//------------------------------// // Episode III: Reformation // Story: A Greek Tragedy in Three Parts // by daOtterGuy //------------------------------// Location. 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.