Purple Mare has a Secret Passion
Tempest Shadow sat in a cafe, by herself, with a hot cup of black coffee. Somehow, black coffee, unsweetened and unmilked, suited her needs, which were boredom and a hint of pessimism. She could fight, she could command fear, and she could destroy – things that, unfortunately, couldn’t find use in a nation that had already rebuilt itself. Ponies had gone back to their normal lives, and Canterlot had resumed its job of being the seat of power. Storm King, airships, blah blah blah – yeah, that was done. Finished. Period.
At least she survived. In one piece. Minus her horn, of course.
She sighed. This black coffee really suited her. She stared at her dull reflection in the ink-dark liquid, a very small and pitiful Tempest Shadow staring back at her. The barista did a good job at pulling strong and thick coffee. She should compliment him.
She swallowed the rest of her drink. Then stood. Then stopped by the counter.
“Hey, thanks for the coffee. You did a real good job.”
The barista, who’d been washing up, turned to face her. “Oh, um…thanks, Miss Shadow!” he replied with a cheerful smile.
She nodded. Then turned. Opened the door. And stepped into the open thin-aired street.
She sucked in a deep breath, and looked left, then right, not knowing what to do now. A businesspony strutted past her, horn aglow as he held his trusty briefcase in mid-air. Tempest felt a tinge of jealousy pinching her heart, but sighed it off. Not now. It was past. There was nothing she could do about it. A carriage drove past her, carrying two wealthy mares. The colt pulling it was not, but he seemed to have a smile on his face as he trotted past her. Tempest shrugged and crossed the street.
She passed by a big wooden noticeboard. It was pinned with all sorts of things. Newspapers telling a scandalous tale, advertisements claiming high-paying jobs, and the activists’ usual tract about saving the environment, turtles, and activist nonse–
She stopped. Then turned. Then zoomed into a parchment nailed to the board amidst all the other scrap. She brushed away the papers blocking the full thing, then read the bold, almost calligraphic print on the parchment:
AMANUENSIS NEEDED
Copying music and all other related articles.
Please contact Octavia Melody
14 Cobbler’s Way, Artisan District, Canterlot
Tempest immediately thought about her hoofwriting. It was absolute crap. She’d rather be a doctor scribbling prescriptions. This was copying music. It required delicate strokes and fine serifs, a skill only those with a horn could ever master.
Wait, aren’t you a unic–
No, I’m not.
Uh, yes you are, it’s on your fore–
It’s broken.
It still works.
No, it doesn’t.
Just give it a try.
Tempest sighed, then looked for something small and harmless. Like…the random ball that sat behind the wooden board.
Five minutes later, the noticeboard exploded into a thousand tiny pieces, incinerating almost everything that’d been pinned upon it. A shout and a cry later, some Royal Guards assessed the situation and took testimonials from those who saw.
And let’s just say…some witness readily pointed a hoof at Tempest. In all honesty, she had admitted it to the Guard interrogating her. He’d shrugged it off then. Now, he was slapping her with a fine of 500 bits for “damage to public property” – vandalism, in laypony terms. And those two ponies that’d pointed hoofs at her smirked mischievously as the Guards left with a jingling sack.
Tempest sighed. Some attitudes didn’t change, it seemed. Oh, and she was almost broke.
Almost.
She still had a little money in the bank. It would be enough for food, but not enough for rent. She’d been supporting herself solely on odd jobs. Better jobs were, for lack of a better word, unavailable, and even though Twilight had suggested she apply to join the ranks, she’d declined. Fighting was her forte, but not now. She didn’t feel like it. Odd jobs were nice. It was low-profile, quiet, and it paid the bills.
Tempest sighed. What was Ms. Melody’s address again?
***
“So, you’d like to learn…music?”
Tempest nodded, horn sparking with a little excitement. She’d spent the last two hours learning how to copy music, as Miss Octavia had suffered some injury to her forehoof and couldn’t pick up a quill for the next six to eight weeks. It was fun, interesting, and perhaps a way to earn some income as well.
Octavia glared at her with a raised brow. “Music…as in playing music?”
Tempest nodded, again.
Miss Octavia sighed. Out of bewilderment, perhaps. Tempest wasn’t known for anything else other than making war – truth to be told, she herself didn’t think she had some musical inclination or whatnot…until now. Sitting at an upright piano. With a well-known musician. And plenty of inked music paper.
“Well, um…first off, what instr–”
“This.” Tempest laid a hoof onto the mahogany instrument. Actually, more like punched it, causing it to resonate a choir of harmonic voices that rang loudly throughout the small apartment.
Of course, Octavia’s eyes bulged out of their sockets, especially after the groan that escaped the poor upright thing. She quickly reset her expression to that of I’ll-let-it-slide-this-time.
“A piano. I see. Well, I don’t teach for free, Miss Shadow. I charge–”
“Actually, how about a deal?” cut in Tempest. Octavia forced an uncivilised growl down her throat. “I help you write your music, to the best of my ability, and you teach me this…piano in return?”
Octavia pondered. She stole a glance at her hoof. It was wrapped tight in a cast, and it wouldn’t come off for the next two months. She could eat, clean, and do stuff with her left hoof…but writing? Probably not.
It turned out that Miss Shadow’s hoofwriting was not as bad as both thought. The lines needed some refining, especially the barlines, and the serifs needed more practice, but…for the most part, she was okay.
Hm…
“Allow me to ask a question, Miss Shadow.”
“By all means.”
“Why do you want to learn music?”
Tempest let the question hang for a while. It would keep Miss Melody in suspense, and it would also allow her to form a coherent answer. It also would add some drama to this whole scene.
She sighed. “Well, for starters…I’d like to earn some extra income, like those musicians on the street.”
Octavia raised a very skeptical brow. Busking. Dear Celestia…
“But, at the same time…I’d like to…mm, how do you put it..? I’m just really interested.”
“Just ‘really interested’?”
Tempest spoke slowly. “I’ve mastered things that…well, that aren't good for anypony. I know how to fight. I know how to command fear. And I know how to destroy.”
She laid a dangerous hoof on the precious upright. Octavia widened her eyes, breath trembling.
“But…for perhaps the first time in my life, I’ve found something that doesn’t destroy. I’ve found something that brings beauty. Something that I know won’t harm anypony, but heal instead. It's something I want to do. It’s this – ” she gently stroked the smooth wood of the instrument, as if it were a precious pet.
Octavia breathed a sigh. Perhaps she was relieved that the piano wasn't hurt in any way. Or, she was impressed with Tempest's little speech. Either way, she nodded in deep thought.
"You've discovered a passion, then, Miss Shadow."
Tempest nodded, slowly.
"I only teach those with passion."
She nodded again.
Octavia smiled a little, then chuckled softly. "Believe me, I rarely teach. I've only had two students. You're the third."
Tempest nodded again, for the third time.
***
Tempest Shadow entered her small apartment. It had one bedroom, an abominably cramped living area, and a kitchenette. It was furnished bare, with only the necessary accessories a single pony needed. Deco came in the form of some books, some parchment, and a small collection of seashells purloined from Mount Aris.
She sat down on the wooden chair. It was stuffed with pillows and a blanket, a makeshift couch for her to chillax on. It was the closest thing she could afford for a couch, and she was quite happy with it.
Miss Octavia had arranged for lessons twice a week. Payment? Tempest would help her write out Octavia's symphony (whatever that word meant; she was confident it had to do with music). Musical language was a strange new thing to Tempest, and she enjoyed every bit of it, ever since she put the quill to paper, slowly drawing out the bean-like notes and other musical hieroglyphs.
She looked at the score in her hoof. It was a transcription of various popular ballads and songs. Tempest imagined herself playing these in Café Sommelier. Ponies would no doubt be surprised, but it wouldn't be that bad. They might even join in.
Tempest sighed, then smiled a small smile. Less boredom and a tiny pinch of pessimism. She'd found a passion today, and she was determined to bless others with it.