Octavia was, at heart, a Storyteller. She was as much of a storyteller as any earth pony could be. She had as much of a story as any other pony in Equestria could claim to have. She had always been fond of stories, from innocent foalhood tales read beside her bed as she drifted into slumber to dramatic theater ensnaring her attention for hours on end. Octavia’s very existence was a story. Everypony had a way to share their stories, be it through written word or by oral expression; storytellers telling tall tales to be told in pubs to impress friends or a reciting fables to liven the imaginations of foals sitting in circles around teachers. Octavia did not speak of her story.
This was not to say she couldn’t speak of her story, she simply chose not to. This is also not to say she didn’t want to speak of her story, she loved every last part of being a storyteller. She, like everypony else, had her own method of telling her stories. Words were an unnecessary burden for her stories, speech was wasted energy that could be spent in more productive ways. She was certainly not a writer, such a skill would require silent dexterity that the earth pony simply lacked; even in the many stories she had experienced, she had yet to find an earth pony that could effectively handle a quill between two hooves. She simply did not need to speak or write, nay, Octavia preferred to let her Cello speak for her.
Octavia the Musician, the Artist, the “Cello Pony”. If asked what she believed herself to be, she would choose the term, “Storyteller”. There would be no need to ask her, however. It would only take a single glance at the pony playing her instrument in the background for one to devise the countless stories the earth pony might have to tell. Not a word shall need be uttered nor written for this storyteller to share her stories. The low-pitched Cello would be her voice, the wooden bow would be her pen, and she would be the canvas of her artwork for everyone to admire as they saw fit.
The horse-string bow, gracefully held between her hoof and foreleg, gleefully wrote out the words of her tales. The Cello, strings gently tuned beneath her other hoof, sang of her complete love for her art. With each motion of the bow, another word would be spoken, more emotion will have been poured from her heart for her audience, breaths would be taken away. When a movement ended, another would begin and another scene would play in the respective minds of everypony within earshot. Her jokes would play in high-pitched fervor and her tragedies would drawl out in dark octaves that sent hearts into rough tumbles. Adrenaline would rush through her veins at the climax of her Acts before the tones drifting into an unconscious stupor as the resolution set in. The silence that followed the end of her performance would be the afterword of her musical novelization and not a single other sound will have been made.
And thus, those leaving the performance will have another story for themselves to share. Their various opinions would be taken to make the tales their own and they will return to their pubs with their friends or their circles of foals eagerly awaiting more foalhood fables. For her, this was all the musician could ask for, for her stories to be told and passed along their endless cycle while she would simply move along to absorb more stories. With her bow in one hoof and Cello in the other, she would remain in the background with her instruments and while she may only be known as the “Cello Pony”; Octavia was, at heart, a Storyteller.
