The soft hum of street lights around the grand park coming to life gently coaxed me out of the world into which I always go while playing my beloved instrument. A land filled with the wondrous mysteries of the beautiful fall countryside of Manehattan, a place where I can call my own and escape to when I most need to be alone.
A luxury I used to barely be able to afford, but now I'm pleasantly surprised to find a crowd of ponies standing around listening to me play the melodies of my heart. When I open my eyes, both young and old gather around, silent like statues, while listening to the deep rich tones of my cello until I lift my bow off the strings and place a gentle hoof upon them to silence my beloved instrument. After a few moments, someone towards the back of the crowd starts to applaud, and the rest of the them quickly follows suit.
Tears of joy began to well up in the corners of my eyes as I allow myself a small bow, while basking in the sound of the applauding ponies. This is the first time in months that I have heard someone express any real appreciation towards my talent, well, besides the sound of coins landing on top of one another in the bottom of my top hat on the ground. While the sound of applause of appreciative ponies fills the soul and warms my heart, it doesn’t fill my stomach nor grant me a warm motel room every so often, but I allowed myself this small moment of bliss as I looked at the different faces in the crowd.
Some of the ponies in the crowd wear heartwarming smile across their faces, while others just close their eyes and let my music take them away to distant lands. Seeing ponies enjoying my music once again fills me a renewed sense of confidence, as I turn my attention back towards playing my music into the crisp, winter night air. hopefully I can earn enough money for a motel room for the night as to avoid "most" of the cold. Not to mention Celestia knows I need a nice, long relaxing shower to wash away the weariness of everyday life.
With a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth from the thought of a nice warm shower, I begin to play a beautiful piece known as “Nearer My God Thee” for the crowd, one of my personal favorites. I can't help but to humm silently to myself along with the melody of the song as I pull my bow across the strings of my cello. Sending vibrations down through the bridge towards the sound post, propelling music through the F-Holes carved into the solid spruce top of my beloved instrument.
Playing the songs of my soul into the peaceful fall evening air for everyone to enjoy, the warm rich tones echoing through the tall oak trees of the city park as leaves flutter towards the ground in the light of the golden setting sun. Every so often someone would make a song request, to which I would happily oblige, but as the night grows colder the crowd slowly begins to diminish until only one teenage mare is left.
“Where has your self-respect gone, Octavia?” the teenage mare asks, sneering my name as if it was a cursed one, while taking a few cautious steps towards me. "Pardon me, but how could you ever lose something you never gained."
I say nothing to defend myself as the teenage mare’s words repeatedly plunged an icy knife into my heart with every syllable she spoke, as I gingerly lay my cello into the safety of it's case, until the morning sun rises once again to ward off the bitterness of the previous night.
“Drinking, playing in the park like some common riff raff street performer, sleeping in empty doorways in the back allies," the mare continues in a matter of fact tone, as if I don’t already know all of these things, while I count out the money from inside my top hat.
“Don't you have anything to say to defend yourself?" The teenage mare asks while looking down upon me as if I were nothing more than a distasteful glass of wine. "Or have you accepted the fact that you're a useless failure, no better than a blank flank?"
“Miss Tiara, if you’re here to simply insult me,” I begin tiredly, but am interrupted by a yawn that needed stifling as I stow away my money in a compartment of my cello's hardshell case. Tonight was a good night, forty bits, an all-time high. Yet still nothing compared to before those damned reporters came along. "Then I'm afraid I must take my departure. Believe it or not, I actually have something of more importance to do than listening to you lecture me about the merits of my life."
Without another word the teenage mare just simply trots off into the night with her nose turned up high towards the starry night sky.
Unfortunately I have to deal with ponies like her far too often for my liking, not like I can do much about it anyways. Sighing I set my top hat onto my head and head off into the night in search of a decent glass of wine. I only know of one club that serves wine, or a halfway decent glass at any rate, but the only problem with this club is that it attracts a... certain type of crowd. Not that it matters much, I'm sure there is a newspaper reporter hiding in the dark somewhere just waiting for me to walk into a fillyfooler club.
Rolling my eyes, I disregard my foalish concern and I begin my journey.
Within twenty minutes I was a mere hundred yards away from my destination in the heart of the city’s club district. Neon lights illuminate the crowded streets as the deafening electronic music blasted into the night sky. A shocking coulter change at first for myself, but I’ve learned to tolerate it, yet never will I get used to having to watch out for those reporters lurking in the shadows of the alleyways. I don’t even think I can count how times have I been singled out in the crowd because of my beloved cello.
Yet tonight's trip went flawlessly, no pesky reports harassing me, no complications whatsoever, just an uneventful walk through the club district. Not even a tourist or local gave me a single glance as I walk among them until my destination appears in the distance. An enormous neon pink kiss mark sign glowing brighter than ever on the side of the dark greys structure. The line getting into there stretches around the building and along the sidewalk. An unusual sight, for most nights the club had just enough customers to get by. Either someone’s hoofing over free alcohol, or tonights entertainment is a very popular among all the social groups.
Both mares and stallions dressed up like they’re attending the great gala itself and those who aren’t wearing anything at all. Not that I can really say anything on the matter myself, all I have is my elegant top hat and stylish bowtie, hardly the attire for a night out for someone of my subsection. I used to wear sleek silk black dresses to the famous wine bars at night to settle business proposals.
In a way, visiting the “Fillies Delight” was like a business proposal in itself, usually I would leave with more bits than lost. Whether it be from blackjack, performing, or the kindness of a random stranger, I would always leave with some spare bits for dinner at a celerydog cart or hayburger stand, perhaps even a meal at the club itself. Tonight will prove a challenge in doing so though.With a line this big I can hardly imagine there being anyone who would want to leave. It meant more business for the Royal Crescent, but a longer wait for myself. However, thanks to my V.I.P. status, it was a lot shorter than it should have been
I rarely use it, for it attracts too much attention, but I don’t have all night to stand in line. It has been two days without eating, and I don’t want to know what’ll happen if I go any longer without something in my stomach. Tossing the fear of drawing attention to myself, I approach the monstrous white behemoth of a bouncer and tell him my name.
“Is that who I think it is?” a mare asks behind me as the bouncer attempts to find my name on the ever growing list of names. ‘Is that really Octavia, I thought she has died weeks ago from starvation.”
“Where'd you hear that from Fleur?” Another mare asks, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Please tell me you haven’t been reading those dreadful articles in the news about her again.”
“Perhaps I have,” The mare supposedly named Fleur says defensively. “What’s it matter to you, Heather?”
“Nothing at all,” Heather retorts. “It’s just those no good news reports ran out of stories to write, so they dragged down my favorite musician!”
“I see you believe what that new reporter is writing then,” Fleur scoffs. “There is no proof of her going to Music College like the rest, so why should she be able to simply do what others spend their whole life doing in a few short years?”
“There was once a time when you needed only to know your craft to be great,” An elderly stallion says calmly. “I believe one does not need a diploma to tell whether they’re good or bad at their craft.”
“Thank you Fancypants!” Heather exclaims. “The fact still remains, she was without a doubt the most talented cellist ever to have performed.”
“That’s a bold statement,” Fancypants states. “But a true one nonetheless, if the rumors are to be believed, then the fall of our grey star was driven by sexism and jealousy.”
“You both are helpless,” Fleur scoffs. “That tramp, has been listening the whole time! Haven't you noticed her ears twitch like as if a parasprite has taken up residence in them!”
“Good,” Fancypants states. “She deserves to know she’s not alone.”
“Indeed,” Heather agrees.
“You can go in ma’am,” The bouncer says, catching me off guard as he lifts the velvet rope to let me through.
After passing under the rope, I turn towards the direction in which the two ponies that were defending my name stood. “Thank you,” I say trying to sound formal, but the happiness in my heart similar to the kind of warmth you get while sipping a steaming hot beverage on a bitter winters morning forced it’s way into my voice as I took a deep bow towards them.
“Simply seeing you smile again is reward enough,” Fancypants says, dismissing my thanks as I realize I was grinning without knowing it. “Keep your praise and enjoy yourself for once, no one deserves to go through what you have.”
His companion Heather simply nods in agreement.
Thanking them one last time, I push my way through the double decorated doors, a new found spring in my step. Not even the invisible wall of sound I encounter on my way down the clubs hall of fame bothers me as I trot past the framed pictures of all the famous ponies that have visited the club until I stop to look at my favorite one. A picture of a teenage Princess Luna. Everytime I come down this hallway I stop and take a look at it.
I don’t believe I ever went through a gothic phase during my teenage years, or any kind of faze whatsoever for that matter. I always just wore my bowtie and eventually started carrying around my top hat. Not much has really changed in terms of fashion has changed since leaving high school, I’m pretty much still wearing the same two pieces of clothing. Not that I’ll ever admit to it.
Either way, I pull my gaze away from the Princess’s photo and continue walking down the hallway, not paying the rest of the pictures any heed of mind. Instead I just simply walk straight to the other door and push it open only to be greeted by sea of bodies.
Usually nowhere but the dance floor is crowded, but not tonight. Everywhere from the dance floor up is swarmed with ponies. This must be how pickled eggs feel like, except maybe a little bit grosser, and slimier. Nasty things, but at least none of them have to try and force their way through their little crowded jar carrying a miniature cello of some sorts. If I ever get somewhere to call home again, I’m never bringing my instrument back here again unless I’m playing...
Heaving a sigh, I begin forcing my way through the wall of bodies, constantly saying “Sorry” or “Excuse me.” I don’t think I say those two phrases in a years time as much as I just did, but however many times I said them, I’m now at the bar and might just stay here until closing time. I really don’t want to go back through that crowd ever again.
“Evening Tavi,” Royal Crescent says, as I place my instrument on the other side of the counter for safe keeping. “Be right with you in a minute.”
“Take your time,” I call back over my shoulder, reaching into my cello case for my stash of bits.
“You do know it’d be easier to just take your money out of the case before putting it behind the counter right?” Royal Crescent teases, hoofing over a tray full of drinks to a stallion while I clamp my I cellos case shut once again.
“Hush you,” I mumble through my bag of bits, walking over to an empty bar stool.
“So what’ll it be?” Royal Crescent asks, wiping the counter off with a spare towel.
“How about...” I begin slowly, looking at all the different kinds of wine on the racks. “A bottle of clover wine to go.”
“That’ll be ten bits,” Royal Crescent calls over his shoulder, as he heads off to grab the bottle.
“But the tag says fifteen,” I point out, arching an eyebrow at the tan stallion.
“I know,” Royal Crescent says, placing a bottle into a paper bag.”Just don’t get caught with it, you’re in enough trouble as it is. No need to add onto your already complicated situation.”
“My birthday’s in less than a month,” I state, disregarding Royal Crescent’s worries.
“That’s still a month of playing cat and mouse with the reporters,” Royal Crescent says, counteracting my statement as he stashes the paper bag away in my cello’s case. “You’re running on borrowed time at this point Octavia. You may have been lucky so far in the game, but sooner or later they’ll find out about you and your new habits.”
“There’s no such thing as luck,” I state, rolling my eyes, as the club’s loud electronic music begins to diminish slowly, but surely. “Or borrowed time, I’ve made it this far without being caught because I’ve been careful!”
“We’ll continue this conversation after I close the club to the public,” Royal Crescent states firmly, before heading off to address the crowd. “And don’t even think about leaving yet, you have a stallion and young mare waiting to talk to you.”
As soon as Royal Crescent disappears in the crowd, I grab my cello, and begin carefully making my way through the crowd. Being sure not to accidentally bump into anyone as to prevent causing a scene so I can make my way out of the club unnoticed by Royal Crescent. Going is a bit slow, but soon enough I’m standing front of the doors leading into the hall of fame.
Sighing softly, I gently push on one with a hoof to reveal a middle aged stallion dressed in a black leather trench coat, and a cowboys hat with a apple pattern stitched onto the front of it. His face cast into the the shadows from the rim of his hat.
‘Where ya goin’ Tavi doll?”