//------------------------------// // Conspiracey. // Story: Master of Death and the Equestrian Adventure. // by aliengirlguy //------------------------------// Morty could appreciate the skill behind the odd maneuver behind the scenes directed at his person that managed to get by his many centuries of experience in such matters. Mainly because, unlike in his youth, he'd been around long enough to see such paltry endeavors coming a long way off, and it was always a rare treat, whether enjoyable or not in its happening, to be surprised upon occasion. Harry eyed his current seating partners with a considering eye and could only say that yes, this was one of those times. He had perhaps become complacent under the influence of his second childhood, or perhaps it was all the cheerful pastels and bright smiles and helpful hooves, lulling him into a false sense of security that he was of no consequence enough in his second time around, or at least blended in the shadows enough, to avoid well meaning intervention on his behalf. Color him mildly surprised, and lesson learned, no matter how old the soul. Morty concluded it might have, perhaps, that magical ponies that broke out into song upon occasion for some reason, might make trying to slip into the shadows a tad more noticeable then if he had done a solo during the aptly named "Its a New Day, New Things to Learn" number that had broken out among his fellow newbies on the first day of classes. Currently, the Master of Death was sitting beside Shining Armour to his left, the colt he had assisted a few days ago in the cafeteria, Cadence across from him, and a colt he had never met before but could single out his ego from a long way off and thought that his introduction, Blueblood, the cousin that he vaguely remembered Cadence mentioning, lets just say he well lived up to his name. His language was impeccable, his posture perfect, his straight teeth shone whiter then his pelt, and while he still had a touch of the gangliness of youth, carried himself like a model about to step out onto the runway, with a healthy helping of diva.There was lots of "Well my Father said..." and "of course, they are just envious" and "Of course! I'm perfect!" through out his interactions with the unicorn. It made the cantankerous colt wonder if both Malfoy and Lockheart had been reborn in this universe as well, in the same body. He glared down at his ball of clay, part of their assignment was to use magic to mold the clay into anything that they wanted without outright transforming it. They were all currently in Visual Magical Arts Class and presently his erstwhile roommate was crafting what looked vaguely like a pony who'd eaten to many water melons trying to body slam a rock, though she had crisply informed Morty after his opinion had been asked by the eager filly, who had given him a sniff of disapproval over his frank appraisal, that it was actually two ponies slow dancing. Cadence may be the Princess of Love but it certainly didn't translate into artistic talent, much to her dismay. Shining Armour meanwhile was doing a bit better, having stuck to something simple, in this case a simple rounded vase for his Father and much to Morty and Cadence's jealousy was nearly done, carefully, with his tongue between his teeth, putting in the last etched spiral before he cast the glazing spell. Morty meanwhile let his magic amuse itself by molding the clay into whatever it felt like, not really caring either way, busying himself in pondering what the potential motivation behind this shift in seating was. He knew why Cadence and him were being forced to work together. It was no secret that the two of them didn't get along, with most of the fault laying admittedly on Morty's shoulders. Shinning Armour meanwhile was his friend, sort of, and wasn't to great at socializing with his other schoolmates, though unlike Morty, who was more apathetic, for completely different reasons, mainly that he was shy and tended to trend towards complex role playing games that were not very popular. Blueblood meanwhile had his copious admirers and a small cluster of minions. He was rich and part of the Royal family, and while one could argue that his connection through the royals to Cadence might be a reason, it was no secret that Cadence thought her cousin was insufferable, one of the few things that he and the Princess agreed upon. thus Morty concluded that this was perhaps an attempt by the staff to foster better relationships and personalities (Blueblood) by making the various problem students come together through seating arrangements and group projects like some sort of ponified Breakfest Club. Morty was brought out of his internal musings when Blueblood suddenly exclaimed. "I say...Mortimer is it?" "Morty," he corrected. "...Ah yes, I was just inquiring as to where you get your mane cut? It is so...delightfully bohemian." Morty frowned, running a hoof in his roughly cut short dark mane. His father had done it before he had left for school using garden shears from the shed. He said as much to Blueblood. Blueblood looked appalled, "Goodness! Did your father overindulge his Mead? Your stylist must have been so distraught!" Morty raised a brow, "my stylist? I don't have a stylist." "You...You don't have a Stylist?!" Bluebood looked faint, actually swaying a little in his seat, "but...but every gentlepony has a stylist! How would you get dressed, or do your mane and tail, or put on your foundation or..." Bluebloods withers twitched all over in horror at such a contemplation. Cadence face-hoofed and Shining Armour was trying, and failing, to hide his amusement in Morty's shoulder. By the end of class, Blueblood had declared his determination to drag the dour colt, kicking and screaming, into haut de culture. Shining Armour had managed to escape only because he wasn't idiot enough to say he didn't have a stylist either (he went to a regular barber pony, and wore a perfectly serviceable manecut) and Cadence, by virtue of being who she was, had her own stylist for her gloriously flowing mane. As everyone lined up to hand in their submissions, the art teacher, a stallion by the name of Red Clay, both carefully praised and critiqued each piece as they were laid on the display table. The stallion 'eeped' when Morty's sailed from the back of the class and embedded itself in the worn wood of the desk, a perfectly formed and glazed stiletto resting inches from his hoof. "Er, Thank you Morty, excellent...urm, aim," the stallion credited nervously. Morty muttered parceltounge cusswords as he was gloomily dragged out of the classroom by his self proclaimed 'Fashion Savior.' Yes, Morty would find out who was behind this conspiracy and give them a little...gift that truly exemplified his appreciation for their efforts.