//------------------------------// // Story Telling // Story: Violet Lace // by DemonAngel13 //------------------------------// BANG! Violet sat up in her bed. She looked around, no longer was she in a beautiful castle, with obsidian beads scattered and weaved into her mane. Now she saw nothing but gray. Fuzzy pictures of nothing. At first she thought she was in another dream. The loud bang being a clap of thunder and the grayness being the all-consuming girth of storm clouds. Oh... She realized she was in her room. She scowled at her dull, boring walls. "Hoooonnnnneeey... we-" Hiccup. "Wee'reee hooome! Her mother screamed up her stairs. She folded her ears against her head. Using a quick spell, she locked the door to her room, and hoped that her mother was to intoxicated to be able to unlock it. She listened as she waited for her mother's hoofsteps. She heard the loud thuds on the polished wood and then a loud thunk as her mother tripped and fell to the ground. She tried to ignore the vulgar curses that spilled out of her mother's supposedly dignified mouth. She heard a clang, from when her mother knocked down a vase that was placed in the middle of the hallway. All a routine, and one that Violet knew that she shouldn't be so familiar with. Her father wasn't home. He never came home when her mother was like this. By the time the third glass of champagne touched her lips, he was gone at a 'business meeting.' Which, Violet knew meant that he just held himself up in his office until the afternoon of the next day... while playing a little bit of poker with his cider buddies. Her mother always made it home alright, what with the private chauffeur that was hired just for these circumstances. Tragically, she's not really a quiet drunk. The thought of what the driver had to go through caused Violet to flinch. "Viiiiioooolet! Hiccup. "Mooommmyyyssss sss'little ssslleeeppy!" She slurred. "Shhee neeeds 'er beauty sleeeep!" She ended the tsunami of shrieks and walrus-esque sounds with a loud, Don't wake up Mommy! and the slam of her bedroom door. Violet wrinkled her nose, imagining the stale wine and cider smell that must have surrounded her mother. She wouldn't be opening that door any time soon. Suddenly she felt her head swim. Her book case turned into a blurred, swirl of color. She felt her body heat up in a fever, and an empty feeling appear in her stomach. "I... I didn't eat dinner." She mumbled to herself in her empty room. She glanced at her wall clock and frowned when she saw that school would start in a couple of hours. She knew that she wasn't going to be able to go back to sleep. Not with the situation that happened yesterday with Cloudy- "Sun!" She shouted at the black bunny plush that laid innocently on her bed. "Her name is 'Cloudy Sun'. Not Cloudy." She blushed when she realized she was still talking to a stuffed rodent. With a sigh, she released all of her pent up energy that somehow found it's way inside her chest. With a quick glance around her room, she needed to find someway to pass the time. Her eyes landed on her old typewriter. The black paint had chipped from years of use, and the letters that covered the four huge pedals had been worn down to nothing but faint black dots. Violet had once read about how griffins using machines with over forty keys, and couldn't believe her eyes. Even when she was typing, she still had to use a basic amount of magic to get the hang of it, due to the fact that it had two more pedals that the average device you would find in schools or just around. She, without thinking, would use magic to grip a pedal and push it down so that her hoofs wouldn't have to move from one key to the other. But more than forty keys! That sounded impossible in Violet's mind when she first read it. With further research on the topic, she also learned that griffins had talons instead of front hooves, so she supposed that it was a little bit more doable than what she had previously imagined. She sat down in her desk chair. Gently, she readjusted her papers and began writing. Her mother insisted that she get rid of her typewriter. She suggested many things. They ranged from the aggravating 'You should just give up writing, dear. It's not a very good looking hobby., to something a little bit more reasonable such as: 'You could switch to your quill, if you're so stubborn. It certainly would be a lot faster, and at least more dignified.'. Violet considered the last one. She had to admit, she was faster at writing with her magic and quill than any other object. One time, when her typewriter had run out of ink, that was what she resorted to. Pages and pages of her notebook and loose pieces of paper scattered around her room were filled to the brim with her cursive hornwriting. Her mother, being overjoyed and thinking that the typewriter was out of the picture, put her in a calligraphy class. Violet didn't mind it, if anything she enjoyed it. But once she managed to get a roll of inked paper from an antique salespony, it was back to the keys for her, and the drawing board for her mother. That's not to say that she no longer used her quill. If anything, she used it more than she did anything else. She just simply uses the typewriter when she was home, and it was available. Anywhere else, she pulled out her black feather writing utensil and a small jar of ink and got to work. What should I write about today? She thought as she stared at the blank pages. She placed her hooves delicately on the keys and felt her shoulders relax as they slid loosely into the circle shaped indents. She began. There once was a mare. This mare, was said to be the prettiest and most dazzling in all the land. She would turn heads with the simplest tap of her hoof. She would cause jaws to drop with the slightest flick of her tail, and she could cause dozens of ponies to faint within a mere instant with a smile. But this pony, had a secret. She hid her cutie mark from the world. Though most would consider it something of beauty, or perhaps representing a talent like modeling or fashion, something that required her to be so beautiful. But in reality, it was something completely different. This pony, was me. Or, I guess, in this circumstance, 'is'. I'm not dead... yet. Right now, I'm at a party. A gala, if you will. I have to keep up appearances. "Ah, Miss Rose! I hope you're finding everything alright?" A bright blue pegasus with a rather ridiculous looking mane-cut and a face caked with makeup asked eagerly. It took me a while to remember her name. "Yes, Mrs. Oyal, everything is lovely. But I was hoping I could speak with your husband. Is he not enjoying the festivities?" "Oh!" Mrs. Oyal laughed. "I'm afraid, darling, that I'm rather timid to show you to him, what with that beautiful attire your wearing. I would like to keep this wedding bracelet on my hoof, thank you very much!" I chuckled half-heartedly at her attempts at making a joke. "Um... alright then. Thank you very much for the compliment. You look lovely, as well." "It's no problem, darling! Blue is very much your color!" She smiled. "If I see my husband, I'll let him know you want to see him." "Thank you." I said as I trotted off to the desserts table. Once I was there, I admired the spread in front of me. Delicious white chocolate truffles, perfectly iced red velvet and carrot cupcakes. Small, bite-sized souffles, and- Ah! A chocolate fountain. Because there couldn't be a party without one. Levitating a piece of sweet bread, I delicately skewered it and dipped it half way into the creamy treat. I raised it to my mouth slowly, just enough to for it to do what I wanted, and placed it softly on my tongue. I pulled the skewer out, never letting my teeth touch. I looked down, and feigned surprise and embarrassment at the small brown smudge that appeared on my neckline. Perfect. I excused myself to the bathroom, like any lady would, apologizing for what a mess and a klutz I was supposedly meant to be. Once I was there, I examined the room. There was one sink, each side decorated rather gaudily with a bust of Mr. Oyal. The shower was a typical tile, but the freshly polished marble floor was impressive. It took some contorting and the movement of a small table to find what I had been looking for. Two air vents. Using magic, I moved some towels from the cabinets and placed them securely onto the openings, blocking them. Then raised a small, metallic ball out of the bodice of my dress. Small, perfectly round, and extremely heavy, I teleported the device into the vents and onto the other side of the blockage. I heard the sound of it rolling down the vent, then heard a loud thud as it hit the bottom of a downward turn. I then strained my ears to hear a satisfying 'poof!' and smiled. "Now, if I was a slimy smuggler, where would I...?" I looked towards the left bust of Mr. Oyal. His head was slightly to far to the left. I felt my eyes roll. Granted, it was hard to see, what with his double chin and all, but still. One thing I hated, was unoriginal plot points. Slowly, I pressed my gold-painted hoof to Mr. Oyal's face. It tilted back, and made a very audible clicking sound when it reached the end. There was a rumbling sound, and I turned my head to see that the tile wall of the shower had given way to staircase. At the bottom, I saw Mr. Oyal and his wife asleep, along with a dozen or so henchman and coworkers. In Mr. Oyal's hooves, was a book that, just from standing at the bottom of the stairway, I could tell was bad. Along the walls, were roughly a hundred or so crates of unnamed materials. "Calling in Agent White, do you read?" A voice buzzed out of my communicator. "I read." I said into the device. "Targets are down, let's pack it up." "Alright. Over and out." The communicator shut itself off. I took it upon myself to strip down, after all, blue ball gowns were not made for hasty escapes. Once the dreadful garment was off of my coat, I felt much better. Left in nothing but a tight leather jacket with no loose ends or ties and my straight pink mane back down and falling around my neck. My cutie mark, which, as you ponies probably want to know is a pink ribbon wrapped around a pair of black binoculars, showed plainly. I think it's obvious now, that I'm not a 'Pretty pony'. I'm not a pony of 'beauty', or 'fashion'. I was a pony of espionage. And my cutie mark, proves it. Violet typed the last words right when a bright sunbeam hit her straight in the eyes. She blinked and flinched. With a start, Violet realized that it was Celestia raising the sun, meaning that it was only half an hour before school had to start. She quickly did her morning bit of brushing her mane back into a ponytail and brushing her teeth. It was when she put her saddlebag on her back did she hear a knock on the front door. Being too early for it to be her father, and too late for it to be the mailpony, a feeling started to rise in Violet's stomach. She had a sinking suspicion that a bright, overly perky, peach-colored filly was going to be on the other side. She took a breathe, calmed her frustration, and opened the door. "Hiya!"