//------------------------------// // First Impressions // Story: Counterpoint // by Terrasora //------------------------------// “Hail, Master Horseshoepin! How dost thou, sweet pianist?” The stallion turned, his white mane making him seem far older than he was. He grinned as a purple shape slid to a stop. “How now, composer! Whither wander you?” “Would that I could wander!” lamented Harpo. “‘Tis a wide world we inhabit, yet I trapeze the same path with a guard’s armored hoof! Nay, good sir, I march for want of wandering and wail my woes, wading through waffled ways!” Frederic Horseshoepin raised a brow. “And how long have you been working on that one?” Harpo shrugged. “A few wasted weeks.” “Impressive.” “Thank you sir, I try.” Frederic smiled, turning back onto his path. Harpo fell into step next to him. Canterlot Conservatory was buzzing with students again, the great green expanse of its square filled to bursting with aspiring musicians. A few were throwing frisbees around. An impromptu string quartet had popped up in a corner. A couple of lovebirds were strewn around the grass, oblivious to everything around them. Harpo never tired of the sight. “And how is your schedule this term, Nadermane?” Harpo dug into his saddlebags, taking out a crumpled half-sheet of paper. “Not overly bad. I have most of my classes in the afternoon and I’ve heard that Professor Arpeggio’s pretty good.” Frederic nodded, quickly glancing through the paper. “Yes, he most certainly is. Have you spoken to him before?” “No, not really.” “I’d be more than happy to stop by and introduce you. Professor Arpeggio likes me.” “Must be nice,” said Harpo. “Being a teacher’s pet, I mean.” “I am not a pet, Nadermane. I am a good student.” “You’re saying that I’m not a good student?! I turned in, like, half of last term’s assignments!” Frederic sighed. “It’s a wonder that you haven’t been kicked out.” Harpo shrugged, a cheeky smile curling the corners of his mouth. “What can I say? Ponies like me. Not that they can help it.” “Of course not. Then again, you only speak to two ponies in the Conservatory.” “I speak to more than that!” Frederic grinned. “Don’t worry, Nadermane! Lyra and I like you. After all, you’re just so charming.” “You’re mocking me.” Harpo narrowed his eyes. “You’re discriminating against me because I’m younger, aren’t you Grandpa?” The pianist’s eye twitched slightly. “Don’t start with me.” “What, do you not like being old? Or is your ulcer acting up, old sport?” Frederic turned his neck slightly, forcing a loud crack out of it. “I may be a proper gentlecolt, Nadermane. But I am not above publicly beating your flank. Again.” “How daring of you, Master Horseshoepin, absolutely daring! You should save talk like that for someplace more private.” Harpo winked suggestively. Frederic twitched forward, a light brown hoof suddenly inches away from Harpo’s face. Harpo reeled back, tripping over his hooves and nearly falling. “Sometimes,” said Frederic, dusting off his hooves, “I think you forget who you’re talking to.” “Of course, of course. Master Horseshoepin, the fighter who plays piano on the side.” “Martial arts, Nadermane. Not ‘fighting.’ You should be thankful for that distinction. A fighter would have knocked your head off months ago.” Frederic seemed to brighten slightly. “You should meet more ponies! Maybe you’ll come across a fighter and you won’t be my problem anymore.” Harpo placed a hoof on his own cheek. “I rather like my head.” “Well, not a fighter then. But honestly, Nadermane, it would do you good to speak to other students.” “Mmmmmmm, I suppose,” said Harpo reluctantly. “If only to have somepony to copy notes from.” “I cannot, in good conscience, support that reason. But yes, that is certainly a good reason.” Frederic looked around the square. “Most of the students are on break now. Do you recognize any of them from your classes last term?” Harpo gave a quick scan. Happy ponies. Dating ponies. Exercising ponies. Musical ponies. A sour note floated over the grass, making the composer cringe. Ponies trying to be musical. Harpo turned back towards Frederic. “I can’t relate to any of them.” “Oh,” said Frederic with a sly smile. “I’m sure that some of them are alcoholics.” “Haha.” Harpo’s eyes roamed over the square. The same happy scene that would probably be on a brochure by the end of the day. Seriously, it was uncanny. The group of ponies in a circle, laughing. Pegasi with unicorns with earth ponies of all different cutie marks. And frisbees! Harpo was pretty sure that owning a frisbee was a becoming a requirement for students. Except for hacky sacks, you could probably get away with not owning a frisbee if you owned a hacky sack. Where was I? Harpo shook his head, driving away his tangential thoughts. Ah yes. Happy pony, happy pony, two happy ponies, frisbee. Harpo followed the bright orange disk as it sailed across the grass and right through a pony’s waiting hooves. “Honestly, Nadermane, just go and talk to somepony already! I have to get to class.” Frederic stared at the composer, testily tapping his hoof. “Alright, alright! Don’t get your black belt in a knot.” Harpo turned back to the square. A pony, holding that orange frisbee, was walking away in a huff from a grey mare. The mare was completely oblivious to the world, diligently flipping through the pages of a book and taking occasional notes. He couldn’t quite see the book’s cover from the distance, but that hardly mattered as much as the fact that this mare was able to piss off overly happy students. Harpo could appreciate that. “Alright Frederic, I’m going to go make friends.” Harpo trotted off towards the mare. “Good for you! That’s a very--” Frederic looked in the direction Harpo was going “--Nadermane! No! Nadermane, come back!” But, being a gentlecolt and a proponent of schadenfreude, Frederic Horseshoepin did not shout to save his friend. “He’s going to die.” A pause. He shrugged and walked away, slightly regretting that he wouldn’t be able to watch. “Pardon me, is this seat taken?” Harpo gestured towards the other side of the bench with what he hoped was a charming smile. The mare’s eyes darted upwards, then back down to her book. Too charming, Harpo, too charming! He allowed his smile to slip slightly before holding out his hoof. “I’m Harpo,” he said, “Harpo Parish Nadermane.” The mare looked up, regarding the hoof for a while. She took it with reluctance “Octavia Philharmonica.” “A pleasure to meet you.” Harpo smiled. Octavia turned back to her book. Well, this is certainly a riveting conversation. Maybe Frederic and I still have time to… Harpo looked around. Frederic left. Oh, beautiful. Thanks for that, friend. Miss Philharmonica’s attitude certainly isn’t helping any matters. I’m trying to be a friend and you’re reading a… what are you reading? Harpo craned his neck, only able to make out a few words past Octavia’s charcoal mane. ‘The syncopated rhythms of’... What does that say? Octavia’s purple eyes flicked upwards angrily. Harpo flinched back, trying to look absolutely fascinated by the group of ponies tossing a frisbee. He failed miserably. “Er… What are you reading?” asked the composer with an awkward smile. “If you don’t mind my asking.” Octavia’s right eye twitched. She lifted her book, showing off a pristine white cover. The title, “A comparison of the Composition Styles of the Modern Era,” was written in simple, black lettering. “That sounds… interesting.” Octavia gave a tight nod. Her head dove back into the book. “So,” began Harpo, “you’re a composer?” “No. A cellist.” “Ah.” Silence fell on the bench, only occasionally broken by the rustling of Octavia’s book pages and the occasional scratching of her quill on paper. Harpo got to his hooves. “Well, it was nice meeting you.” Octavia nodded and took a few more notes. Harpo offered one last awkward smile and tried not to run as he turned away from the mare. *** “Octavia Philharmonica is one of our resident geniuses.” Frederic sat in front of his dormitory’s piano, coaxing random scales and arpeggios from the keys. “I’m surprised that you haven’t met her; she’s your year, after all.” “She was in some of my classes. I never spoke to her.” Harpo flipped through a slightly unsavory magazine, glossing over the slightly risque foldouts. Frederic played a quick chord progression, a questioning, slightly disbelieving tune. “And you’d never even heard of Miss Philharmonica?” Harpo shrugged. “Since when do I pay attention to ponies?” “Fair point.” Frederic absentmindedly played the first few measures of one of Johann Sebastian Beak’s toccatas. “But you’ve never even heard somepony else mention her?” “Is it really that big of a deal?” Frederic seemed to consider this for a moment. “How in-tune are you with us plebeians of the Conservatory?” The magazine lowered slightly as Harpo turned towards his friend. “Pardon me?” “Octavia is one of the Conservatory’s geniuses Harpo. Care to guess who the other one is?” Harpo thought for a moment. “Lyra is rather talented. As are you, Frederic. And… those are pretty much the only two ponies that I can name.” Frederic scowled, and banged out a discordant melody on his piano. “It’s you, Nadermane. Octavia Philharmonica and Harpo Parish Nadermane, the two miracles of the freshpony class.” “Me?” asked Harpo. “What did I do to deserve that?” “How long do you actually spend on your work?” “I work!” “That’s not what I asked. If I remember correctly, you spent most of last term trying to hunt down a particular brand of whiskey. There was a week where you completely disappeared, only to reappear with your midterm symphony which was, if memory serves, originally written on the back of various napkins.” “That was a good week,” said Harpo happily. Frederic shook his head, closing the lid on the piano’s keys. “Good night, Nadermane. I have to actually study for my classes.” He trotted out of the common room. Harpo watched him leave. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve done something wrong. He flipped through a few more pages of his magazine then tossed it aside, onto the desk where he had found it. Harpo glanced up at a nearby clock. It wasn’t particularly early, but it was nowhere near the time he was used to sleeping. Maybe a walk is in order. The composer walked out of the common room and into the open air. Harpo took a deep breath, the brisk night stinging his nose slightly, then began his wanderings through campus. Past the dormitories, past the small convenience shop where Harpo had worked for a time, into the maze of buildings and gardens that constituted the main campus of Canterlot Conservatory. What shall I think about, me and myself? thought Harpo. Frederic? Octavia? Neither of those topics seemed quite right. They were strained topics, ones that would require serious thinking on Harpo’s part. Not suited for musing while wandering. The Conservatory, then. That’s always good. A little town of musicians tucked away inside of Canterlot, complete with its own housing and restaurants. It’s a school, but not a school in the traditional sense. A university, I suppose. Except that everyone here has some semblance of rhythm so there’s less awkward dancing at parties. Or, rather, at the parties that I’ve been to. Which is none. But that’s besides the point! My point is… well, I don’t know what my point is. Harpo stopped walking. Look at me, I’m rambling. That’s something that Conservatory students do. “I’m a real Conservatory student now,” he said with a laugh. “... Where am I?” Harpo looked around. The concrete building and square lights of students studying late into the night had faded away though Harpo could still see them in the distance if he squinted. The composer’s wanderings had taken him into the middle of the Conservatory gardens, a well-maintained piece of controlled nature. The gardens always seemed a little bit colder than the rest of campus, the trees casting ever-present shade. A pond sat in the middle of it all, its resident set of turtles looking up at the composer. Harpo waved. The turtles stared. “Wait, you can’t answer. You’re turtles!” Harpo chuckled. The turtles remained silent. Now I’m talking to turtles, thought Harpo with a sigh. He walked over to a tree and sat down. A light blue flower stood in the moonlight among a patch of slightly taller than normal grass. Harpo reached out and picked the flower, absentmindedly tearing off the petals and tossing them into his mouth. “This is a rather sad sight.” “Just a bit.” Harpo jumped, tuning his head too quickly and straining his neck in the process. Lyra Heartstrings laughed, trotting around the tree and joining Harpo on the ground. “What brings you out here, Harpo Parish Nadermane?” Harpo rubbed at his neck with one hoof and held up the flower with the other. “A late night snack.” Lyra nodded. “That’s not a bad reason. Though Rose Petal would throw a fit if she saw you eating her garden.” Harpo gave a half-hearted smile and turned away, popping another petal into his waiting mouth. The two sat in silence for a while, the composer steadily working on his flower and the lyrist looking up at the sky. “And whither wander you, Lyra?” Harpo threw a few more petals into his mouth. Lyra turned towards the composer, blinking her golden eyes a few times. “You know that I don’t understand any of that fancy crap.” Harpo chuckled. “Why are you out here, philistine?” “I heard the call of a moping composer and came to see if I could make fun of him.” “I’m not moping!” Lyra shrugged. “I guess you’re just talking to the turtles.” Harpo flicked the last petal into his mouth. “They’re terrible conversation.” Lyra smiled. “Wanna talk?” “No, not right now,” said Harpo with a shake of his head. “It’s the first day back to the Conservatory; my problems will only grow from here. Talk later?” There was a pause. “Alright then.” Lyra got to her hooves. “Maybe you just have to get out a bit more. I’m heading to Tritone’s party right now. Are you gonna show up?” A pause. “Who’s Tritone?” “I’ll take that as a no.” Lyra sighed. “Well, don’t stay out too late Harpo. You’ll make ponies sad if you just sit out here eating things.” “I’ll keep that in mind.” *** Harpo unlocked the door to his room. The night had gotten a bit too chilly for his tastes. He shivered. Evidently, the chill had even gotten into his single. Harpo crossed the room in a few steps, past the small bed, the desk, and the closet, and slamming his window shut. He drew the curtains for good measure. It was still a bit cold, but a bit more of a manageable cold. And the closed window was able to muffle a bit of the music, though some infernal bass still rattled his windows. White noise, thought Harpo, maybe Tritone’s music will help me get to sleep. The bass picked up, vibrating his window rapidly, like an opera singer holding up a wine glass. Probably not. Harpo sighed, snatching a book from his desk before climbing into bed. He flipped through the tattered pages, stopping at a coffee stained page. Harpo had been reading at breakfast with his customary orange and cup of coffee. It was the story’s own fault, really, scaring him like that. It deserved to be scalded. The composer read a few pages, the rhythm of the words mixing with the outside music’s syncopated beat. With a sigh, Harpo laid the book aside, drawing the blankets up to his chin. He would fall asleep a few hours later. *** “Explain yourself, Mister Nadermane.” Harpo gestured upwards, waving a vague hoof at the magically projected sheet of music. “Bars eight through twenty-three. Striving Sky switches into the Phrygian mode from a major key. Modal scales can be seen as older forms of music as opposed to the modern method of writing music. Striving Sky is playing off of this, using a Phrygian mode to represent the more primitive ideas behind this piece, briefly allowing them to dominate. Later on in the piece, around bar fifty, the mode returns, this time alternating with the major key.” Professor Arpeggio gave him a questioning look. “And why does he do this?” Harpo paused for a moment. “It’s a battle. Between the positive major key and the more negative Phrygian mode.” “Yes,” said the professor with an amused smile. “But why does he do this?” “Because,” began Harpo. The word drifted off. “Because,” broke in a refined, Canterlotian voice, “this piece is meant to represent a conflicting state of mind, a common enough topic during Striving Sky’s time. The major key are happy thoughts, the easy parts of life, while the Phrygian mode are threats of depression; the parts of life that we don’t particularly enjoy.” “Very good, Miss Philharmonica.” Professor Arpeggio smiled warmly. “And you as well, Mister Nadermane. I wish that you both would share more often.” He paced slightly, his gaze sweeping to include the other students in the auditorium. “Striving Sky was a master of manipulating music to suit his needs. I want you all to choose one of his compositions, barring the one that Miss Philharmonica and Mister Nadermane began to explain, and analyze every technique that you are able to discern. Explain why he chose that particular technique for that particular moment in that particular piece. I want six pages, due in four days.” Arpeggio passed another gaze over his class, daring them to grumble about their assignment. Nopony did. “Very well then. Class dismissed.” Professor Arpeggio trotted over to his desk, gathering all of his things as the students stormed out of the hall. “Nadermane, Philharmonica, if you would be so kind as to stay a while?” Harpo and Octavia stopped in front of the desk, scarcely even glancing at each other as they waited. Professor Arpeggio shuffed a few papers around, stowing them in a beat-up leather briefcase. The students stood there for a few minutes before Arpeggio finally looked up. “I’ve heard only good things about you two,” said Arpeggio. “Mister Nadermane, I understand that you know Mister Horseshoepin.” “Yes, sir.” “Miss Philharmonica, your teachers from last term rave about you. They say the Conservatory has not had as hard-working and talented a performer as yourself in years.” Octavia nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. Professor Arpeggio turned back to Harpo. “Your teachers say much the same thing, replacing ‘performer’ with composer, and making specific mention of having to beat you within an inch of your life in order to make you work. That, or to threaten to confiscate your alcohol collection.” Harpo attempted to mask his fear with an awkward smile. “Pardon me, Professor,” said Octavia, "but I have another class in a few minutes." “Quite right, I’ll get directly to the point.” Professor Arpeggio glanced between the two of them. “I’d like you two to work together for this year’s End Concert.” Harpo’s eyes widened. Octavia remained largely impassive. Arpeggio smiled. “Yes, that End Concert. It will be a treat, I’m sure, to send off the seniors with the knowledge that future years are in rather talented hooves. We have not had a proper freshpony performance in quite a while. Will you do it?” “I’d be honored.” Octavia shifted her saddlebags. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get to class.” Professor Arpeggio nodded. The cellist trotted out of the room, leaving the two stallions alone. “And what’s your answer, Mister Nadermane?” Harpo stared after Octavia for a few moments. “She’s going to be difficult to work with.” “I‘m sure you’ll become fast friends,” said the professor with a smile. “Right. Friends.” Harpo set off towards the door. “Thank you Professor, I’ll do my best.” “I’m sure you will.” Harpo left the classroom. He glanced up and down the hallway, looking for any sign of the cellist. Damn, he thought to himself, she walks fast. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to speak to her. There was about an hour left until Harpo’s next class and a small cafe that was never overly busy this time of day. Harpo followed the hallway down. I think I’ll get a nice cup of coffee. And a cupcake, a cupcake sounds pretty good right now. That should be around… five bits? Well, maybe if I get a small coffee. Celestia, seems so expensive now tha-- Harpo turned a corner and promptly slammed into another body. Both ponies fell to the floor, Harpo’s saddlebags flying open, his books sliding out and onto the floor. The other pony wasn’t as lucky. Her books, which hadn’t been in a bag, spewed out onto the hallway. Harpo and the mare spoke at the same time. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Again, at the same time: “It’s alright.” Harpo looked up. He had crashed into a light blue mare, her brown mane now slightly dishevelled and her purple eyes looking directly into his green. She giggled slightly. “Well, that was rather strange. It’s not often that you crash into a mirror.” “Uh,” stuttered Harpo. “Y-yeah.” The composer laughed awkwardly. Pretty. Very pretty. The mare smiled, smoothing her mane back with a hoof. The hoof paused. “Wait, I’ve seen you before. Mister Nadermane, I believe?” “H-” Harpo’s voice cracked, “Harpo. Just Harpo’s fine.” The mare held out a hoof. “Beauty,” said the mare in introduction. Yes you certainly are. “Beauty Brass. But just Beauty’s fine.” Harpo smiled. “Care to stand up?” asked Beauty. The composer let out a laugh. “No, let’s keep sitting. I rather like it down here.” “I’d love to,” said Beauty with a smile, “but I really should be getting to class.” She got to her hooves, taking a few steps to shove some books into her bags. Harpo helped her, picking up a few books that had landed near him. Then he placed his books back into his saddlebags. Beauty took the books. “Thank you Harpo, it was nice to meet you.” “Likewise,” said Harpo. “Good-bye,” said Beauty Brass with a wave. She trotted away. Harpo watched her appreciatively. Well done Harpo, you didn’t make a complete ass of yourself! That’s a victory! He turned happily, a new spring in his step. A good first impression can make all the difference.