//------------------------------//
// Prima Donna 
// Story: Rise of the Fluffy Ponies 
// by Monsieur Bleu 
//------------------------------//



~*~

Rise of the Fluffy Ponies

Monsieur Bleu

Chapter 3

Prima Donna

~*~




It was difficult enough, let alone to dream in pieces—Manehattan is generally not an easy place for a single mother, hardly a mare herself when she had her little one, to lead a life.  Light hoof falls still make waves in concrete.  Places alright, where wealthy hipsters hadn’t priced them out—each one a heroine, marching headstrong against a raging wind; their existence serves as a quiet yet fierce protest against society.  

Nuzzle Fluƥ shuffled quietly along the narrow streets, Nizzle dozing lazily on her back.  It was pay day, a biweekly ritual in which for a few days one could allot some degree of splurging.  

It is not the brushstrokes; they are but a tool.

Small and bohemian, this little nook of town rested happily ignored by the wider world.  As per requisite, there were little buildings with an odd flair, the smell of hash quaffing about, and the embrace of sexual and other minorities abounded. 

The greatest always use problems to their advantage. 

A little art store/coffee shop/bookstore/place where you can buy a particular kind of plant acted as a hub of this little neighborhood.  The rattling of a thestral anklet announced Nuzzle’s entrance.  She shuffled over to the counter, where a very relaxed looking pegasus thumbed through an old copy of The Manifesto.  After a moment she did look up.

“Oh… hey Nuzz, do you want some espresso?” 
Nuzzle nodded—“Oh and a chocolate milkshake.”

The barista nodded. 

“C’mon Nizzle,” she said turning some to look back at her daughter, “time to wake up; I got you a milkshake.” 

The fluffy blue filly wanted to protest, but the promise of sweets motivated her enough to hop of her mother’s back and shuffled over to the section of foals’ books. 

Nuzzle took a moment to peruse the art supplies, she didn’t know what she wanted to paint yet, but she knew the colors she was running low on. 

~*~

The Canterlot Royal Opera House’s high soprano Prima Donna was bellowing away in Crystalian.  Sir Cuddle, in black tie, was enjoying the show through his opera glasses, sitting next to his wife Dame Frufru in a small reserved balcony.  

He felt a tapping on his fluff—“Sir.”
“Not now,” he whispered.
“Monsieur Blueblood has agreed to speak with you.” 

Wordlessly Cuddle stood up; he kissed his wife.

She nodded.  He turned to follow the guard to the lobby.  

Cuddle did have a liking for mahogany, burgundy, and gold—unlike the obnoxious pink that decorated the Lord’s camber or the harsh bluish-green that made up his own.  Pubs and opera houses were the better realm for politics. 

“His grace is surprisingly expedient,” said Cuddle waving away his escort. 
“The Right Honourable gentlestallion is surprisingly accommodating—for me to pull you away from one of your favorite plays—you must really need me.”
“I do.”
“Not a poker player are you Sir Puftoulfs.”
“I prefer Blackjack.” 
“Well then,” he paused gesturing towards a niche near the lobby bar,” shall we.” 
Cuddle nodded—“Do they have bottle service here?” 
“I believe so,” said Blueblood as they started walking. 

Sitting down in the rather cozy niche with a small table in between them, Blueblood was the first to talk. 

“Her Grace had said that you wanted to talk to me.”
“Not you in particular, just someone from your faction; you are adequate.” 
“How much of a hold do you feel you have on your bloc—”
“—I have an absolute hold on it, or else this conversation would be meaningless… and if that were the case, I would not have stepped away from the show.” 
“How much rabble rousing have you been abating the Liberals with?”
“Enough.”
“Enough?”
“You’re talking to me.”
“Not on your account.”

Cuddle paused, leaning back in his chair. 

“You are not much of a poker player, either, are you?”
“Why would you say that?”
“You just laid your cards on the fucking table.”
“You knew what they were ahead of time.”
“But now I know for sure—you confirmed my suspicions.” 

A waitress approached, clasping a pad and paper in her aura. 

“Is there anything I can get for you gentlestallions?”
“I will have a bottle of Dom, chilled please,” said Blueblood trying to match Cuddle’s intense gaze.  
“If you happen to have a bottle of Chateau de Rémy XO, then that would be excellent.”

~*~

Evening cool, the streets of Manehattan—late spring air wisped pasted.  In an ode to political decadence there assembled those who need be.  Suits and drapeaus rouge, calling out a monde nouveau. 

Little slights make it harder to fade away.

If it wasn’t for the response, no one would have known; leave it to the guards and police to make a scene.  Batons and fire-hoses make far more noise than any shouting. 

To be bold, to stand up, far away from home... 

In hindsight maybe they were better off because of the fluff, for once at least. 

~*~

Excerpt from The Fluffleloid

By ƥetrarch

Translation and comments by Sliding Ink, PhD

Cast to chase by timber-wolves o’er land, 
to the erethral gates of lore.
Make haste twixt the damn everfree,
so the winds may cast adrift the world.
—All showing fool! 
I declare, I appeal to the heavens,
give me the speed, the strength, the will!
To enter this place—so drear,
as t’is for love. 

An appertain forms before me,
she—Nightmare—O! What is for mine?
Nothing be eased, said she, aura flowing,
in clarity, I doth proclaim—
thine quest just!
T’is for this world lost in fear,
make amends, by thee to the woods, dark.
Lost not are fortune and serendipity,
Hope—hope—child. 

ƥetrarch was arguably one of the most cultured and educated stallions of his day.  He incorporated works form many nations and cultures in his writings.  He traveled frequently to Equestrian, the Crystal Empire, and other nations, often as an ambassador for the Fluffy Court.  Educated in the Crystal Empire, he earned the contemporary equivalent of a PhD when most fluffy ponies were illiterate.