A Greek Tragedy in Three Partsby daOtterGuyChaptersForewordEpisode I: JealousyEpisode II: UglinessEpisode III: ReformationExodusForewordWelcome, my patient and bloodthirsty audience, to the show. I, Melpomene, shall regale you with a tragic tale. A sordid story woven together by myself about two young mares, entwined forevermore. One, a gifted beauty of renown. The other, a blight to her people. These two different lives will affect each other in inconceivable ways, eventually culminating in an end no one could have foretold. Lady mares, gentle stallions, and all those in between or beyond, I implore you to take a seat, partake of a beverage of your choice, and steel thyself for a tragedy of untold proportions. A tale of jealousy, ugliness, and reformation. Of a disturbed youth caught between the throes of envy and adoration. My magnum opus. I present to you, Beauty and the Wretch. Enjoy. Episode I: JealousyLocation. We are in a palace of redwood and bamboo within an isolated village deep in the mountains. Two mares lounge underneath a large willow tree on a sunny spring day. Cue. Spotlight on Sable Spirit and Mistmane. “We begin our story as any other, with our two leading ladies resting under the shade of the willow, away from the midafternoon sun.” Sable Spirit rubs her head with a hoof. “My goodness, I must be feeling more under the weather than I thought.” “Are you alright?” Mistmane asks. “Is it a migraine?” “Potentially. It is the only explanation I could muster as to why I would be hearing such strange voices in my head.” “What kind of strange voices?” “One of these maidens, Sable Spirit, was hearing my sensual voice narrating her life. She was actually not concerned about having a potential headache, as she felt none of the usual aches. Rather, she worried that I was going to talk about Sable’s infatuation with Mistmane, and that her crush could also hear this narration.” “Nothing important!” Sable yells. She turns her head away to hide the colour in her cheeks. “Are you sure?” Mistmane asks. “Yes, Misty, I’m sure.” Sable takes a moment to collect herself. “Now, let us return to the topic of—” Cue. Second Spotlight on Stage Left. Guard #1 enters. “What is with these strange lights?” Sable mutters. “What lights?” Mistmane asks. “The— nevermind. It’s probably nothing.” The guard draws up just short of the two mares. The second light source tracks him in the bright morning light. He salutes. “Empress, I have grave news!” “She didn’t know it yet, but this news would change the course of Sable’s life forevermore.” “We’ll see about that,” Sable mutters, then louder, “what happened?” “There are reports of a strange disease in some of the nearby settlements. Refugees are coming here in droves seeking shelter from it,” Guard #1 reports. “Oh goodness. I hope we have enough room for them,” Mistmane says. “How gracious of you, Lady Mistmane,” Guard #1 replies. “Little did they know that the disease was a plague so infectious that to allow even a single refugee into the village would kill everyone inside.” “What?!” Sable shouts. “Sable, what’s wrong?” Mistmane asks, startled by her outburst. Guard #1 readies his weapon immediately. He is on high alert. “Empress, where is the assailant?!” “There is no assailant, I-I was just… startled… by the direness of the situation,” Sable says. “Ah, yes.” Guard #1 eases back into his previous position. “It is truly an unfortunate circumstance.” “I agree.” Mistmane says. “When will they arrive so that we can tend to them as soon as possible?” “They should be here in a day’s time,” Guard #1 replies. “With knowledge of the disaster, Sable acted decisively.” “We cannot allow them entry!” Sable cries. She covers her mouth with her hooves, shocked by the words that came out. “Why not?” Mistmane asks. “They are ill. We can help them.” “Sable reiterated her stance.” “They cannot come in. It could put everyone here at risk,” Sable explains. “But if we do nothing, they will die!” Mistmane exclaims. “Sable did not care about these outsiders. Only her own people.” “As the Empress, I have a duty to my people, and these refugees pose too much of a risk,” Sable says. She internally rages against her inability to stop the words that flow from her. “We will not let them in.” “Silence filled the space as Mistmane looks at Sable with disappointment and the Guard with disgust.” Sable flinches. “... Very well, Empress.” Guard #1 salutes. “I will relay your command.” Cue. Guard #1 exits Stage Left. Guard #1 Spotlight off. “I’m disappointed, Sable,” Mistmane says. She stands up. “I need to think of—” “Your people.” Mistmane hangs her head. “I understand. I don’t agree with it, but I understand.” Cue. Mistmane exits Stage Right. “Sable feels immeasurable guilt at the choice she made.” “That wasn’t my choice!” Sable yells. “But, she stands resolute about her decision. The village must survive.” Sable tries to stand with the intention of reversing her decision, but finds herself forced to lay where she is by some unknown means. “News of her command spreads quickly through the village.” Cue. Bring in Set: Village #1, Village #2, and Village #3. Old Mare and Old Stallion enter on Set Village #1. Young Guard and Old Guard enter on Set Village #2. Cute Foal, Loud Foal, and Quiet Foal enter on Set Village #3. Turn on Stage Lights. Keep Spotlight focused on Sable. “How is this possible?!” Sable exclaims. “I’m in the palace. How—” “I knew she was no good,” the Old Mare says, unknowingly interrupting the Empress. “She’s a shame to the royal line.” “That Sable was a mistake,” the Old Stallion says. “Such a cruel Empress, unlike her mother.” “Excuse me?!” Sable cries. “I wish we had someone else as our ruler,” Young Guard says. “Someone kinder than our despot of an Empress.” “Keep it quiet, idiot!” Older Guard punches his companion on the shoulder. “She might hear you.” “Too late for that,” Sable mutters. “Come on. You gotta admit that there’s a better option than her.” Young Guard says. “We already have an Empress to serve, we do not need another,” Old Guard retorts. “Really?” Young Guard questions. “There’s no one else you can think of that is better suited to the throne?” “Well,” Old Guard looks askance. “If I had to choose someone else to lead us…” “... It would be the prettiest mare in the village!” Cute Foal continues. “The smartest and nicest mare!” Loud Foal exclaims. “Someone who can be trusted over our big meanie Empress,” Quiet Foal agrees. “Sable feels her heart sink as she guesses to whom they speak of.” “I don’t need some random voice to tell me what I already know,” Sable says, bitterness in her voice. “It’s been the same since I was young.” “She already knows she’s inferior to her friend.” Sable scowls. “If only Mistmane could be our Empress,” Old Mare says. “Now that mare follows our values,” Old Stallion says. “It’s clear who should be on the throne. A beautiful soul, not a gnarled wretch.” A growl emanates from Sable’s throat. “Mistmane would lead us right,” Young Guard says. “She is the better option,” Old Guard agrees. “Sable could never measure up to the greatness of her secret crush.” Rage builds inside of Sable, threatening to spill over. “I want Mistmane to be our Empress,” Cute Foal announces. “Me too!” Loud Foal adds. “Definitely not that icky Sable,” Quiet Foal adds. “Sable is incapable. Sable cannot compete. Sable is cruel.” “What a shame!” “A disgrace!” “A failure!” “Incompetent!” “Worthless!” “A—” “Enough!” Sable screams. Cue. Turn off Stage Lights. Leave Spotlight on Sable. “The unloved Empress collapses to the ground. She cries at the unfairness of it all. She is nothing compared to Mistmane.” “Leave me be!” Sable cries. Wet tears blur her eyes. “This is all your fault!” “She blames fate.” “I blame you!” Sable shouts. “But she has only her own mediocrity to blame.” Sable howls in anguish. It embodies her emotions, her hidden pain, her unrequited love. She falls to the ground. She curls in on herself. “So be it.” Her crying subsides. “She is the Empress.” She gets up. The tears are gone. “What is a mere Peasant going to do to her?” Sable stares off into the distance. She feels an unseen audience waiting on her next action. A bevy of eyes boring into her, demanding that they be entertained. She will oblige. “With jealousy in her heart, it was only a matter of time before the ugliness reared its head.” She has no choice in the matter. Episode II: UglinessLocation. We are in the palace. Focus on our lead, Sable Spirit. She sits upon her throne. She fiddles with a knife hidden in her mane, disguised as a pin that was given to her by the Guard. Mistmane enters from Stage Left. Cue. Turn on stage lights. “Nearly two weeks after the initial report about the refugees, Mistmane approaches Sable with concerns about her decisions regarding the situation.” “Like everyone else,” Sable mutters. “Sable, why have you resorted to violence against the refugees?” Mistmane asks. Sable looks down at her. Her eyes show disdain. “They are infected.” “And they need help.” “They can get help somewhere else.” “But they’re here now!” “And ready to kill off our entire village!” Sable slams a hoof on her throne. She takes a moment to calm down, then descends from her perch. She struts toward Mistmane, head held high. “They are dangerous. You saw what happened to Lily when she tried to help them, did you not?” “We just need to be more careful,” Mistmane says. “Set up proper housing and quarantine. Isolate them in such a way to keep us safe but allow us to care for them.” “Except if even one pony makes a mistake, or one refugee decides they don’t like that arrangement, our entire village will be wiped out.” Sable narrows her eyes. “No, they stay outside the gates.” “... Fine,” Mistmane relents. “I know I cannot get you to budge on this matter, but I ask again, must you use force against them?” “They tried to charge the gates!” Sable stomps a hoof to emphasize her point. “A direct attack!” “Because they are desperate!” Mistmane pleads. “If you will not offer them shelter, then can you not at least offer them some modicum of mercy?” “For bringing a plague to our village?!” Mistmane hangs her head. “Mistmane was disappointed in her friend. She had expected better from Sable.” “Don’t give me that!” Sable snaps. “Give you what?” Mistmane asks. She raises her head sharply. “All this judgement and pity.” She spits the last word. Her rage begins to build again. A common state in the last two weeks. “I don’t need you to rub it in how much better you are than me.” “What? I don’t—” “I hear what the townspeople say!” Sable interrupts. “They want you on the throne. To depose me. Well, too bad! You’ll never have it!” “Where is this coming from, Sable? I don’t want the throne!” “She lies to Sable.” “Yes, you do!” Sable snarls. She pushes her face into Mistmane’s. “The townspeople are planning a coup, aren’t they? Trying to take me down behind my back!” “No! Sable, I’m your friend. I would never do that to you.” Mistmane reaches out a hoof. “She plans to hurt Sable.” “Don’t touch me!” Sable swats away Mistamne’s hoof and backs away. “How dare you try to touch the Empress!” “Sable, please, calm down.” Mistmane placates. “We can talk about this. You just need to take a moment to breathe.” She smiles sweetly. It causes Sable’s heart to yearn. “She abuses Sable’s love for her to get closer.” “No! I will not let my feelings sway me. You won’t hurt me!” Sable cries. “Feelings? Sable, what do you mean by—” “You know what I mean!” Sabel snaps. “I don’t…” Mistmane studies Sable for a moment. Realization spreads across her features. She brings a hoof up as she gasps. “Sable, do you—?!” “Do not act naive! You’ve been toying with me!” “No! I didn’t know. If I’d known—” Mistmane stops. She turns away, her cheeks flushed. “Maybe it’s best we drop the discussion about the refugees for now and sort out the rift between us. Perhaps even…” her voice becomes meek, hesitant. She tucks a strand of mane behind her ear. “W-well, I wouldn’t mind discussing some possibilities. Privately?” Sable stops. A moment of clarity. “Alone? Just us?” “Yes.” She looks at Sable. Her expression is flustered, colour in her cheeks. “To talk about my… our feelings.” “She plans to kill Sable.” “... No, I won’t be fooled.” Sable’s voice hardens. “I’m not trying to fool you, Sable,” Mistmane says. She takes a step toward her. “I really do just want to talk. It doesn’t even have to be about your crush. I just want my best friend back.” Hesitation. Sable is swayed by her friend’s sincerity. She thinks that maybe the paranoia she feels is just a fabrication of the narrator. “Sable has had enough of this facade. She takes the knife hidden in her mane with her magic and stabs Mistmane.” “What?!” Sable cries. Mistmane takes a step back, startled. “Is it really that shocking that I consider you my best friend?” “No! No, it’s—” panic grips Sable’s voice. “Sable takes the knife in her magic and stabs Mistmane.” “I won’t do it!” Sable yells. “You can’t make me!” “What?” Concern tinges Mistmane’s voice. She moves closer as Sable backs away. “Sable, please, tell me what’s going on. I’m worried.” “Sable Takes the Knife and Stabs Mistmane.” “No!” Sable clutches her head, willing the voice to stop. It takes all of her will to keep her magic turned off. Mistmane stretches out a hoof toward her. “Stay back!” Sable shouts. “I just want to help,” Mistmane says. “Let me help.” “Use Your Magic.” “You are the last person that can help me! You need to stay away!” Sable cries. Tears flow from her eyes. “Take The Knife.” “Let me in, Sable,” Mistmane says soothingly. “You can trust me.” But you can’t trust me, Sable thinks to herself. “And Kill Her.” “Go away, Misty!” “Kill Her.” “Leave! Please!” “KILL. HER.” Sable screams. Cue. Turn on Spotlight. Focus on Mistmane and Sable. Turn off Stage Lights. Sable grabs the knife within her mane with her magic and stabs Mistmane through the heart. There is disbelief on Mistmane’s face. Blood spurts from the wound as the life slowly drains out of her. She looks at Sable. Shock morphs into a soft smile. She touches the side of her face with a hoof. She drops to the floor with a thump, knife still embedded in her chest. Sable looks down at her friend. She breathes raggedly. Panic consumes her mind. Shock forces her body to stay still. After a few moments, Sable sees the slow gasping breaths of Mistmane stop as she lays still on the floor. Mistmane is dead. Episode III: ReformationLocation. We are in the palace. Sable stands over the corpse of Mistmane. Blood covers her and pools on the floorboards. The knife is still plunged into Mistmane’s body. Cue. Spotlight on Sable. “No,” Sable says. She shakes her head. She clutches the sides of her head willing the gruesome display to disappear. “No, no, no, no, no—” “The Usurper has been killed.” “—No, no, no, no, no—” “But the Empress doesn’t know what to do with the corpse of Mistmane.” “—No, no, no, no, no—” “Leaving the body would embolden the villagers to riot. But simply disposing of it went against her twisted jealousy-fueled love.” “—No, no, no, no, no—” “She comes up with the only conceivable solution to salvage the situation.” “—No, no, no, no, no—” “She puts on Mistmane’s skin.” Sable stops. She perks her ears, unsure of what she heard. “She puts on Mistmane’s skin.” She backs away from the corpse. An invisible force stops her and pulls her back, closer to the dead body of her friend. “She Puts On Mistmane’s Skin.” She struggles. Her magic takes the bloody knife out of the body and holds it up against her will. Tears come to her eyes. Panic begins to set in as she feels the sharp teeth of a trap start to close on her. “ShE PuTs ON MiStMaNe’s SkIn.” She is next to the corpse. She sobs. She fights against her fate. She fails. Her magic raises the knife. “No, please!” She begs. “SHE PUTS ON MISTMANE’S SKIN.” Sable holds the knife above her, ready to begin its horrific work. She tries in vain to stop the inevitable. SHE. Through tears and shrieks, she PUTS forces her will to bend to her, to stop the course of this disgusting act. But all ON of it is futile. The play will go on. It must reach its conclusion. Sable MISTMANE’S will fulfill her role. The accursed wretch. To reach the bow, the curtain call, the applause she must put on Mistmane’s SKIN. Tension. The audience beyond view watches in rapt attention. She sees them. She sees how focused they are on her. They do not even see the beautiful corpse, only her. The attention feels good despite the situation. To be the only thing that matters in so many eyes. In spite of herself, she smiles. The knife plunges down. Cue. Turn off all Lights. “It is a gruesome display. The work is grueling. Wet schlocks of metal through flesh echo through the palace. Piece by piece is removed, shorn off, and stitched together again through magic. The final suit is perfect, beautiful. It is ready to be worn.” “She adorns it. Slowly. It fits snugly over her body, hugging close to her fur. She feels whole. She feels like she has moved on from the pathetic helpless mare she was.” “Sable dies. Mistmane revives.” Cue. Spotlight on Mistmane. Under the lights, stands a tall mare. She has pale purple fur and a wispy blue mane that is held in a bun with a long red-stained knife. She smiles. It is radiant. A twinkle in her eye gives the illusion of hearts. All of it is a facade. Mistmane sees the audience. They are ensnared by her, unable to look anywhere else. She relishes the attention. “Once ready, she—” “I can take things from here,” Mistmane interrupts. Her voice is like the tinkling of bells. She adores it. “Just enjoy the rest of the show and be ready for my curtain call.” “... Very well. Continue.” Her grin widens. Its like a predator’s that has caught its prey. “Crew. Bring in Set: Palace Entrance.” Cue. Bring in Set: Palace Entrance. Village Crowd enters from Stage Left and Stage Right. Turn on Stage Lights. Crocodile tears fall from Mistmane’s eyes. She pans across the crowd in fake mourning. She is still beautiful. “I have terrible news, everyone,” she says. “What is it?” “Is it about the Empress?” “Has she reconsidered keeping the refugees out?” “The Empress. She—” a choked sob to show the facsimile of grief “— is dead.” A panicked murmur spreads through the crowd. “She became jealous and tried to attack me.” More murmurs. Harsher now. “I defended myself and—” another sob “—She plunged to her death off the edge of the palace terrace!” Shouts. Tears. Outrage. “Calm down everyone!” Mistmane placates. She outwardly shows concern but internally is giddy at the disquiet. “We must remain strong in spite of this tragic event.” “What do we do?!” “We will need to nominate a leader to rule in place of the Empress in the interim. Until quieter times persist, allowing us to find a suitable replacement,” Mistmane explains. A thoughtful silence descends upon the crowd. “What about you?” A lone voice asks. “...Me?” Mistmane brings a hoof to her chest. She is unsurprised at this turn of events, but it's important to show that she had not expected this possibility. “I couldn’t possibly.” “But you are the most beautiful!” “The kindest!” “Who else but our best?!” She lets the praise wash over her. What she had craved for so long that her friend had received unconditionally. She struggles to remain mournful as the overwhelming desire to smile in glee envelops her. “If you all insist, then I shall.” A cheer. “And, as my first act… open the gates! The refugees have waited long enough!” Another cheer. The crowd surges. The doors are opened. In mere moments, cheers turn to screams as the plague billows in. A cloud of poison and pestilence carried by the decrepit corpses of the refugee ponies that had pressed up against the door in desperation. In moments, the village is infected. In weeks, all of them will be dead. It was the end for them. Mistmane fought back the urge to say she had told them so. “Thus ends our story of woe. A tragedy so great that—” “May I make a request?” Mistmane asks. She looks past the audience, past the seats, past the lights, and to the booth in which her unseen narrator sits. A silhouette in stark contrast to the world around it. As if it didn’t belong there. “...I do not normally take requests.” “I think you’ll like this one,” Mistmane says. “Have you ever considered a partner?” “... You wish to join with me?” “I do,” Mistmane replies. “Intriguing… Very well. You are one of my best main leads. It is only proper that you should be offered the position.” “Excellent. Now, how do we start?” Mistmane asks. “By closing out.” “Ah yes of course. The finale. Cue. lights off! Spotlight on me!” Cue. Turn off Stage Lights. Spotlight on Mistmane. “Thank you, now—” She clears her throat “—let us conclude this venture. “We present to you the end of our sordid tale. A tale of jealousy, ugliness and reformation. Do not look back on the tragedy to pass… but to the tragedy to come. Join us again as we weave you a story of tragic ends. For now, though, we bid you, adieu.” Mistmane bowed. Cue. Turn off Spotlight. Close Curtains. Exodus“It’s tiresome,” Mistmane remarked. She leaned over the front row seat from the back, a bored expression on her face. “No one wants to hear my tale told yet again, Melpomene.” “We disagree,” Melpomene said. A tall golden unicorn wearing a cracked white mask over her face. She had thick ropes of brown mane that wrapped around her like a noose. “It is a classic. One of my best.” “Another word for boring.” Mistmane sighed in exasperation. “And cheesy, considering your favour toward me.” “We would have it known that classics are classics for more than simply entertainment. They pass on culture from the ancient past, and grant a look into the mindset of the people at the time.” “But they are overdone,” Mistmane said, exasperated. “Where is the originality? The thrill of the new? You cannot expect me to believe that you can just repackage the same stories over and over again as if the audience won’t become bored of it?” “There are always new people to reach. To recount an old tale to. It is true that some tales have been told so many times as to have aspects of it be given the moniker of trope, however, to have earned that title means to have become beloved and enjoyed by many.” Melpomene upturned her nose. “It is not our fault that you have no taste.” “No taste? No taste?” Mistmane scoffed. “If I had no taste, could I have conceived of this glorious end?” She swept her hoof across the stage. A single spotlight lit up the scene. A mare was strung up by curtains like a broken marionette. She hung limply, mascara and tears dripping down her face. She was dressed in the finest of the Manehattan Ballet, but would never be able to dance in it. Melpomene circled the wretched thing with an appraising eye. After a moment, she stopped, then let out an indignant huff. “We suppose we must admit it is fine work. What was the theme?” “Falling star!” Mistmane announced with a sweep of her hooves. “A glorious rendition of bitter jealousy.” “Did you not perform that theme a few weeks ago with that one Wonderbolt? What was her name… Bolt Streak?” “Not even close, Mel, but no. That was associated with a fall from grace, this one is about succumbing to one’s own hubris.” “A play of the egos? Intriguing. What was the trigger?” “Jealousy toward her understudy, whom she felt would usurp her.” Mistmane placed her head on a hoof, a mischievous grin on her face. “I thought it appropriate, considering our relationship.” “I see you still have that cheekiness you’ve always had.” She grabbed the mare’s face. She studied it, tasting the tragedy of her. It was exquisite. “We like it, and will graciously admit that you have a modicum of taste.” “Modicum, she says.” Mistmane tsked, crossing her forehooves over her chest as she leaned back in her seat. “Is this satisfactory, then? Good enough to perhaps have earned a vacation away from the stage?” “Yes, you have earned it. Especially as we must lie low for a while. We cannot be caught as we are currently.” “By whom? The knights of the black sun?” A snort. “They have been in decline for centuries. Hardly someone to concern ourselves with.” “They are not whom I am worried about. There are rumblings of others returning from their long sleep, and I do not wish it to be known that we were never contained.” “... You have concerns about the other pillars?” Mistmane muttered, a dark undertone to her voice. “As life continues its circular path ever onward, so too, inevitably, do its trials and tribulations return.” Mistmane scowled. “Well, I have no interest in dealing with that madcap pack of nuisances. I think I’ll go visit Vanhoover and enjoy some much-needed spa time. You will keep me informed?” “Yes. Do not concern yourself with this matter. Enjoy your vacation.” With Melpomene’s permission acquired, Mistmane left the theater. Once the doors had closed behind her, the lights turned off, save a single spotlight upon Melpomene. She took off her mask, revealing the mess of scorch marks and scars that marred what once might have been a beautiful face. She lifted her hooves up toward the sky and to the invisible audience beyond. The eyes were upon her. “Thus ends our current tale of woe, from past to present. We have achieved what you have sought, yet we feel you claw your way from the depths, rage in your heart and the whims of boredom on your wings. Are you satisfied? Does this please you? Is this enough? Tell me, Apollo. After all this needless strife, are you finally sated? Or do you find the hole in your heart expand with a greater need to be filled?” Melpomene lowered her hooves, placing her mask back onto her face. She bowed. As was proper. Applause heard only by two roared through the theater. The spotlight turned off. The curtains closed. The show was over, but a sequel was soon to come.
ForewordWelcome, my patient and bloodthirsty audience, to the show. I, Melpomene, shall regale you with a tragic tale. A sordid story woven together by myself about two young mares, entwined forevermore. One, a gifted beauty of renown. The other, a blight to her people. These two different lives will affect each other in inconceivable ways, eventually culminating in an end no one could have foretold. Lady mares, gentle stallions, and all those in between or beyond, I implore you to take a seat, partake of a beverage of your choice, and steel thyself for a tragedy of untold proportions. A tale of jealousy, ugliness, and reformation. Of a disturbed youth caught between the throes of envy and adoration. My magnum opus. I present to you, Beauty and the Wretch. Enjoy.
Episode I: JealousyLocation. We are in a palace of redwood and bamboo within an isolated village deep in the mountains. Two mares lounge underneath a large willow tree on a sunny spring day. Cue. Spotlight on Sable Spirit and Mistmane. “We begin our story as any other, with our two leading ladies resting under the shade of the willow, away from the midafternoon sun.” Sable Spirit rubs her head with a hoof. “My goodness, I must be feeling more under the weather than I thought.” “Are you alright?” Mistmane asks. “Is it a migraine?” “Potentially. It is the only explanation I could muster as to why I would be hearing such strange voices in my head.” “What kind of strange voices?” “One of these maidens, Sable Spirit, was hearing my sensual voice narrating her life. She was actually not concerned about having a potential headache, as she felt none of the usual aches. Rather, she worried that I was going to talk about Sable’s infatuation with Mistmane, and that her crush could also hear this narration.” “Nothing important!” Sable yells. She turns her head away to hide the colour in her cheeks. “Are you sure?” Mistmane asks. “Yes, Misty, I’m sure.” Sable takes a moment to collect herself. “Now, let us return to the topic of—” Cue. Second Spotlight on Stage Left. Guard #1 enters. “What is with these strange lights?” Sable mutters. “What lights?” Mistmane asks. “The— nevermind. It’s probably nothing.” The guard draws up just short of the two mares. The second light source tracks him in the bright morning light. He salutes. “Empress, I have grave news!” “She didn’t know it yet, but this news would change the course of Sable’s life forevermore.” “We’ll see about that,” Sable mutters, then louder, “what happened?” “There are reports of a strange disease in some of the nearby settlements. Refugees are coming here in droves seeking shelter from it,” Guard #1 reports. “Oh goodness. I hope we have enough room for them,” Mistmane says. “How gracious of you, Lady Mistmane,” Guard #1 replies. “Little did they know that the disease was a plague so infectious that to allow even a single refugee into the village would kill everyone inside.” “What?!” Sable shouts. “Sable, what’s wrong?” Mistmane asks, startled by her outburst. Guard #1 readies his weapon immediately. He is on high alert. “Empress, where is the assailant?!” “There is no assailant, I-I was just… startled… by the direness of the situation,” Sable says. “Ah, yes.” Guard #1 eases back into his previous position. “It is truly an unfortunate circumstance.” “I agree.” Mistmane says. “When will they arrive so that we can tend to them as soon as possible?” “They should be here in a day’s time,” Guard #1 replies. “With knowledge of the disaster, Sable acted decisively.” “We cannot allow them entry!” Sable cries. She covers her mouth with her hooves, shocked by the words that came out. “Why not?” Mistmane asks. “They are ill. We can help them.” “Sable reiterated her stance.” “They cannot come in. It could put everyone here at risk,” Sable explains. “But if we do nothing, they will die!” Mistmane exclaims. “Sable did not care about these outsiders. Only her own people.” “As the Empress, I have a duty to my people, and these refugees pose too much of a risk,” Sable says. She internally rages against her inability to stop the words that flow from her. “We will not let them in.” “Silence filled the space as Mistmane looks at Sable with disappointment and the Guard with disgust.” Sable flinches. “... Very well, Empress.” Guard #1 salutes. “I will relay your command.” Cue. Guard #1 exits Stage Left. Guard #1 Spotlight off. “I’m disappointed, Sable,” Mistmane says. She stands up. “I need to think of—” “Your people.” Mistmane hangs her head. “I understand. I don’t agree with it, but I understand.” Cue. Mistmane exits Stage Right. “Sable feels immeasurable guilt at the choice she made.” “That wasn’t my choice!” Sable yells. “But, she stands resolute about her decision. The village must survive.” Sable tries to stand with the intention of reversing her decision, but finds herself forced to lay where she is by some unknown means. “News of her command spreads quickly through the village.” Cue. Bring in Set: Village #1, Village #2, and Village #3. Old Mare and Old Stallion enter on Set Village #1. Young Guard and Old Guard enter on Set Village #2. Cute Foal, Loud Foal, and Quiet Foal enter on Set Village #3. Turn on Stage Lights. Keep Spotlight focused on Sable. “How is this possible?!” Sable exclaims. “I’m in the palace. How—” “I knew she was no good,” the Old Mare says, unknowingly interrupting the Empress. “She’s a shame to the royal line.” “That Sable was a mistake,” the Old Stallion says. “Such a cruel Empress, unlike her mother.” “Excuse me?!” Sable cries. “I wish we had someone else as our ruler,” Young Guard says. “Someone kinder than our despot of an Empress.” “Keep it quiet, idiot!” Older Guard punches his companion on the shoulder. “She might hear you.” “Too late for that,” Sable mutters. “Come on. You gotta admit that there’s a better option than her.” Young Guard says. “We already have an Empress to serve, we do not need another,” Old Guard retorts. “Really?” Young Guard questions. “There’s no one else you can think of that is better suited to the throne?” “Well,” Old Guard looks askance. “If I had to choose someone else to lead us…” “... It would be the prettiest mare in the village!” Cute Foal continues. “The smartest and nicest mare!” Loud Foal exclaims. “Someone who can be trusted over our big meanie Empress,” Quiet Foal agrees. “Sable feels her heart sink as she guesses to whom they speak of.” “I don’t need some random voice to tell me what I already know,” Sable says, bitterness in her voice. “It’s been the same since I was young.” “She already knows she’s inferior to her friend.” Sable scowls. “If only Mistmane could be our Empress,” Old Mare says. “Now that mare follows our values,” Old Stallion says. “It’s clear who should be on the throne. A beautiful soul, not a gnarled wretch.” A growl emanates from Sable’s throat. “Mistmane would lead us right,” Young Guard says. “She is the better option,” Old Guard agrees. “Sable could never measure up to the greatness of her secret crush.” Rage builds inside of Sable, threatening to spill over. “I want Mistmane to be our Empress,” Cute Foal announces. “Me too!” Loud Foal adds. “Definitely not that icky Sable,” Quiet Foal adds. “Sable is incapable. Sable cannot compete. Sable is cruel.” “What a shame!” “A disgrace!” “A failure!” “Incompetent!” “Worthless!” “A—” “Enough!” Sable screams. Cue. Turn off Stage Lights. Leave Spotlight on Sable. “The unloved Empress collapses to the ground. She cries at the unfairness of it all. She is nothing compared to Mistmane.” “Leave me be!” Sable cries. Wet tears blur her eyes. “This is all your fault!” “She blames fate.” “I blame you!” Sable shouts. “But she has only her own mediocrity to blame.” Sable howls in anguish. It embodies her emotions, her hidden pain, her unrequited love. She falls to the ground. She curls in on herself. “So be it.” Her crying subsides. “She is the Empress.” She gets up. The tears are gone. “What is a mere Peasant going to do to her?” Sable stares off into the distance. She feels an unseen audience waiting on her next action. A bevy of eyes boring into her, demanding that they be entertained. She will oblige. “With jealousy in her heart, it was only a matter of time before the ugliness reared its head.” She has no choice in the matter.
Episode II: UglinessLocation. We are in the palace. Focus on our lead, Sable Spirit. She sits upon her throne. She fiddles with a knife hidden in her mane, disguised as a pin that was given to her by the Guard. Mistmane enters from Stage Left. Cue. Turn on stage lights. “Nearly two weeks after the initial report about the refugees, Mistmane approaches Sable with concerns about her decisions regarding the situation.” “Like everyone else,” Sable mutters. “Sable, why have you resorted to violence against the refugees?” Mistmane asks. Sable looks down at her. Her eyes show disdain. “They are infected.” “And they need help.” “They can get help somewhere else.” “But they’re here now!” “And ready to kill off our entire village!” Sable slams a hoof on her throne. She takes a moment to calm down, then descends from her perch. She struts toward Mistmane, head held high. “They are dangerous. You saw what happened to Lily when she tried to help them, did you not?” “We just need to be more careful,” Mistmane says. “Set up proper housing and quarantine. Isolate them in such a way to keep us safe but allow us to care for them.” “Except if even one pony makes a mistake, or one refugee decides they don’t like that arrangement, our entire village will be wiped out.” Sable narrows her eyes. “No, they stay outside the gates.” “... Fine,” Mistmane relents. “I know I cannot get you to budge on this matter, but I ask again, must you use force against them?” “They tried to charge the gates!” Sable stomps a hoof to emphasize her point. “A direct attack!” “Because they are desperate!” Mistmane pleads. “If you will not offer them shelter, then can you not at least offer them some modicum of mercy?” “For bringing a plague to our village?!” Mistmane hangs her head. “Mistmane was disappointed in her friend. She had expected better from Sable.” “Don’t give me that!” Sable snaps. “Give you what?” Mistmane asks. She raises her head sharply. “All this judgement and pity.” She spits the last word. Her rage begins to build again. A common state in the last two weeks. “I don’t need you to rub it in how much better you are than me.” “What? I don’t—” “I hear what the townspeople say!” Sable interrupts. “They want you on the throne. To depose me. Well, too bad! You’ll never have it!” “Where is this coming from, Sable? I don’t want the throne!” “She lies to Sable.” “Yes, you do!” Sable snarls. She pushes her face into Mistmane’s. “The townspeople are planning a coup, aren’t they? Trying to take me down behind my back!” “No! Sable, I’m your friend. I would never do that to you.” Mistmane reaches out a hoof. “She plans to hurt Sable.” “Don’t touch me!” Sable swats away Mistamne’s hoof and backs away. “How dare you try to touch the Empress!” “Sable, please, calm down.” Mistmane placates. “We can talk about this. You just need to take a moment to breathe.” She smiles sweetly. It causes Sable’s heart to yearn. “She abuses Sable’s love for her to get closer.” “No! I will not let my feelings sway me. You won’t hurt me!” Sable cries. “Feelings? Sable, what do you mean by—” “You know what I mean!” Sabel snaps. “I don’t…” Mistmane studies Sable for a moment. Realization spreads across her features. She brings a hoof up as she gasps. “Sable, do you—?!” “Do not act naive! You’ve been toying with me!” “No! I didn’t know. If I’d known—” Mistmane stops. She turns away, her cheeks flushed. “Maybe it’s best we drop the discussion about the refugees for now and sort out the rift between us. Perhaps even…” her voice becomes meek, hesitant. She tucks a strand of mane behind her ear. “W-well, I wouldn’t mind discussing some possibilities. Privately?” Sable stops. A moment of clarity. “Alone? Just us?” “Yes.” She looks at Sable. Her expression is flustered, colour in her cheeks. “To talk about my… our feelings.” “She plans to kill Sable.” “... No, I won’t be fooled.” Sable’s voice hardens. “I’m not trying to fool you, Sable,” Mistmane says. She takes a step toward her. “I really do just want to talk. It doesn’t even have to be about your crush. I just want my best friend back.” Hesitation. Sable is swayed by her friend’s sincerity. She thinks that maybe the paranoia she feels is just a fabrication of the narrator. “Sable has had enough of this facade. She takes the knife hidden in her mane with her magic and stabs Mistmane.” “What?!” Sable cries. Mistmane takes a step back, startled. “Is it really that shocking that I consider you my best friend?” “No! No, it’s—” panic grips Sable’s voice. “Sable takes the knife in her magic and stabs Mistmane.” “I won’t do it!” Sable yells. “You can’t make me!” “What?” Concern tinges Mistmane’s voice. She moves closer as Sable backs away. “Sable, please, tell me what’s going on. I’m worried.” “Sable Takes the Knife and Stabs Mistmane.” “No!” Sable clutches her head, willing the voice to stop. It takes all of her will to keep her magic turned off. Mistmane stretches out a hoof toward her. “Stay back!” Sable shouts. “I just want to help,” Mistmane says. “Let me help.” “Use Your Magic.” “You are the last person that can help me! You need to stay away!” Sable cries. Tears flow from her eyes. “Take The Knife.” “Let me in, Sable,” Mistmane says soothingly. “You can trust me.” But you can’t trust me, Sable thinks to herself. “And Kill Her.” “Go away, Misty!” “Kill Her.” “Leave! Please!” “KILL. HER.” Sable screams. Cue. Turn on Spotlight. Focus on Mistmane and Sable. Turn off Stage Lights. Sable grabs the knife within her mane with her magic and stabs Mistmane through the heart. There is disbelief on Mistmane’s face. Blood spurts from the wound as the life slowly drains out of her. She looks at Sable. Shock morphs into a soft smile. She touches the side of her face with a hoof. She drops to the floor with a thump, knife still embedded in her chest. Sable looks down at her friend. She breathes raggedly. Panic consumes her mind. Shock forces her body to stay still. After a few moments, Sable sees the slow gasping breaths of Mistmane stop as she lays still on the floor. Mistmane is dead.
Episode III: ReformationLocation. We are in the palace. Sable stands over the corpse of Mistmane. Blood covers her and pools on the floorboards. The knife is still plunged into Mistmane’s body. Cue. Spotlight on Sable. “No,” Sable says. She shakes her head. She clutches the sides of her head willing the gruesome display to disappear. “No, no, no, no, no—” “The Usurper has been killed.” “—No, no, no, no, no—” “But the Empress doesn’t know what to do with the corpse of Mistmane.” “—No, no, no, no, no—” “Leaving the body would embolden the villagers to riot. But simply disposing of it went against her twisted jealousy-fueled love.” “—No, no, no, no, no—” “She comes up with the only conceivable solution to salvage the situation.” “—No, no, no, no, no—” “She puts on Mistmane’s skin.” Sable stops. She perks her ears, unsure of what she heard. “She puts on Mistmane’s skin.” She backs away from the corpse. An invisible force stops her and pulls her back, closer to the dead body of her friend. “She Puts On Mistmane’s Skin.” She struggles. Her magic takes the bloody knife out of the body and holds it up against her will. Tears come to her eyes. Panic begins to set in as she feels the sharp teeth of a trap start to close on her. “ShE PuTs ON MiStMaNe’s SkIn.” She is next to the corpse. She sobs. She fights against her fate. She fails. Her magic raises the knife. “No, please!” She begs. “SHE PUTS ON MISTMANE’S SKIN.” Sable holds the knife above her, ready to begin its horrific work. She tries in vain to stop the inevitable. SHE. Through tears and shrieks, she PUTS forces her will to bend to her, to stop the course of this disgusting act. But all ON of it is futile. The play will go on. It must reach its conclusion. Sable MISTMANE’S will fulfill her role. The accursed wretch. To reach the bow, the curtain call, the applause she must put on Mistmane’s SKIN. Tension. The audience beyond view watches in rapt attention. She sees them. She sees how focused they are on her. They do not even see the beautiful corpse, only her. The attention feels good despite the situation. To be the only thing that matters in so many eyes. In spite of herself, she smiles. The knife plunges down. Cue. Turn off all Lights. “It is a gruesome display. The work is grueling. Wet schlocks of metal through flesh echo through the palace. Piece by piece is removed, shorn off, and stitched together again through magic. The final suit is perfect, beautiful. It is ready to be worn.” “She adorns it. Slowly. It fits snugly over her body, hugging close to her fur. She feels whole. She feels like she has moved on from the pathetic helpless mare she was.” “Sable dies. Mistmane revives.” Cue. Spotlight on Mistmane. Under the lights, stands a tall mare. She has pale purple fur and a wispy blue mane that is held in a bun with a long red-stained knife. She smiles. It is radiant. A twinkle in her eye gives the illusion of hearts. All of it is a facade. Mistmane sees the audience. They are ensnared by her, unable to look anywhere else. She relishes the attention. “Once ready, she—” “I can take things from here,” Mistmane interrupts. Her voice is like the tinkling of bells. She adores it. “Just enjoy the rest of the show and be ready for my curtain call.” “... Very well. Continue.” Her grin widens. Its like a predator’s that has caught its prey. “Crew. Bring in Set: Palace Entrance.” Cue. Bring in Set: Palace Entrance. Village Crowd enters from Stage Left and Stage Right. Turn on Stage Lights. Crocodile tears fall from Mistmane’s eyes. She pans across the crowd in fake mourning. She is still beautiful. “I have terrible news, everyone,” she says. “What is it?” “Is it about the Empress?” “Has she reconsidered keeping the refugees out?” “The Empress. She—” a choked sob to show the facsimile of grief “— is dead.” A panicked murmur spreads through the crowd. “She became jealous and tried to attack me.” More murmurs. Harsher now. “I defended myself and—” another sob “—She plunged to her death off the edge of the palace terrace!” Shouts. Tears. Outrage. “Calm down everyone!” Mistmane placates. She outwardly shows concern but internally is giddy at the disquiet. “We must remain strong in spite of this tragic event.” “What do we do?!” “We will need to nominate a leader to rule in place of the Empress in the interim. Until quieter times persist, allowing us to find a suitable replacement,” Mistmane explains. A thoughtful silence descends upon the crowd. “What about you?” A lone voice asks. “...Me?” Mistmane brings a hoof to her chest. She is unsurprised at this turn of events, but it's important to show that she had not expected this possibility. “I couldn’t possibly.” “But you are the most beautiful!” “The kindest!” “Who else but our best?!” She lets the praise wash over her. What she had craved for so long that her friend had received unconditionally. She struggles to remain mournful as the overwhelming desire to smile in glee envelops her. “If you all insist, then I shall.” A cheer. “And, as my first act… open the gates! The refugees have waited long enough!” Another cheer. The crowd surges. The doors are opened. In mere moments, cheers turn to screams as the plague billows in. A cloud of poison and pestilence carried by the decrepit corpses of the refugee ponies that had pressed up against the door in desperation. In moments, the village is infected. In weeks, all of them will be dead. It was the end for them. Mistmane fought back the urge to say she had told them so. “Thus ends our story of woe. A tragedy so great that—” “May I make a request?” Mistmane asks. She looks past the audience, past the seats, past the lights, and to the booth in which her unseen narrator sits. A silhouette in stark contrast to the world around it. As if it didn’t belong there. “...I do not normally take requests.” “I think you’ll like this one,” Mistmane says. “Have you ever considered a partner?” “... You wish to join with me?” “I do,” Mistmane replies. “Intriguing… Very well. You are one of my best main leads. It is only proper that you should be offered the position.” “Excellent. Now, how do we start?” Mistmane asks. “By closing out.” “Ah yes of course. The finale. Cue. lights off! Spotlight on me!” Cue. Turn off Stage Lights. Spotlight on Mistmane. “Thank you, now—” She clears her throat “—let us conclude this venture. “We present to you the end of our sordid tale. A tale of jealousy, ugliness and reformation. Do not look back on the tragedy to pass… but to the tragedy to come. Join us again as we weave you a story of tragic ends. For now, though, we bid you, adieu.” Mistmane bowed. Cue. Turn off Spotlight. Close Curtains.
Exodus“It’s tiresome,” Mistmane remarked. She leaned over the front row seat from the back, a bored expression on her face. “No one wants to hear my tale told yet again, Melpomene.” “We disagree,” Melpomene said. A tall golden unicorn wearing a cracked white mask over her face. She had thick ropes of brown mane that wrapped around her like a noose. “It is a classic. One of my best.” “Another word for boring.” Mistmane sighed in exasperation. “And cheesy, considering your favour toward me.” “We would have it known that classics are classics for more than simply entertainment. They pass on culture from the ancient past, and grant a look into the mindset of the people at the time.” “But they are overdone,” Mistmane said, exasperated. “Where is the originality? The thrill of the new? You cannot expect me to believe that you can just repackage the same stories over and over again as if the audience won’t become bored of it?” “There are always new people to reach. To recount an old tale to. It is true that some tales have been told so many times as to have aspects of it be given the moniker of trope, however, to have earned that title means to have become beloved and enjoyed by many.” Melpomene upturned her nose. “It is not our fault that you have no taste.” “No taste? No taste?” Mistmane scoffed. “If I had no taste, could I have conceived of this glorious end?” She swept her hoof across the stage. A single spotlight lit up the scene. A mare was strung up by curtains like a broken marionette. She hung limply, mascara and tears dripping down her face. She was dressed in the finest of the Manehattan Ballet, but would never be able to dance in it. Melpomene circled the wretched thing with an appraising eye. After a moment, she stopped, then let out an indignant huff. “We suppose we must admit it is fine work. What was the theme?” “Falling star!” Mistmane announced with a sweep of her hooves. “A glorious rendition of bitter jealousy.” “Did you not perform that theme a few weeks ago with that one Wonderbolt? What was her name… Bolt Streak?” “Not even close, Mel, but no. That was associated with a fall from grace, this one is about succumbing to one’s own hubris.” “A play of the egos? Intriguing. What was the trigger?” “Jealousy toward her understudy, whom she felt would usurp her.” Mistmane placed her head on a hoof, a mischievous grin on her face. “I thought it appropriate, considering our relationship.” “I see you still have that cheekiness you’ve always had.” She grabbed the mare’s face. She studied it, tasting the tragedy of her. It was exquisite. “We like it, and will graciously admit that you have a modicum of taste.” “Modicum, she says.” Mistmane tsked, crossing her forehooves over her chest as she leaned back in her seat. “Is this satisfactory, then? Good enough to perhaps have earned a vacation away from the stage?” “Yes, you have earned it. Especially as we must lie low for a while. We cannot be caught as we are currently.” “By whom? The knights of the black sun?” A snort. “They have been in decline for centuries. Hardly someone to concern ourselves with.” “They are not whom I am worried about. There are rumblings of others returning from their long sleep, and I do not wish it to be known that we were never contained.” “... You have concerns about the other pillars?” Mistmane muttered, a dark undertone to her voice. “As life continues its circular path ever onward, so too, inevitably, do its trials and tribulations return.” Mistmane scowled. “Well, I have no interest in dealing with that madcap pack of nuisances. I think I’ll go visit Vanhoover and enjoy some much-needed spa time. You will keep me informed?” “Yes. Do not concern yourself with this matter. Enjoy your vacation.” With Melpomene’s permission acquired, Mistmane left the theater. Once the doors had closed behind her, the lights turned off, save a single spotlight upon Melpomene. She took off her mask, revealing the mess of scorch marks and scars that marred what once might have been a beautiful face. She lifted her hooves up toward the sky and to the invisible audience beyond. The eyes were upon her. “Thus ends our current tale of woe, from past to present. We have achieved what you have sought, yet we feel you claw your way from the depths, rage in your heart and the whims of boredom on your wings. Are you satisfied? Does this please you? Is this enough? Tell me, Apollo. After all this needless strife, are you finally sated? Or do you find the hole in your heart expand with a greater need to be filled?” Melpomene lowered her hooves, placing her mask back onto her face. She bowed. As was proper. Applause heard only by two roared through the theater. The spotlight turned off. The curtains closed. The show was over, but a sequel was soon to come.
