Cutie Marks were like scars in a way. If you had one, it meant that you'd done something to earn it. You'd gone out miles and miles (possibly) and risked life and limb and hair and tail (also possibly) for the sole purpose of achieving a goal or a series of goals. Maybe you believed that professional skydiving was your destiny in life, and so you'd gathered up sticks from the park near your house, loose-leaf paper from your school desk, and string from your shoddy kite lying prior happily in the garage, then ventured off in the dead of the night to go and practice your proclaimed talent atop the highest standing mountain in the country.
Perhaps you thought yourself to be a bit of an artist. As befell most "artists" of the decade, you became desperately starved and practically homeless in your search for worldwide fame. With an illegally bought spray can from a flea market and a blank subway wall, you spread your name across cities and technically achieved what you wanted, but not in the brightest light if any legal team bearing any semblance of a brain was to narrow an eye and glare up at it.
Possibly, you'd been called beautiful or even just simply attractive by random passersby, as creepy and/or unnerving as it sounded. Such an utterance of words had awoken some kind of fire inside your belly, one that caused you to rise up and try to seek a life as a model of some sort. Visions of lacey stocking magazine covers with your face on them and parties laden with alcohol and spiked drinks danced in your head like sugarplums on a Hearth's Warming Eve night, and so you'd relentlessly scoured markets and malls and boutiques just praying that some kind of big name celebrity in the modeling business just so happened to be visiting your lowly town with a population of less than a hundred middle-class ponies. Next thing you knew, you were lying on a stranger's couch in a windy city with dust under your burning nostrils and a sharp razor blade on the table in front of you, not a bit to your name but more than enough on your hospital bill.
Either way, the soft, attention-grabbing glow emanating from your flanks turned out to be a brighter light than the life you were leading. With a turn of your head and a blinking of your fatigue-crusted eyelids, you'd finally see what you were made to do. You'd be tired, homesick, hopeless, and nervous beyond all belief, but would it have been worth it? A blue bungee cord, or a splotchy paintbrush, or an open magazine on your ass didn't seem like much of a reward for hard work to her. Then again, she bore some kind of amalgamated purple treble clef and toted it around every place she dared walk across, so who was she to ponder?
She still wasn't quite sure why hers turned out like it did. Her family had always had a history with Cutie Marks related to music, and the anticipation for hers was nothing too well thought of. Her father's was a treble clef, befitting his name, and her mother's was a viola clef, befitting hers. Her older sister had a whole note, and her younger brother grew up to have a forte symbol. A quick tracing back to her family's history revealed to her long lines of quarter notes and rests and clefs and the likes, the most boring kind of scrapbook that just focused on old, dead pony flanks.
It had been a most bizarre series of events when Octavia had gotten hers. She played the double bass—a pretty obvious fact considering her career—which used the bass clef. On her flank was a treble clef, or at least a tried version of one that looked straight out of a filly coloring book. Why was it that the one thing she was born to do wasn't plastered on her side like everypony else? And why did it not even bear any remote resemblance to what it was supposed to be?
Her concerns weren't well-hidden—as she'd been rather vocal around that period of time—and so she'd gone to the local doctor's a day or two after getting her Cutie Mark. There, the licensed, kind, truthful ponies had told her and her family that little Octavia Philharmonica had a minor case of Mark Morphing, some kind of very made-up "disease" that Octavia was later shown as being very real, and very uncommon. It wasn't fatal, or even lethal in any case, but it was the reason her Cutie Mark looked so unlike the clef it so desired to be. To be fair, it... did feel kind of unique. She had a cool-looking Cutie Mark she could say was "mutated", which would quickly get her up to the tops of the social ladder at her grade school, because apparently sixth graders had huge hard-ons for things that just didn't make any sense.
Still though, her Cutie Mark had always been a strange thing to look at every morning in the fogged up mirror in her bathroom. Her wet mane and fur were constantly forgotten as Octavia opted on simply staring at her treble clef wannabe with the curiosity, wonderment, and outright mind boggled state of a self-conflicted pony standing in front of the McDuckle's cash registers. She'd seen such individuals many times during her nightly excursions. Just figure out what you wanted! Stop holding up the... darn line! If you couldn't decide whether you wanted fries or apples as your side dish, get the bloody hell out of the way so others could order what they wanted! Was it too much of an effort to step aside and figure it out on your own time?!
Some ponies just made no sense, really. Just two months ago, she'd been practicing with the Symphony up in Canterlot, and the day had been going as per usual: boring, overly long, and yawn-inducing. But it was work, and she enjoyed it, because she could play her bass. Anyway, the rehearsal was unusually quiet that day—which nopony complained about, because they all secretly hated each other—until two ponies in the viola section had ruined the peace with a rising-in-volume conversation about their weekend plans. This was, clearly, not supposed to occur in the slightest, and so Dan had taken his baton and practically snapped it in half across his stand. Still, the two conversing ponies continued to almost yell at each other, completely unaware and possibly not caring about where they were, who they were with, and what they were both doing and ceasing.
As it may have had it, they were promptly kicked out for the day and sent back home. Conversations may have been allowed in the room on a good day, but literal shouting matches were the haphazardly-drawn line in the sand.
Needless to say, Cutie Marks were odd, and hers was dumb. This tried symbol on both her flanks—stitched on her saddlebags back in Canterlot and apparently well-known in the music industry—was what she was recognized for. What somepony would see as she walked along the streets and immediately point a hoof at. What people would know as the Cutie Mark of one bass-playing Earth Pony. Why did it have to be so... outlandish?
As bad as hers may have been, it was at the very least acres better than Sesame's.
"What the hell is that thing?"
Octavia turned her attention back to the conversation at hoof, finding the Unicorn shutting his eyes with a long sigh. If it weren't for Valkyrie's incessant interrogations, she would've thought he was just in withdrawal after not having a cigarette for five minutes.
"It's a burger with a spatula behind it."
Octavia cast her glance downward to Sesame's flank. What appeared to be a pale brown macaroon with a radar dish shone at her and the likewise staring forms of Lavi and Valkyrie from the light leaking in above her and oh now she could see a burger and a spatula in there. She raised a brow, mane and ears flicking and moving with her head. She screwed up her face.
Valkyrie did the same, turning away slightly to silently judge him. Or something.
Lavi broke the pregnant pause with a stammered, "Is– is that a beef patty...?"
Sesame pressed his lips against his cheeks, and, for a second, Octavia could spot, analyze, and define the pain present in his eyes, but he pushed his head back and forth in a half-hearted nod.
Silence.
"That's messed up."
An absolutely disheartened chuckle. "Right?" Sesame asked, teeth glimmering despite it all.
Speaking of messed up, Octavia still needed to take a shower before the day was over. The staff would have surely cleaned up the room by now—if her looking at the clock, shoddy subtraction skills, and acknowledgment were any reliable tools—and the bathroom would be free if she called dibs on it when they stepped outside the library.
Oh Gods the maids probably thought it was her who had made the mess in the bathroom, not some much larger griffon with bladder issues. Lavi had probably subjected the poor ponies to one hell of a traumatizing time, and as they pulled off their hazmat suits and filtered gas masks, they were probably cursing Octavia with all their might, and not the heavily armored, spunky griffon. She sneered and crinkled her nose at the realization that, even if she had nothing to do with something, it always found its way into her lap.
The fact remained, though, that she really needed to wash up. Get the leaves and gunk out of her mane, and rid herself of the mud, dust, and other assorted natural atrocities she was exposed to on her unintended trip. Hopefully, the others wouldn't mind her actually going first. She didn't mean to be rude at all, but the griffons struck her as not particularly caring about their cleanliness. Travelling to and fro with heavy armor seemed to yield too much of a bother by taking it all off to splash in a creek. Adding onto that, if Sesame cared about being clean at all as well, he probably wouldn't have taken up his last job. Not to say that working in a fast food joint instantly marked you as filthy... but she'd seen his work environment. There was nothing really charming about open grease fryers and paper hats.
Then again, there was nothing too promising in a life as a double bassist, but at least she couldn't get salt or mud in her mane.
A series of thumps, a resounding slide, and a clicking of talons caught Octavia's attention yet again, bringing her back to Earth. Looking at the front counter, she found W grabbing the book she'd earlier searched through from the counter in front of the employee working it. The Pegasus, gray glasses propped atop her middle-aged nose, gave a kind smile and a wave as she spoke.
"It's due two weeks from now, as is our standard. You all have a good day now."
"We will, ma'am–"
"You too, miss–"
"See ya–"
"Whatever–"
"Later, beautiful."
Octavia and the librarian both cringed at that, then collectively rolled their eyes when the Unicorn followed the others toward the front door. Octavia, raising a hoof to do the same, suddenly stopped when the librarian called, "That means you too, Miss Philharmonica." She stopped and turned, opened her mouth to reply, worked her jaw, hummed absent-mindedly, looked to the floor, looked back into the other mare's eyes, and bunched up her cheeks in a small smile.
"Farewell, ma'am. Thank you for the help."
As Octavia trotted off at a noticeably quicker pace than she was intending to, the librarian's voice sounded out once more, almost causing her to trip into the door and into the sunlight of the outside world.
"Thank you for the music."
The bell hanging above the entryway jingle jangled as the group stepped back out onto the sidewalk of Baltimare. The blue sky burned Octavia's eyes, the scent of salt and fish assaulted her nostrils with their ghastly, strong odor, and the local ponies stopped to admire the odd group as they continued on their way. Lavi, squeeing quietly, grabbed the book from W's claws and pumped her closed fist against her armored chest.
"Score one for the Birds' Eyes!"
Birds' Eyes? Was that–
"Don't get too excited now. Still got an ocean left t' go," W explained, causing Lavi to deflate just a tad.
Squishing her beak together, Lavi crossed her arms. "You're no fun, ya old coot."
As they descended the steps, "I'm forty-two."
Valkyrie took a second to feignedly cough into a claw. "Mmmiddle age."
"Middle age?" W asked, looking at Valkyrie, "How about middle talon?" He held up his fist, displaying, as he'd foretold, his middle talon.
The apparent Birds' Eyes erupted in a fit of laughter. Sesame joined. Octavia gave him a scowl and a shake of her head. Sesame stopped.
Lavi, having descended from some kind of amusement high, sighed longingly, "Ahhhh, grind my gizzard that's some funny stuff."
"Being old's no joke, guys," Valkyrie claimed, waggling her eyebrows at her companions.
"What do you know about old, Val?" T inquired, almost scaring Octavia into believing some new individual had suddenly joined their conversation.
"I'm older than both of you–"
"Are you pulling the age card? Really?" Lavi replied, jaw slack.
"Three years–"
"Five for me," Lavi interrupted T, who seemed to not care in the slightest as the group started along the sidewalk. Octavia believed in that moment that T just didn't like talking in general, and that if anyone could stop him from engaging in the act, they were alright with him. She had to try that sometime today.
"Counts," Valkyrie sang.
"Barely," shot Lavi.
"How old are you, Octavia?" Valkyrie now directed her attention to the mare.
There was no real use in lying. She was going to be gone tomorrow anyway.
"Twenty-five."
Valkyrie snickered at Lavi's unexpected groan. Lifting a talon from her fist, the latter displayed it to Octavia with an exasperated, "Up by one! Goddammit!"
"What about you, Sesame?" Valkyrie motioned toward him with a nod of her head. The Unicorn shuffled for a second next to Octavia before quietly, almost hesitantly responding.
"Twenty-two."
Lavi d'awwed in an instant. "Aww, you're just a little baby."
"Shut up."
"C'mon now, leave him alone," W warned, snatching the book from Lavi’s grasp.
"Thank you–"
"He just needs his naptime is all."
Another burst of laughter. W, slowing his pace a little bit, nudged Sesame in the elbow with a grin as he passed by him, like an uncle who joked about your recently dead girlfriend. Quietly, Sesame narrowed his eyes and screwed up his face to keep up with the charade, but broke out a cigarette, lit it, and stuck it in his mouth before calling from ahead of the pack, "This baby'll give you secondhoof smoke if you're downwind of 'm."
"Ohhh!" Lavi whooped, holding her claws up to her beak.
"If he does that, he's getting strangled in his crib," W spat.
"Ohhhhhh!" Valkyrie hollered, making a wide circle with a closed fist next to her.
"Like Trainspying?" T asked.
"It died of neglect, not strangulation," Lavi corrected.
"Still creepy though," Valkyrie affirmed, lightly shivering under the hot sun.
"Oh yeah, no, super creep, " Lavi nodded fervently. Octavia had to agree. That ceiling scene was the most downright disturbing thing she'd ever seen in a movie, let alone real life. It just casually turned its heeeead and, it was like an owl and eugh! Gods, she was glad she wasn't watching Trainspying right now. There were things to be thankful for on a daily basis, and that was one of Octavia's for the day.
Lost in her thoughts, she barely avoided W when he accidentally slowed his pace too much, his own mind someplace else as he read from the book he'd checked out. Letting out a small gasp as she sidestepped the large griffon, Octavia raised a brow and watched his eyes go wide as well. Turning to face her as they continued back to the hotel, he cleared his throat.
"Sorry, Octavia."
"It's quite alright, W. We were both a little out of it there," the mare beamed, rolling her eyes.
A silence took over the two as W peered away at his book again. Octavia, looking to the clouds above her and to her left and right, asked, "So why that book in particular?"
"Hmm?" W hummed.
"I said, 'so why that'–"
"Oh," W muttered, shutting the mare up, "this was just one of the ones that actually explained what we needed."
Bugger her. There were a lot more books about artifacts back in that library. It was absolutely massive! They just hadn't gone and looked deep enough. Something quietly ached at her and told her that the group of griffons wasn't as used to unearthing old books for long night study sessions as she was. Gods, the Academy was one wild time.
Octavia smirked. "The Idol of Boreas, right?"
W clicked his beak. Lifting his chin up and staring at her out of the corner of his eyes, he responded in a low voice—which wasn't saying much considering him—and a likewise grumble, "That's the one, yeah."
"Why are you so disheartened telling me about it?" Octavia asked. Despite what she'd just said previously, his attitude was still easily detectable underneath all that gruff voice.
"Same reason we have codenames, Octavia–"
"Which you've spoiled twice, double-yew," Octavia interrupted with a sly grin and a furrowed brow.
"They would've told you at some point anyway." W opened his beak and gave a little note, then corrected, "Well, Lavi would have. Valkyrie would've given you a fake one that sounds vaguely like 'Andy Trout'."
Octavia giggled. "That wouldn't surprise me."
"Me neither."
The two continued to walk alongside each other. From up front, an argument about whether or not the seagulls flying above their heads could communicate with griffons rose up from underneath the noise of a bustling city raging like a forest fire around them. In the blistering heat of the long-past-afternoon sun, Octavia reached up and adjusted her bowtie. W, as if sensing her motions, idly moved his shemagh around.
W sucked in a breath, prompting a turning of Octavia's head.
"It's not here."
"What isn't?"
W cleared his throat, a rather impressive display that reminded Octavia of the subtle grinding process of hundreds of old razor blades. "I have a very strong feeling that the Idol is in Griffonia, not Equestria." He raised the book up and presently waggled it at her. "I also have a very strong feeling that this'll be enough to finally make my superiors realize it too."
"One book would be enough, you think?"
W looked at the novel, then turned it over in his claw. Studying it for a time, he said, "It's a shot that might as well be taken. I've been telling them for years that this whole excursion thing is just a waste of time. Never… actually… thought about getting another source to explain it to them until now. I'm sure though."
"Bloody well better," Octavia snapped, "you've gone through all this work in a foreign country, and still don't fancy a nice hike across the dreaded land of the ponies."
W chuckled. "Trust me, it's a lot less that, and more that we'd burn the whole damn place to the ground if it ended up surfacing over here." Either ignoring or simply not noticing Octavia's quiet eep and folding of her ears, he continued, "They'll focus their attention back on Griffonia itself, and maybe send more people eastward."
Octavia raised a brow. "You lot are rather committed to that Idol, aren't you?"
"It's an important one. We find it and, well…"
"'Well' what?"
W rolled his shoulders. "...well, the griffons will finally be up on top again." He dipped his head and looked at her. "I mean, not in a let's-conquer-everything-else-and-slaughter-thousands kind of way, of course. More like, um..."
Octavia snorted. "Morale."
"Simply, yes."
Octavia bunched up her cheeks in a grin as she watched W adjust his posture ever so slightly. The feeling of patriotism was practically burning off his armor plating. She sucked in a breath in a small gasp, catching the griffon's attention. Giving an open smile, she clucked her tongue and had a life-changing revelation.
"Glory," she said, nodding.
W raised an eyebrow.
"Lavi let slip back at the cave." She looked up. "Your name means 'glory'. Your real name, that is."
"Cute, huh?" W asked in the lowest voice he could muster, like one of her schoolmates after showing off her newly acquired Cutie Mark to the class.
"I would've said 'fitting', but I think 'admirable' is a good one, too."
"Admirable," W repeated, "admirable." He let a burst of air out of his nose, faced forward, then cracked a smile.
"Admirable," Octavia mimicked.
W hummed.
"I guess so," he said.