//------------------------------// // 10: The Volcanic Heart // Story: Obsolution // by not plu //------------------------------// ...if anything, what I’d like to bring to fashion is a broader sense of what the art can be. Clothing in general has had such a unique role in Equestrian history, and most ponies are quite ignorant of all of that. Education and art must be symbiotic... Another city, another show, another interview, another night spent tossing and turning on a probably bedbug-ridden hotel mattress. Rarity hadn’t had a full, good night’s sleep since she left Ponyville, even with her aloe-infused sleeping mask and duck-feather bathrobe. She never remembered her dreams anymore, but every morning she woke feeling slightly unsettled, as if she couldn’t fall asleep due to the fear her brain remembered. It was all okay, though. Just a bit more concealer for the bags under her eyes, and switching from orange juice in the morning to coffee, and she was fine. The usual old Rarity. But maybe once she had somewhere a little more permanent, she’d rest easier. Which is why she’d been to twelve apartments today. Damask wallpaper and velvet chaise lounges were starting to bleed together, dampened by her repressed apathy towards anything that she knew could never be home. But she kept her brave face on, and kept smiling at every real estate agent she knew wouldn’t be getting a call from her anytime soon. She doubted they cared. Another comment about how the claw-footed bathtub really added a needed touch of elegance to the master bath, and frankly, brought the whole room together. Another breathtaking view from the balcony she lingered just a few seconds too long on, just to feel the cold wind threaten to upset her perfect mane, and stare at the tiny, insignificant city below. Another apartment. Another flat. Another condo. She wanted to scream. She wanted to lose her cool, to call the crystal chandelier in the dining room unbelievably tacky, to say that the floor plan must have been designed by a newborn, to complain that the entire apartment was ruined by the fact that you could never escape the damn noise below. She wanted to strangle the real estate agent with his own tacky red bowtie. She wanted to spit on the thousands of egotistical nobodies thousands of feet below her. She wanted to feel wanted again, or at least noticed. She wanted to get some sleep. She wanted to never sleep again. She didn’t know what she wanted. Which is why, she supposed, she still was homeless. The listing had used words like minimalistic and and natural to describe this next apartment, but the text in the newspaper hadn’t quite prepared Rarity for how... blank it was. She stood in front of the large picture windows, the ones that had been almost exactly the same in every place she’d seen before. Except those were framed by dusty curtains or covered by tacky venetian blinds. But there was nothing. Just Canterlot. “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” Startled, she spun around. It only took a second to regain her composure and meet the gaze of yet another real estate agent. But at least this one provided a little bit of variance by being male. “Hi, I’m-” “Rarity, isn’t it?” He smiled at her. “Uh, yes. I am.” There was something unsettling about his eyes. At first she assumed it was just their emerald color (she was a fan of jewel tones, after all), but it took her a second before she realized that she was so taken aback because he was really seeing her. Not just looking at her, as a client or walking money bags, but seeing her. And she wasn’t used to it. “They call me Larkspur. You might know my sister actually, Ophelia LaRoux. It’s a stupid name, I know, but she needed something flashy for show business or something, I don’t know. Anyway, lovely apartment, isn’t it?” Whatever it was about him, she still wasn’t able to conduct herself completely normally. “Yes, but it’s rather... blank?” “More like a blank canvas.” he suggested. “Perfect for someone like you, isn’t it?” “Like me?” “You’re a fashion designer, aren’t you?” She nodded. “Then it’s the perfect place for creativity. Somewhere to let your mind finally clear.” Maybe on more sleep, maybe in a better mindset, maybe she’d have found the sentiment touching just a bit too close to home. But she didn’t. She found it inspiring. Apparently, being a successful fashion designer involves a lot of small talk while sipping champagne and nibbling on miniature quiches in oversized ballrooms The candlelight always glints perfectly off the jewels the mares are wearing, and Rarity always finds herself distracted from what is apparently a conversation, her eyes drawn to the way the crystalline structure captures light. “Rarity?” She snapped back to attention. “Sorry, what was that?” The socialite smiled politely. “I said, aren’t you from Ponyville?” “Yes, I am.” “Then you must’ve heard about that terrible tragedy there-” Understand this: at all of the parties she attends, Rarity wears her own creations. Every crystal on her gown was painstakingly hoof-sewn, every rouche and cut-out was designed especially for her. If sold, if she ever wanted to sell one of the dresses she’d already be seen in, they’d fetch three months’ rent. Each. And dresses like these, which are more wearable art than practical covering (since ponies don’t really need clothing anyway), you don’t exactly chuck them in the washer when they’re dirty. That is to say, they don’t respond well to most liquids, especially those that stain. And just to stop the socialite mid-sentence, Rarity ‘spilled’ her glass of Cabernet Sauvignon all over herself. Displaying the calculated facade of being utterly surprised and flustered, she hurried off to the bathroom, crocodile tears in her eyes. But of course, she didn’t go in. One doesn’t exactly get red wine out of a sea-foam dress. She walked past it, her hooves clicking on the polished marble, and exited into the garden, where the cool night air sent shivers down her spine. But she wasn’t alone. “Larkspur?” He turned around from the night-blooming jasmine he was admiring and smiled at her. “Rarity. What a pleasure.” “What are you-” “My sister’s date canceled on her last-minute, and she wouldn’t dare go to one of these things alone. However, they’re not exactly my cup of tea. What brings you outside?” She looked down at her dress, and he followed her gaze. “What a shame.” She shrugged. “If I cared about the dress I wouldn’t have spilled my wine.” “It still looks beautiful, nonetheless.” He said this softly, as not to upset the moment as it swirled around him. He stepped towards her and she looked into his eyes and for a moment she was utterly lost in them, even though the moonlight made them seem so much less green than the first time they’d met. “So, have you thought about that apartment?” In fact, she had.