Lucidity

by Indulgence

A Final Flourish

And now mares and gentlecolts one and all, prepare to be amazed, for our next act this evening is totally unparalleled throughout all of Equestria. I like all of you sat in the audience tonight once held the belief, the firm belief, that alicorns were the most powerful creatures in our fair land, unmatched in any and all of the magical arts. However mares and gentlecolts I have since known doubt, for I have had the privilege to bear witness to the miraculous feats of our final performer: a master conjurer, a peerless telekant, renowned illusionist, sage savant of all sorceries known to ponykind and vanquisher of the much feared Ursa Major. Those of you of a nervous disposition should avert your gazes and make your way directly from the auditorium, but otherwise I bid you stomp your hooves and welcome to the stage the Great and Powerful Trixie!

No applause, no cheering, only the chaotic rhythm of rainfall drumming against the decrepit caravan’s thinned roof, interspersed by sharper tones as droplets fell through the great many cracks to land in a scattered array of buckets, bowels and beakers. Beyond these improvised water receptacles (many of which were overflowing) the two rooms which made up this mobile home were remarkably bare, unless detritus was counted amongst the denizen’s possessions, in which case she was rich beyond measure. Piles of refuse formed mountains in the corners; whilst on the plateau of the floor within, a tripartite battle was being waged between empty bottles, used packaging and waste paper, the trio having already reached a stalemate in their occupation of the bin. Every one of the limited work spaces that there were (regardless of whether they belonged to the domain of the kitchenette or not) stood occupied by an impressive legion of dirty dishes, although in being stacked far too high they listed at crazy angles as opposed to remaining at attention. All however were subjects to the overlordship of the dust, coating everything in a fuzzy grey blanket, its dominion stretching even to the ceiling where it clung to the cobwebs along with the vast graveyard of deceased insects.

The exterior was a mirror image to the interior, being in a similar state of absolute dilapidation. Wherever the roof was not riddled with holes it sagged lazily inward, worn down under the weight of the many previous downpours it had had to withstand aside from the present barrage. Once simply varnished to accentuate the grain of their wooden construction, the four walls had by now long lost their gloss, allowing rot to take root and fungus to sprout amongst the damp planks. Mercifully however the green tinge of decay was disguised and the caravan itself granted new adornment, far in excess of its previous limited decorations, by long tracts of spray paint generously scrawled across its faces. At the same time these additions made almost invisible the loss of windows whose shutters had been nailed shut, in lieu of a more extensive fix that was never coming. Although predominately illegible (in most cases thankfully) the writing was at least extensive, somepony having even gone as far as putting effort into reimagining the sign which hung on a single remaining chain above the wagon’s front door.

In all respects therefore the caravan fitted in beautifully with its surroundings, seemingly set up as a permanent resident in the back alley where it rested with one wheel absent, its empty axle set atop a pile of bricks. Really the place was no more than an extended sewer, servicing both the main street and the pair of tower blocks looming up on either side of it as a place to dump all unwanted garbage. Unlike the filthy rivers thrown up by the clogged throats of drains at each of its ends flowing inwards (carrying a steady stream of rubbish with them), the light from streetlamps refused to enter more than a few steps, leaving the alleyway in perpetual gloom. Even in daytime this remained unchanging, overshadowed as the area was by the heights of superior structures, hidden from the world in the recesses of some unknown architect’s stylistic blind spot.

The only evidence that the caravan was not in fact the abandoned wreck that it seemed came in the form of the faintest glimmer shining through gaps in the rear room’s shutters, accompanied by the even less obvious sound of an old show tune, its noise drowned under the noise of rain. The music often scratched and skipped, its source (a gramophone looking ancient beyond its years) struggling in its only slight duty. This failure mattered little however as the tired machine’s voice went unnoticed by anypony, not least of all by the lone resident with which it shared the caravan’s bedroom portion.

The Great and Powerful Trixie will now bedazzle you with sights only before possible in your wildest of fantasies!

An equally accurate descriptor for the bedroom/dressing room/storage closet beyond 'tip' would have been to call it a museum, although a decidedly poorly maintained one at any rate. Along one side of the space a row of clothing hooks stood sentry, each bearing a differently coloured cape and matching pointed hat, like the treasured relics of past heroes. In turn their wearers past feats in life, depicted in either faded posters or in tales carefully cut from newspapers and magazines, were hung up everywhere, framed for permanency in their display. All were united in their focus on a single figure, always triumphant in posture yet also always veiled in a shroud of mystery, with trademark cloak and wide-brimmed headgear constantly hiding her features. It all added up to a shrine to this single intriguing silhouette, but any penitents there may have once been had long forgotten its existence and in turn the caretaker had become a hermit, letting care slip away as interest was lost.

See how your eyes deceive you and nothing is as it seems!

The inadequate illumination (flickering from a halo of half working bulbs surrounding the dressing table’s mirror) failed to banish the night’s darkness creeping in from outside, barely even lighting the room. A lone blue unicorn viewed herself through the looking glass, sat perched on the edge of a stool, the final remaining piece of furniture left. Her reflection was the total antithesis to her background, the lustrous shine playing across her coat and through her hair at odds with the world of fallen decrepitude. The attentions of a brush, floating in a pale blue aura, ignored this fact as it ran through the silvery strands of her mane, cut through with a stripe of light azure. A wine bottle levitated in the same way, moving to fill an equally drifting glass with the last of its contents before being allowed to tumble to the floor and roll away. The glass meanwhile, now filled to its brim with scarlet liquid, came to her lips which drew long draughts from the drink, punctuating a cycle of facial expressions they were running through as if in preparation for a performance.

Was there ever any doubt?

A small giggle escaped her mouth, spurred on more by her beverage than any real humour, continuing on as a low chuckle which finally petered out as she finished off both her ministrations and the rest of the glass’ contents. Two sets of mirrored violet irises rolled over each other’s owners, checking carefully and then deeming their fixed forms adequately beautiful enough to perform in any show. Satisfied, she rose with a bowing flourish, sending the stool on which she had been seated away to the centre of the room. All that remained to be prepared was a single item of jewellery, a small gold circlet embossed in an all-encompassing ring of sigils, which she now slipped into place over her slender horn. She forced her thoughts on her brush. It did not move, no aura forming to enwrap its handle no matter how hard she tried.

Trixie is truly the greatest spell caster in all of Equestria!

With a definitive nod she turned her back on herself, crossing the few paces to where the stool was now at rest and ascended, stepping up onto it. Her favourite cape was ready and waiting for her, its glittering length secured tightly to one of the roof’s more solid rafters whilst a loop was tied at its end now dangling before her muzzle, just big enough to slip her head through.

Trixie! Trixie! Trixie!

Her eyes screwed themselves shut, she let the podium wobble away and fall from beneath her, and then she was left suspended, the fine fabric constricting sharply around her neck.

Comments

[justwannaread]

Your writing is as always superb. I don't flinch away from the dark tag and the first chapter has already a lot of impact.