Gothtavia

“Have you been reading too much Edgar Allan Trot lately?” Moondancer whispered into Octavia's ear.

“As cold in your opens as ever, Moondancer,” Octavia replied, not even sparing her a glance. “Hello to you, too.”

“Hi. It's weird to see you here after so long.”

“I assume it would be. I’d hoped you would be too caught up in your studies to greet me.”

“I was curious about the new look.”

Octavia cocked her eyebrow, taking a sharp breath. “Not much reading I can do these days, no. Anything that’s not a music sheet, that is. Composing is hard, and dying is easy.”

“Sure it is,” Moondancer humpf'd. “Gotta admit, you nailed the look, though.”

“Hm?”

“You know. Gothic look? That was what you were going for, right?”

“What are you insinuating?” Octavia asked.

“Don’t worry, I don’t blame you or anything.”

Octavia groaned, and returned to her tasks. Even these days, she'd rather give Moondancer silence than scorn.

“You know,” Moondancer said, failing to take the hint, “it all dates back to the banishment of Nightmare Moon, formerly known as Princess Luna, The Mistress of the Night, et cetera, et cetera. The style, the literature, and everything around it, emerged from a feeling of profound grief her once-loyalists held for her. They decided to mourn her and wore society's disapproval as a badge of honor.” Octavia heard the smirk in her voice as she continued. “But later, the whole part about a treacherous princess probably got lost in the transcript. Ponies must have just decided the aesthetic looked hot or something, and it became all the rage,” Moondancer said, ending with a shrug.

“Moondancer.” Octavia took a deep breath before continuing. “I will admit you are a scholar in several areas of magical studies. But do not lecture me.” She managed not to call her pedantic. Small victories.

“Look.” Moondancer would not quit. “If you're gonna call yourself a goth, at least learn about some of the history. Or even better, the literature.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not familiar with them already.”

“No, I just assumed you were above being a poser.”

“Who says I am?”

Moondancer huffed. “Name one artist, then.”

Far from stumbling at the question, Octavia reached for the cello on her back. Leaving the bow in its place, she struck the strings with her bare hooves. What could be best described as a bass riff, augmented by the acoustics of the building, blew Moondancer’s expectations —and almost, eardrums— into pieces.

"Me, of course," Octavia stated plainly, before being politely escorted out of the Canterlot library.