that lead to the demise of Stencil Palette.
The one thing that made Octavia curious was the fate that befell Caravaggio after he had stolen the Booster Spell. Was he ever caught? Did he become an obsessed perfection-driven machine of artistic talent like Stencil Palette? Did he simply take his secret to the grave? So many questions floated back and forth within Octavia's mind.
There were so many possibilities to narrow down and boil it just to one.
Octavia waited eagerly as she awaited Colour's response to her discoveries, and she felt her heart flex and tug within her chest with unease as the minutes progressed in the pregnant pause as the gears turned in his head. From how long it was taking, Octavia thought that he might need some mental oil to get his gears running smoothly enough to speak. Eventually, he found his voice.
''A-A Booster Spell?'' Colour Palette asked, his voice hollow and shallow, lacking energy. ''Caravaggio Palette used a Booster Spell?'' He asked again, blinking and trying to hide his disbelief and shock to no avail. He was positively stunned.
''That's what his journal entries say,'' Octavia said, touching a hoof to the body of the journal, which was resting in front of her on Colour's kitchen table. ''Your uncle even went as far as copying the spell into his journal using his own blood,'' Octavia said with distaste as she pronounced that last word. ''After Caravaggio's journal found its way into your uncle's hooves, it appears that he found the spell himself and decided to use it, and we both know how that ended, sadly enough,'' She said with a hint of regret in her voice.
''B-But that's insane!'' Colour said, throwing up his hooves as he stared at Octavia with wide eyes. ''So, what you're meaning to tell me is that my ancestor, one of Equestria's greatest artists, murdered the keep of the royal archives in order to steal a forbidden Booster Spell containing black magic and then he used said spell to curse his own artwork?'' He asked, and the more he thought about it, the more it irked his brain something fierce.
Colour Palette had to admit that, while he has not actually had the time to delve into the facts laid out in both Caravaggio's and Stencil's journal entries, it sounded very far-fetched. It didn't seem like it was possible or even logical, but as he sat and gazed into the sad, scared eyes of Octavia, scanning deep into her amethyst orbs, he felt himself sink and deflate in his seat. This just could not be true!
''Mr. Palette---''
''Colour would be just fine, Octavia,'' He said, interrupting her and waving a hoof dismissively as he planted his head in his hooves as he rested his elbows on the table. The sunken, depressed expression on his face bit into Octavia's heart.
''Very well,'' She said, starting over. ''Colour, I know it seems very hard to believe, but I've read the journal, and I'm afraid that the facts are all there. Everything fits together. Don't you see?'' She asked, picking up the journal and motioning to it with a hoof. Colour's eyes followed it and looked at her, listening. ''Because of Caravaggio, the Booster Spell that he copied into the journal with his own blood ties him directly to the journal! Stencil Palette must have stumbled upon it and been inflicted by the dark magic that still resides with Caravaggio's blood! It's a curse!'' She said, dropping the book to the table's surface with a bang.
Colour Palette raised his head a little and he gawked at her with uncertainty.
''A curse?'' He asked, dumbfounded. ''You think that's what this is? A curse?''
''Yes!'' Octavia said, stressing the emphasis in her voice by leaning over across the table to the point that she was inches away from making contact with his muzzle. ''The Booster Spell is cursed with black magic and it has tied itself in with your family's name! The only way to break the curse is to get rid of any and all associated objects that have touched both Caravaggio's and Stencil's blood!'' Octavia said, gripping onto Colour's cheeks and giving him a desperate glare. ''You need to destroy it!''
''O-Octavia,'' Colour began. ''Please l-let go,'' He said, pulling himself away. He rubbed his cheeks with his light brown hooves and gave a deep sigh. ''Black magic or not, how do you suppose you can destroy both the journal and the painting? If what you're telling me is true, then I have reason to believe that breaking such a spell will not be an easy task to accomplish,'' He said, looking down at the battered journal.
''There has to be a way,'' Octavia said, persisting against all odds. ''Colour, even if it may seem impossible to you, we have to try to get rid of it!'' She said, leaning over the table again. ''This Booster Spell, this black magic, has been responsible for the deaths of two of your relatives, and you could have been the next one in line for the curse to claim! You even said yourself that you thought that the painting was evil. Is that what you want?'' Octavia asked, now gradually becoming angry, her voice taking on a low growl.
Colour Palette said nothing. He didn't even blink. He actually appeared to be thinking deeply and thoroughly about this.
The journal may have started off as any old journal in the world for a pony to keep their deep and personal thoughts in, but after Caravaggio had introduced it to his blood-tied black magic, he had passed it on to Stencil and then onto himself after his death as an inheritance. The thought that the black magic within the journal could have been after him next put the fear of Celestia into him.
Looking into Octavia's pleading and desperate eyes that were filled with concern and worry for the young stallion moved him. He knew that she could see it. Octavia knew full well that, if Colour had found the Booster Spell himself, it would have likely corrupted his mind like his uncle and brought about nothing but pain and suffering as it pulled him into an art-crazed downfall.
''O-Octavia,'' He began slowly, inhaling deeply before speaking. ''You're right,'' He said. ''You're absolutely right. But what do we do? Do you think it'll be just as easy as lighting the journal on fire?'' He asked, and Octavia rubbed her chin thoughtfully.
''I'm not sure,'' She said, not really giving it that much thought. She didn't think that the Booster Spell contained within the journal held any protective properties, but she assumed that she'd find that out for true sooner or later when it comes down to it. ''I can't understand what the spell says or if it hints at anything we could use to destroy it, so I'm not too sure on the matter,'' She admitted. ''Any ideas?''
''Well, I'm not sure if it'll bring us closer to learning anything about the black magic in the journal,'' Colour began, looking reminiscent as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a few moments before turning back to look at Octavia. ''But there is this one pony I know of in Canterlot that runs this old antique shop full of strange trinkets and supposedly magical and cursed artifacts. He's...strange, but he might know a thing or two about the Booster Spell,'' Colour offered.
''Then that's what we can do,'' Octavia said. ''We could head out to Canterlot on the earliest possible train and pay him a visit with the journal,'' She said. ''But what about the painting? Is it safe to drag that thing along with us?'' She asked, uncertain.
''No,'' Colour shook his head. ''I think we better leave it at your house where it's safe. It is safe, right?'' He asked, noticing the uncomfortable expression on Octavia's face as she shied away slightly in her seat, rubbing her shoulder. ''Octavia? Is there something you're not telling me?'' He asked, and this only made her shy away further.
''The painting is safe, but...'' She trailed off.
''But?'' Colour gently coaxed her, circling a hoof in the air.
''...I saw Stencil Palette again before I came here. He didn't do anything, but he was there. He was watching me,'' Octavia said, turning her head back to face him fully. ''He knows that I know about the Booster Spell's curse. He knows that I want to break the curse,'' She said, recalling the ghostly voice that followed.
''Set me free.''
''You saw my uncle again?'' Colour asked in disbelief. Octavia nodded silently. ''Did he say anything?'' Octavia paused for a moment upon being asked the question, remaining motionless and playing her poker face as she thought upon it.
''No,'' She said. ''He didn't say anything,'' She lied.
''Right, so what do you suppose we do? Wait until morning and then catch the train to Canterlot?'' Colour asked, and Octavia nodded.
''I think that'll be best, Colour.''
*** *** ***
The train journey into Canterlot was a fairly lengthy ride from the small town of Ponyville. Octavia and Colour Palette had seated themselves in one of the many carriages the train pulled along with the engine, finding the most vacant one they possibly could, which put them in the very final carriage at the back of the train.
They were both thankful for the silence during the ride up into the capital. They spoke to each other as they sat at a window seat, directly opposite each other on one of the giant plush cushions. They swapped words on their thoughts about the painting and the journal that had been left behind in Stencil's will.
They talked for the majority of the duration the train took to arrive into the city of Canterlot, and although it wasn't longer than a little over an hour, as they were lost in their conversation, it seemed to take a few hours to pass.
Octavia had started to take a bit of a liking towards Colour Palette. Most of the time, Vinyl Scratch's boisterous attitude and loud antics would drive a potential new friend away from Octavia and spoil her chances, so it was nice to be able to have a civil conversation with an intellectual such as herself.
Octavia had learned that Colour had discovered his talent for the very first time during his younger years as a school colt. He had always displayed an aptitude for artistry and painting. He had even decided to try and bring a smile to Octavia's face by indulging her in a personal anecdote about what he did the day of a painting contest.
''And so this other colt, Loopy Lace, had decided to steal the painting set my parents had bought me for my birthday,'' He began, already snickering as he was building up to the best part. ''And he thought I wouldn't notice. Of course, I did, seeing as my wooden box with my paints in it had my name stamped onto a metal plaque that was on the lid, so I took them back and I found another wooden box. I put it back where he had put it and I made a small paint bomb and hid it inside. When he opened it, he was definitely surprised!'' He finished his tale, howling with laughter at the joy the memory brought back.
Octavia had found herself to be lost in the humour of the moment and was holding her sides as he wrapped up the story. She wiped away a tear from her eye and felt her laughter die down before she smiled and said,
''That's quite a story, Colour,'' She said, chuckling a little. ''I've got to say, you pulled a pretty decent prank! With my housemate, Vinyl, I hardly ever get a break from her attempts at humour,'' She said, to which Colour became curious.
''Oh, you've got a housemate?'' He asked with great interest. ''Vinyl, eh? What's her idea of a prank, then?'' Octavia flushed for a moment and then gave a playful wave of a hoof and a roll of her eyes.
''Oh, you know, the usual - a whoopie cushion here, a water bucket there, replacing my performance bow tie with a motorised bow tie when I have a concert to perform...'' She listed the various pranks she had unwittingly taken part in. ''And then there was this one time that she made me a daffodil sandwich and loaded it full of hot sauce,'' She said, and the laughter came immediately from Colour.
''That's hilarious!'' He said, tears forming in his eyes. ''Well, this Vinyl sounds like quite the character! You'll have to introduce us sometime, Octavia. I'm sure she's very fun to be around.''
''You don't know the half of it,'' Octavia said, rolling her eyes again as she thought about Vinyl Scratch.
She would be home soon. The month was almost up and she was likely going to enter the house with a bang like she always does. First there's a knock and then there's a bang, which was usually her bass cannon blasting off the front door before she comes riding in on her portable turntables. It may have been fun for Vinyl, but it certainly wasn't for Octavia. Regardless, she didn't know what she would do without that reckless mare. She helped to keep her balanced, and opposites sometimes make the best of friends.
Once the train had pulled into the station at Canterlot, everypony on board the train had dispatched themselves onto the platform, scrambling every which way to head to wherever they were headed.
Octavia stuck close to Colour. He was also a Canterlotian, and, like Octavia, had left for Ponyville because he found the lifestyle of the hoity-toity, pish-posh ponies that live here tiring and intolerable. He had even proclaimed that they frustrated him and even went as far as getting on his nerves.
tubing, flasks, bottles, beakers and test tubes and alchemy tools. Clearly, it had seen better days. It was no better than the swap-meet in terms of ''Everypony's a critic,'' He had said, his tone eerily similar to Stencil's as he spoke the words on the train to Octavia. It gave her chills.
They remained close as they entered the streets of the big city. It was very similar to the streets of Manehatten in the sense that there was no shortage of pony activity. It was hard to move without being rammed into, scraped upon or shoved against by one of the local residents.
If they did, they would always turn up their nose and mutter the same thing under their breaths - ''Tourists.''
It was so typical of Canterlotian behaviour to look down upon out-of-towners that wandered into their territory, their domain, their land. Into the den of the wolves, in with the crowd. It was something that always sickened Octavia.
She may have been one of them, but she didn't care much for their way of life. Luxuries, parties and money was all anypony cared for within the walls of Canterlot, and those that didn't indulge themselves in such a lifestyle or those who didn't come from a wealthy background were not welcome or even seen as worthy of entering through the gate. If they had things their way, then it would surely be a different story.
''Snobs, the lot of them,'' Colour had whispered into Octavia's ear as he lead her along one of the streets in the middle of the city. Colour more than shared her opinions on the matter, and for that, she was glad.
''Agreed,'' She said back, giving a small chuckle afterwards.
On his back, Colour Palette had brought along his green saddlebags to conceal the journal. The last thing that he wanted was for anypony's eager and curious eyes to wander where they were not wanted. That was the other thing about Canterlotians: they stuck their noses where it was not wanted or fit to sniff.
Colour had explained to Octavia earlier about the pony that ran the antique shop, and he was also a bit of a brainiac when it came to deciphering cryptic messages and Old Ponish, and so, he was the best hope they had for figuring out a way of destroying the binding of the Booster Spell.
Colour Palette had lead Octavia to one of the backstreets of Canterlot's downtown area. It was comprised of a bundle of smaller, less-occupied shops that sold odds and ends, nicks and nacks. This kind of ancient dust was not a desired market for the rich snobs in the higher stands, so they left this area alone to its own devices.
It was basically a small, tucked-away pocket in the derelict section of the big city, untouched and left very alone. The brickwork and elegantly-chiseled masonry work around the area had been left to corrode and get eaten away by the elements, the once-brilliant white marble statues and columns now an off-white colour, almost creamed, by the ultra violet rays from the sun.
Octavia had seen these shops before, but she never once dared herself to set hoof in this part of town. She had heard that it was a bit dangerous to hang around this area all alone, especially with being a mare, as per word of her mother. A so-called 'bit of streetwise information' that Octavia had been given to take on board for future endeavours.
Today, she was to break her promise to her mother. She was a big girl now.
Octavia glanced around at some of the shops as she inspected them.
To her left, right on the very end of the row, was a shop named, 'Odd's and End's Daily Traders' , which appeared to be some type of swap-meet shop for both old and new junk. The sign was flaking and peeling with faded indigo paint that bordered the white lettering that spelled out the name to the shop. The windows were also dirty and yellowed from years' worth of neglect.
Next to the swap-meet, there was a small potions and chemistry shop filled with old chemistry sets, Bunsen burners, chemical, experimental glass state of repair.
It had the same layout, but the sign hung out into the street, an old-fashioned neon sign with cracked and chipped glass with long-gone working electricity. The sign was now completely shot and the wiring was likely to have corroded on the inside. Octavia could still tell that the sign depicted of a unicorn pouring a beaker over an open flame on a Bunsen burner, of which there was a series of angled neon tubing to simulate a chemical explosion.
Octavia could imagine in her mind the magenta-coloured chemical solution being poured from the experimental beaker onto the light blue safety flame before erupting into a bright green colour in a puff of thick, cloudy smoke. Very picturesque, and it brought back some memories of working on an experiment in the school lab for Octavia. Reading the sign, despite some of the neon light glass being missing, Octavia saw that the saw once read out as, 'The Alchemist's Lair'.
Following Colour Palette, Octavia saw that they were both headed towards the shop that they had come to Canterlot for to gain some insight on their little Booster Spell.
Like the other shops, it followed similar designs and layout patterns, but it appeared to be much, much older and very rickety. It looked as if it had been standing here for well over a century, maybe longer.
It was made out of a weather-worn, splintered dark wood on the outside, so dark and so dry-looking that it looked sun-baked and fragile to the point that, if a butterfly had landed on it, the added weight would crack it and destroy it, crumble it to dust and finish the job age had started.
The window panes were old-fashioned and thin, but they were surprisingly clean and looked through to a small display area in the shop. It mostly viewed into a small platform crammed full of antique books, trinkets, candle holders and cast iron pots used for mixing potions and cooking, but that was about all there as to see. There was likely to be much more on the inside.
Strangely, there as no sign hung out on the front of the shop. There was only a small space where a sign was meant to be hung, but no actual sign was in place. To the naked eye, one might suggest that the place was abandoned and completely unoccupied, but Colour Palette suggested otherwise. Somepony was definitely in there, and the switched-on light on the inside, presumably oil-powered, given the age of the building, was a clear indication that it was inhabited.
Entering the shop, Colour holding the door for Octavia, whom entered slowly and unsurely, Octavia followed him to the back of the shop where there was a counter set up.
It wasn't very big on the inside, and, as Octavia suspected, it was completely crammed with old junk, antiques and collectibles. It really was quite astounding as to how so much junk could fit into such little of a space.
Pots, pans, old furniture, moth-eaten tarps and tapestries, Old World flags and old leather saddlesbags that were so dry they were cracked littered the shop's showroom floor. Tall, towering mahogany cabinets and desks and drawers leaned and supported themselves against the walls of the shop, empty and waiting for the right owner to come by to discover them. Unfortunately, it looked like that day was not due until the end of the universe arrived.
At the counter, Octavia came to stand beside Colour as she observed the cashier's desk. Behind it, there was a line of three shelves stacked in a column and stocked up with small, valuable-looking items. It mostly consisted of display pieces and antique jewels and magical potions in small vials full of colourful, fizzing liquid. Octavia recognised one of them as Liquid Luck - a blue-coloured substance that was said to make the drinker become incredibly successful in any task or feat, prevailing against all odds.
Another one, a first edition copy of A Heart in Your Hoof , a notorious and famous novel by a long-forgotten great in the world of literature - Merry Rosingberry.
The reason that Octavia knew that the book was a first edition was the binding on the book as it was displayed on its golden stand on the middle of the first shelf behind the counter. It was a dark brown leather with a blackened front cover, and the leather was not your typical leather from the hide of a cow. Instead, it was bound up in dragon leather, which was much thicker and stronger, almost invulnerable against most forms of damage.
The blackened front cover had a golden print hoof with a fire ruby heart held in its grasp, the title of the book underneath it while the author's name was written on the top. The second editions were brown leather-backed and the third editions and all other editions after that were green faux leather-backed.
Well, that wasn't the only reason. She had also been gifted the book when she was a little girl from her parents for her eighth birthday, a first edition.
She fell in love with the story ever since. It was an enchanting tale of two lovers across the social divide coming together and proclaiming their love for each other. They ran off to start their new life as a married couple, proving to their judgmental, displeased and unsupportive families that it doesn't matter if a pony is rich or poor: they were still ponies that live, bleed, cry, feel, laugh and love.
Recovering from her trip down memory lane, Octavia watched and waited as Colour banged against an old brass service bell a couple of times, the metallic ding! resounding within the acoustics of the small shop.
Shortly afterwards, a middle-aged stallion came out from the back of the shop, off where Octavia presumed there was a small sitting room or personal workstation, a little room where the owner could rest while he waited to serve customers, perhaps lose himself in a hobby or bury their nose in a gripping novel. It became quickly apparent that the owner of the shop had plenty of time to himself. Octavia and Colour Palette were likely to be the only customers in a good, long while.
The stallion had a stone grey coat and a black mane that was mostly hidden beneath his beaten and worn black fedora with a dull red band wrapped around it. He had golden eyes that clearly displayed the life of a pony who has lived a long and tiring existence. Octavia could not see his cutie mark because he was wearing a pair of some kind of robes that were grey in colour with black stitching and padding holding it together. He looked like a strange, odd sorcerer from a fantasy novel for children.
''Can I help you, weary travelers?'' He asked, coming to a stand behind his counter, facing both ponies with an expression of curiosity. ''It isn't often that I get visitors to my humble abode,'' He said. ''Might I be of assistance?''
Colour nodded and offered the stallion a smile.
''Good afternoon, Mr. Minstrel,'' He began. ''I am Colour Palette,'' He said, pointing to himself with a hoof. ''And this is Octavia,'' He said, then motioning to Octavia before he reached into his saddlebag and produced the journal before placing it on the counter in front of Minstrel. ''We've come from Ponyville to seek your assistance on this journal,'' Colour said, watching Minstrel look over the book.
Minstrel's grey hooves prodded the book, as if he was testing bath water to see if it was too hot or too cold, giving it a series of experimental prods and pokes before he opened the journal. As he did, he looked back up for a brief moment.
''Just so you know, I don't hand out refunds,'' And then he looked back down to the journal, inspecting the inner page. ''Ah! Caravaggio 'Aramatta' Palette!'' He said, recognising the name, and it showed in his brightened eyes. ''So, you're a Palette, eh?'' He asked, looking at Colour.
''Minstrel, you've met me before,'' Colour Palette deadpanned. ''Remember?''
Minstrel pulled up a pair of eyeglasses that were dangling on a piece of string around his neck and placed them in front of his eyes as he stared with narrowed eyes at Colour Palette's face.
''Oh, Colour!'' He said, becoming embarrassed all of a sudden. ''Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Colour, my eyes ain't what they used to be, you know!'' He said, glancing back down to the journal. ''So, now that I can see much better, what is this that you brought me? Your journal? Somepony else's journal?'' He asked, glancing towards Octavia with a raised brow as he said that last part.
''No, actually,'' Octavia began before Colour could get the chance to start up again. ''It belonged to Colour's ancestor, Caravaggio, who lived a very long time ago, sir,'' Octavia explained. ''We brought it to you because there's something in the journal that neither of us can understand, and it's been brought to my attention that you understand Old Ponish and black magic,'' Octavia said, and Minstrel's face hardened and became dark as soon as those words left her mouth, a deep, dark shadow covering his eyes and muzzle.
''You've got some nerve, missy,'' He said in a warning tone. ''Black magic is far too dangerous to go poking around in and experimenting with, and that goes double for you earth ponies,'' He said.
''But...you're also an earth pony,'' Octavia began, giving him a raised, furrowed brow at the accusation.
''Silence!'' Minstrel called loudly, and the shout in his voice surprised Octavia and Colour, causing them to flinch. It was so loud that both of them half-expected the ceiling to cave in on them. ''That is beside the point, my dear!'' He began. ''Black magic, in any way, shape or form is nothing to be toyed around with. It does things to ponies. Changes them, messes with their minds, causes them to hallucinate, controls them, kills them,'' He said, grinning sadistically as he pronounced the last word, inching his face closer towards Colour and Octavia.
''Y-Yes, we quite understand that,'' Octavia said, clearing her throat nervously. She was already getting put off by this guy. She half-considered making a runner out of the door, wanting nothing more than to get out and not to spend more time than necessary to get the information she needed.
''Do you?'' Minstrel asked, leaning close to her. ''Do you really understand the horrors of such forbidden magic, young lady?''
''Yes, we do,'' Colour intervened, pushing a hoof against Minstrel's chest and protectively stepping in front of Octavia. ''More than you know. My uncle died as a result of black magic. It drove him mad,'' Colour said. Minstrel observed his body language and gazed into his eyes.
''Really, now?'' He asked, pursing his lips and scratching his scruffy chin in thought, observing Colour for a moment before asking, ''And who was you uncle, might I ask?''
''My uncle's name was Stencil Palette. He's been gone for a while now. I'm here to find out what it was that caused him to become insane,'' Colour said, stepping closer to his desk, inching his muzzle towards Minstrel's as he narrowed his gaze. ''I need your help in order to do that.''
''And what are you willing to give in order to receive it, Mr. Palette?'' Minstrel asked slowly, a smile forming on his lips. He had a face that shined with the knowledge that Colour and Octavia were desperate for the help he could provide. He had played this game many times over, seizing opportunity after opportunity to smooth talk schmucks out of their wealth and personal artifacts in exchange for a few helpful words, favours and tips. That was what it was all about in the business world: bartering and cheating where appropriate in order to get by.
Why give information away for free if it could be compensated for with wealth and items of value?
''I can offer you a hundred bits,'' Colour said without hesitation, knowing this game. He steeled his eyes and bolstered himself up, tensing his muscles as he challenged the glare in Minstrel's eyes. Minstrel liked where this was going. He smiled.
''Three hundred,'' He countered.
''One hundred,'' Colour remained firm.
''Three hundred,'' Minstrel stood his ground.
''No. One fifty,'' Colour said, etching closer to Minstrel.
''Two fifty.''
''One fifty.''
''Two.''
''One!''
''Two!''
''One!''
They fired offers back and forth like a pair of gunslingers, sweat beading down on their foreheads as they pressed muzzled tightly up against each other, barring their teeth at each other.
''Alright, one and a half and you've got a deal!'' Minstrel said, knowing that Colour wasn't going to budge on his price. He snapped away and grumbled angrily under his breath as Colour counted out the bits and forked them over to the salespony, whom was still grumbling and cussing to himself under his breath.
''Now,'' Minstrel began, giving a mighty huff through his nostrils. ''What is it that you two ponies want? I am a very busy pony,'' He said impatiently, waving a hoof in the air to motion around his shop. Octavia and Colour blinked and glanced at each other, wandering what he was talking about.
The shop was void of activity, except the three of them.
''In that journal, there is what I discovered to be a Booster Spell, only that it appears to have been tampered with by the use of black magic,'' Octavia explained. ''The spell was stolen by Caravaggio from the royal archives during his stay at the royal castle in ancient times, but we don't know how to decipher the symbols or wording on the page,'' Octavia explained, helping Minstrel turn to find the correct page. She found it with ease.
Minstrel balanced his eyeglasses on his nose and he inspected the open-paged book closely as he read over the copied spell. By the look in his eyes, Octavia and Colour Palette could both tell that he was unnerved by what the spell was written with. He crinkled his nose at the smell it produced.
''By Celestia,'' He murmured. ''I've seen black magic before, but this...,'' He said, astounded and speechless as he waved his arms helplessly around the journal as he read it. ''...This is something else. It must have been some seriously powerful and very dangerous spell for it to have been sealed away in the archives,'' He said. ''Now, let's see here...''
Minstrel inspected and closely scanned over every word, symbol and hieroglyph contained in the spell with the expertise of a history lecturer. It went without saying that this was a task that he had performed numerous times, but it was impossible to tell how many. He spoke to himself as he worked the spell over, likely a part of his process, as his hoof slowly trailed over the spell, line-by-line.
Octavia and Colour let him work in silence as they watched him, sharing the occasional glance as they waited for the final verdict on what problem they had on their hooves. It only took about five minutes for Minstrel to finish decoding the spell before he raised a hoof and shouted, ''A-ha!'' in victory.
''Well, my young ponies, what you have here is indeed a tampered form of black magic, beyond any that I've ever come across,'' He said, looking up to meet their curious gaze as he glanced between them. ''It is a Booster Spell, that much is clear, but it has been modified with powerful magic, by who could only be presumed to be a powerful unicorn or alicorn, and it has been adapted so that any life form, earth, pegasi or unicorn can inherit its magical abilities,'' He explained.
''So? What does that mean, exactly?'' Colour Palette asked, growing impatient for a straight answer.
''It means that it's a blood-binding spell. Very forbidden and very dangerous if it falls into the wrong hooves. It creates life by adding new life. A hoof for a hoof, an ear for an ear, a tooth for a tooth,'' He said poetically. ''Blood binding is a very ancient form of magic, my friends. It necessitates the sacrifice of the life force of a pony, namely their blood, mane clippings, dead skin or even their bodily fluids, such as urine, and it creates a piece of their energy to reside in whatever it touches,'' He explained. ''In this case, if what I'm reading is true, this spell is bound to the blood of whomever wrote it, and I'm guess it was Caravaggio's doing?'' He asked.
''Yes,'' Octavia said. ''It's Caravaggio's blood. He wrote about it in one of his entries.''
''Fascinating,'' Minstrel nodded. ''Absolutely fascinating! Really, it is! I have never heard of such magic! There's so much to learn and to understand that it's making my mane crawl!'' He began, but froze once he saw the unamused expressions on Octavia's and Colour's face. ''Oh. Apologies,'' Minstrel deflated and ceased his momentary excitement.
''Yes, quite,'' Octavia said, bemused. ''Look, can you tell us if there's anything in that Booster Spell that tells us how to reverse it and get rid of it, or are we just wasting our time talking to you?'' Octavia asked, now very impatient and ready to storm on out of the shop with the journal. She suddenly felt a strong anger towards the middle-aged shop owner, but she had learned to hold back when the anger bites.
''Alright, alright, don't get your bow in a twist,'' Minstrel said, backing down as he grumbled beneath his breath, becoming submissive at the tone in the grey mare's voice. ''The good news is that there is a way to reverse the hold the Booster Spell has created,'' He began. ''The bad news is that it'll cost you dearly,'' He said, giving the two ponies a sly grin, the greed in his eyes glowing as he knew that he could get them to pay for what they wanted to hear. However, Octavia was in no mood.
''I've had quite enough of this,'' Octavia said as she leaned over the counter and grabbed Minstrel by the collar of his robes, shocking him and pulling him forward, his body half-propped up on the counter.
''W-W-What is the m-meaning of----'' Minstrel stammered, stunned by what was happening.
''Shut it!'' Octavia snarled. ''I've had just about enough of your little games, Minstrel! There is more at stake here than feeding that little bug in your head known as greed! Now, are you going to stop smooth talking me and my friend out of earning yourself a few more bits, or do I have to force the information from your dry, dirty little tongue?'' Octavia asked, her muzzle shoved into Minstrel's as she glared daggers at him, sharp and daring.
Minstrel's eyes shrank as he stared back at her, shaking and quivering from the crazed look in her eyes. He knew that she wasn't bluffing on causing harm, but she wasn't prepared to allow him to lose Colour Palette some extra bits when he had already lost something dear. If she could minimise his loses, she wouldn't hesitate.
''What's it going to be?'' She asked lowly. To the side of her, Colour Palette grimaced at what he was witnessing, but he was also impressed by the act. He smiled a little.
''Okay, okay!'' Minstrel squirmed. ''I'll tell you!''
''Spill it!'' Octavia said, gripping his robes tighter, prompting him to squeal.
''To reverse the Booster Spell and the hold it has on any items that have been introduced to the life force of another pony, blood or otherwise, all that you have to do is incinerate the belongings with a magical flame!'' He said, feeling himself begin to sputter as tears welled in his eyes from the fear racing through his veins.
''What kind of magical flame?'' Colour asked, leaning in towards Minstrel's face. ''Tell us!'' He demanded.
''Alright! I happen to have a vial of the magical flame that you need! I-If you let me g-go, I'll fetch it and---AH! '' He squirmed as Octavia yanked his collar.
''No, you won't!'' Octavia said, turning to face Colour Palette. ''Colour will go get it. You tell him where it is. Understood?'' She asked. Minstrel nodded slowly as he whimpered.
''Middle shelf! Small glass vial! Yellow liquid! Labelled, Phoenix Tear Drops! Take it! Just take it and leave me alone!'' He begged. All the while, listening to his cries, Colour Palette rummaged around the shelves and searched for the small vial containing the yellow liquid.
He didn't take longer than a minute before he came across it and waved it to Octavia. She nodded as she saw it in his hoof and he placed it into his saddlebags. He rejoined Octavia around the other side of the counter a moment later and he recovered the journal and placed it in his bag along with the Phoenix Tear Drops, careful not to crack the vial.
''And this should get rid of the curse?'' Colour asked.
''Yes! Just a few flicks on any possessed or bound object and it should erupt in flames! Nothing will be left but ash!'' Minstrel said quickly, hoping it would get them out of his shop quicker.
''Good. Thanks for your help,'' Colour said. ''Come on, Octavia, we're leaving,'' He said, heading towards the door of the shop.
Octavia released Minstrel after giving him a final glare, taking one last and good look at his greedy, disgusting face. She gave him a soft growl before she shoved him out of her face and proceeded to follow Colour out of the shop. Before slamming the door behind her, she said,
''By the way, your hat looks ridiculous,''
Chapter Six - Breaking the Chain
Something has gone wrong. We don't seem to have an archived copy of that chapter. 