//------------------------------// // Exodus // Story: A Greek Tragedy in Three Parts // by daOtterGuy //------------------------------// “It’s tiresome,” Mistmane remarked. She leaned over the front row seat from the back, a bored expression on her face. “No one wants to hear my tale told yet again, Melpomene.” “We disagree,” Melpomene said. A tall golden unicorn wearing a cracked white mask over her face. She had thick ropes of brown mane that wrapped around her like a noose. “It is a classic. One of my best.” “Another word for boring.” Mistmane sighed in exasperation. “And cheesy, considering your favour toward me.” “We would have it known that classics are classics for more than simply entertainment. They pass on culture from the ancient past, and grant a look into the mindset of the people at the time.” “But they are overdone,” Mistmane said, exasperated. “Where is the originality? The thrill of the new? You cannot expect me to believe that you can just repackage the same stories over and over again as if the audience won’t become bored of it?” “There are always new people to reach. To recount an old tale to. It is true that some tales have been told so many times as to have aspects of it be given the moniker of trope, however, to have earned that title means to have become beloved and enjoyed by many.” Melpomene upturned her nose. “It is not our fault that you have no taste.” “No taste? No taste?” Mistmane scoffed. “If I had no taste, could I have conceived of this glorious end?” She swept her hoof across the stage. A single spotlight lit up the scene. A mare was strung up by curtains like a broken marionette. She hung limply, mascara and tears dripping down her face. She was dressed in the finest of the Manehattan Ballet, but would never be able to dance in it. Melpomene circled the wretched thing with an appraising eye. After a moment, she stopped, then let out an indignant huff. “We suppose we must admit it is fine work. What was the theme?” “Falling star!” Mistmane announced with a sweep of her hooves. “A glorious rendition of bitter jealousy.” “Did you not perform that theme a few weeks ago with that one Wonderbolt? What was her name… Bolt Streak?” “Not even close, Mel, but no. That was associated with a fall from grace, this one is about succumbing to one’s own hubris.” “A play of the egos? Intriguing. What was the trigger?” “Jealousy toward her understudy, whom she felt would usurp her.” Mistmane placed her head on a hoof, a mischievous grin on her face. “I thought it appropriate, considering our relationship.” “I see you still have that cheekiness you’ve always had.” She grabbed the mare’s face. She studied it, tasting the tragedy of her. It was exquisite. “We like it, and will graciously admit that you have a modicum of taste.” “Modicum, she says.” Mistmane tsked, crossing her forehooves over her chest as she leaned back in her seat. “Is this satisfactory, then? Good enough to perhaps have earned a vacation away from the stage?” “Yes, you have earned it. Especially as we must lie low for a while. We cannot be caught as we are currently.” “By whom? The knights of the black sun?” A snort. “They have been in decline for centuries. Hardly someone to concern ourselves with.” “They are not whom I am worried about. There are rumblings of others returning from their long sleep, and I do not wish it to be known that we were never contained.” “... You have concerns about the other pillars?” Mistmane muttered, a dark undertone to her voice. “As life continues its circular path ever onward, so too, inevitably, do its trials and tribulations return.” Mistmane scowled. “Well, I have no interest in dealing with that madcap pack of nuisances. I think I’ll go visit Vanhoover and enjoy some much-needed spa time. You will keep me informed?” “Yes. Do not concern yourself with this matter. Enjoy your vacation.” With Melpomene’s permission acquired, Mistmane left the theater. Once the doors had closed behind her, the lights turned off, save a single spotlight upon Melpomene. She took off her mask, revealing the mess of scorch marks and scars that marred what once might have been a beautiful face. She lifted her hooves up toward the sky and to the invisible audience beyond. The eyes were upon her. “Thus ends our current tale of woe, from past to present. We have achieved what you have sought, yet we feel you claw your way from the depths, rage in your heart and the whims of boredom on your wings. Are you satisfied? Does this please you? Is this enough? Tell me, Apollo. After all this needless strife, are you finally sated? Or do you find the hole in your heart expand with a greater need to be filled?” Melpomene lowered her hooves, placing her mask back onto her face. She bowed. As was proper. Applause heard only by two roared through the theater. The spotlight turned off. The curtains closed. The show was over, but a sequel was soon to come.