Partheus

Clef smirked and looked up to the ceiling, with an admirable and thoughtful gaze fixated on the dim bulbs overhead. "Ah, don't worry about it. My dream isn't really well thought-out either. I want to go down in history as a great composer. To sit next to the greats like Johoof Sebastien Buck and Wolfgang Amaredaeus Mozart in the musical hall of fame would be the greatest honour for me. And, to die knowing that people will be listening to my work for years to come." He looked down to his cider tankard again. "But, like you, I'm not convinced that it will happen. There's some vicious competition out there, and worse still, half of them don't even put in half the effort I do. You've got all these DJs and colt bands going around playing their sub-par music, making all the fanfillies squeal obnoxiously, and they get shedloads of bits for it. Meanwhile, people like me and Octavia bust our flanks for barely enough money to keep a roof over our heads. I've contemplated changing tack and becoming a DJ myself in the past, but then I remember that I will be forgotten in a year, because another DJ or colt band would have taken my place by then." He picked up his tankard, and with a final lunging crane of his neck, finished his pint. He set the tankard down and wiped his mouth again, tapping a rhythm on the table with his hoof. "A sad state of affairs, but hey, who said life has to be fair? You've got to work with what you've got to get where you want to go, and if you don't make it, that isn't your fault. You were just dealt an unlucky hand, that's all. Better luck next time... if there is a 'next time', that is..." The bartender, working tirelessly due to demanding guests, hurriedly approached Clef and took his tankard. "Would you like a refill, sir?" Clef looked over cautiously to Newsworthy. "Is it alright if I have another?"

Clef shook his head. "I'm not involved with theatre, unfortunately. I'm a composer of music, and my study is all the way back in Ponyville. I do commissions for people, you see. If someone needs a jingle or a funeral march, or even a dance number, I'm usually their first port of call." He straightened his posture and smiled proudly. "For instance, you know the trumpet fanfare they played at the award ceremony for Twilight Sparkle and her friends when they defeated Discord? I composed that about a few days before Discord returned. It was by pure coincidence that my song was needed, and for my contribution, I was paid handsomely by Celestia and Luna themselves." He took a deep and melancholy sigh. "If only I was paid like that all the time..." He looked into his cider tankard and noticed it was half empty already. Of course, being the rational optimist he was, Clef saw it as half full. He took his fourth swig, setting the tankard down with some force. "Of course, I don't just make music for money. Sometimes, I just write silly songs for fun, or a little tune to amuse friends. Take my good friend Octavia, for instance. Very talented cellist, and dedicated to her craft. She's always asking me to write difficult pieces to put her skills to the test. Not necessarily tuneful ones, mind. Most of them are messy and every other note clashes with the next. But, she doesn't seem to mind that much. She's got her eye on the prize, to be the best cellist the world has ever seen, and I'm more than happy to lend a helping hoof." Clef scratched his chin, his mind suddenly seized by deep thought. "Speaking of which, do you have any ambitions of your own?" He leaned over to catch Newsworthy's eye. "That includes you too. Any dreams or goals?"

Clef gazed furiously at the back of Vainglorious' head, glad to be finally rid of her. Now, he thought, if only the rest of these fools would follow suit. A smirk grew on his face, the first time he had experienced anything resembling joy since he walked in to the hotel. Heh, 'suit'... He refocused on Newsworthy and Persnickety, getting the impression he wasn't the only one glad to see the back of Vainglorious. "Your friend Pocket Change seems like a nice enough guy, but boy does he pick some stuffy mares to be around. I don't know if it's the tiny bit of alcohol in my system already, but I was that close to lashing out at her." He held out both hooves and brought them within a few millimetres of each other to show how close he was to snapping. Clef picked up his tankard of cider and took another swig, in an attempt to drown out any negative thoughts of Vainglorious with the sweeping tide of drug-induced ignorance. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and set the tankard down, smiling to himself. Now with Vainglorious out of the way, he could ask a question that was on his mind since he got up to the bar. "So Persnickety, I was a little reluctant to ask you earlier, but how did you and Newsworthy meet? I gather that you're from Cloudsdale, seeing as how you went to their school to study drama, and Newsworthy probably spent a lot of time there as well, being a pegasus and all, but did you meet there, or was it one of those chance encounters in some random location?"

Clef was aghast. Wait, he thought, LOVE?! As in, this seemingly ordinary guy, who couldn't be pretentious even if you stuck a beret on his head and called him Andy Whinnyhol, is in love with HER?! Before he began to indulge in his rage, he paused to reflect on the situation. I guess I can't really judge them, though. A pony can love whoever he wants, and it'd be wrong of me to tell him he can't be with her. His lips curled again at the thought of Vainglorious. But, that doesn't mean I have to like her! She's an intolerably hoity-toity mare who's about five or six years overdue for a good slap across the muzzle! Gah! I've got to stop thinking about her. Think of something else, quick! Curiously enough, like a moth to flame, his mind drew back to Persnickety. As I thought. She's no worse off than me, and by the sounds of things, her parents aren't exactly strapped for cash either. Interesting that she went to Cloudsdale to study drama, though. I'd hate to judge an entire city, but Cloudsdale doesn't strike me as the sort of people to care that much about the more intellectual things in life. I always thought they were all sports enthusiasts, like that one girl with the rainbow mane who's constantly showing off to her friends. Ugh, simpletons... No, that's unfair. There is a lot more to sport than most ponies think, and it does take some smarts to do well. No need to stoop to their level, Clef... He glanced once more at Vainglorious, slowly becoming the bane of his existence with each eyeful of the detached and uncaring expression hidden behind her insincere half-smile.

As the white unicorn spoke, Clef was once again taken by surprise. Well, he thought, that makes four of us. I believe Newsworthy mentioned something about this guy being a friend of his. What was his name again, Loose Change? Pocket Monster? Ah, that's it! Pocket Change. He listened attentively to what Pocket Change had to say, nodding his head occasionally to show that he was paying attention. He's in real deep with the stars, he mused, but still acts and talks like a normal pony. An achievement in of itself, I'd say! A shame I can't say the same of his accomplice... He glanced at Vainglorious, his lips instinctively curling at the sight of someone who would have him thrown out without a second thought. But, he continued, I suppose that's part of the celebrity lifestyle. You're not paid to be kind, you're paid to be famous for something. It doesn't matter what that thing is, as long as you have an obscene amount of bits in the bank, you don't even have to be good at what you do. Like those sickeningly vapid musicians that parade around the place with their vinyl records and their flashy light shows. Who was that one who nearly blew up Canterlot Castle with that horrid 'dubstep' thing that they all like dancing to? DJ Pon-3, or something like that. Octavia couldn't stop trembling for weeks afterwards, poor girl... He snapped out of thought to respond to Pocket Change's question. "I'm here because I heard very good reviews of the play from picky friends, so I had to go and see what the whole fuss was about. Oh, and thank you for recognising that I am not some tramp. You have no idea how many restaurants I have been kicked out of because the usher assumed I was too poor to even afford the water. It's not like I have bad manners or anything." Clef took a hearty swig of cider, wiping his mouth clean with his sleeve.

Clef was taking brief mental notes of everything the girl in the scarf was saying. So, he thought, if she was invited to come along by this Sir Newsworthy, that means... wait, I know that name... He looked again at Newsworthy's face, taking notice of his grey mane and blue skin. Of course! Why didn't I recognise him before? He's that journalist working for the Ponyville Express! If memory serves, he sometimes attends my concerts, though sparingly. And that leaves us with Scarf Girl... He stared into his cider cup, pretending to be trapped deep in thought, listening attentively to what the girl in the scarf was saying. Now that IS interesting, he thought. A playwright invited by a journalist to come and see a play. What irony! Wait, is that even irony? Bah, I'll have to ask Siscolt and Ebuck when I get back, as moody and tiresome as they are to talk to... Although it took a moment to travel through the twisted wreckage of his latest composition and his opinions on the play he had just seen, a single peculiar thought had suddenly struck him with the force of a freight train. Did she... just compliment my clothes? Clef drew a curious and embarrassed smirk with a fittingly raised eyebrow. That's a first, he remarked. Most people give my eclectic fashion tastes the same welcome as one would give a manticore entering their house. So, she's definitely not of the same mindset as the others here, though if she really does live such a minimalist life, that really should have been predicted beforehand. Actually, her lifestyle is probably no different to mine if she is affiliated with the arts. Get up, eat the same market-brand feed as I always do, sit down at the piano, wrack my brain trying to compose something, go meet up with my 'friends' in the local cafe, talk about things I don't care about, only to come home, resume my work, and drift off to sleep in a rickety antique bed. It's almost a running gag in the music world for aspiring artists like me to be so da-dada-dee CURSES! Inspiration can hit an artist at any given moment, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's a good thing. Clef tried to clear his mind of everything, moving the wrangled mess from earlier out of the way and being still, not even allowing himself to move a single part of his body, for that would constitute as a thought. But like a recurring dream, the melody returned to him. It was a waltz in D# Minor, with lashings of rubato to keep things nice and expressive, and a melody with smatterings of modulation to help the listener follow the melody along. The sort of thing he might play to himself on a rainy day if creativity is at an all-time low and he was crushingly bored. The more pressing matter for Clef, and the cancerous problem it presented, was why this particular tune chose to will itself into existence within his mind when he began conversing with these specific people. What was fuelling his creative fire? The answer was exceedingly simple, and came to Clef with only a moment's more thought. Contrary to everything he has ever known from the harsh mistress of experience, talking to ordinary people without a hint of malice in their bones helps him become more creative. Wishing to test this hypothesis further, Clef made light conversation with the girl in the scarf. "Thanks for the compliment. I'm sure you can probably guess already, but not many people care for vintage things in general nowadays, so my clothing isn't exactly popular among snooty types." Clef paused for a moment and focused back on his piece. Sure enough, a few more bars of music had materialised of their own accord. He grinned to himself, ecstatic that he had found a less stressful means to tease the muse inside his head into giving him a new piece. "I don't believe I caught your name. Not to sound judgemental, but does it have anything to do with scarves?"

Clef's heart almost leapt out of its casing. The journalist's calling me over, he thought. But why? He's got dozens of other, more important ponies to talk to, and I would imagine that they'd give him better stories to write about in whatever newspaper this guy works for than I ever could. Clef noticed the jeering ponies from a moment ago falling back to their usual prattle, pretending to be well-versed in the finer points of drama when in actual fact, they knew next to nothing about the subject, and were only under the false pretence of knowledge to look more competent than they actually were. As someone who has to deal with the higher classes at concerts on a regular basis, Clef couldn't help but draw parallels between those near him waffling on about 'the vital essence of the period being captured perfectly in this play', and those at his concerts banging on about 'the subtle nuances and musical details in Clef's latest suite'. As far as Clef was concerned, both were different shades of the same fool. Clef ceased to muse on the pretentious and focus his attention back on the journalist and the girl with the scarf. Hold on, he thought, is he showing me... sympathy? No, that's ridiculous, journalists aren't that kind. All they care about is... what do they call it, 'the catastrophe'? Something like that? Yes, when tragedy strikes, they make truckloads more money for their 'bravery' and 'courage'. They earn a living from others' misery, so how could someone so heartless show me, a total stranger, even the tiniest fraction of pity? Clef spied an extra cider by the journalist; evidently, he wasn't just humouring him. If you can't find a story, make one, he thought, as he shrewdly trotted over to the journalist sat at the bar, perching himself beside the girl in the scarf, reluctantly picking up his tankard of cider and taking a dry sip. "T-thanks for the drink, sir." Clef looked over his shoulder to make sure no on else was eavesdropping. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you two aren't like the others in here. You know, like..." His mouth was almost clamped shut as he tried to whisper, "Pompous." He guiltily shifted around quickly, monitoring his shoulders thrice, as if he were trying to sell them both illegal substances. "So, what brings a couple of 'normal' ponies to a place like this?"

Clef quickly sidestepped behind a portly stallion and his trophy wife, avoiding detection from the one in the scarf. His heart was pounding, and he experienced a tiny euphoric sensation throughout his body, as if his every point was being simultaneously caressed by silky hooves. Being a musical soul, Clef possessed a fine ear, and managed to gather some fragmented phrases from the two of them before narrowly avoiding being caught. Hmm, he thought, these two are clearly not like the the others. The way they carry themselves is one obvious detail I should have picked up on almost immediately. They do not stand as though they have a broom rammed up their backsides, and the one in the scarf is especially crooked in her stance. It's almost as if she's... somewhat timid, not possessing the confidence to stand as tall as her friend. Interesting... On a mental count of three, Clef peered his head out from behind the portly stallion and resumed his observations. The one with the hat is the dead opposite, he noted. Just look at how relaxed he is! He has no fear talking to ponies of such high regard. It's almost as if he is one, but he cannot possibly be of their ilk. What kind of pony could develop such familiarity with high society, yet be a mere working class citizen? Clef brainstormed all possible professions until only one very likely candidate remained. Of course, he thought, that's it! He's a journalist! The hat, the goatee, the casual talk with VIPs as if he was on first name terms with them, it all makes sense! And if he's a journalist, then what could our friend in the scarf be? They travel together, so they obviously know each other, but she has yet to say anything revealing yet. Come on, scarf girl, be more confide- "Excuse me, good sir, but are you lost? The Reneighsance Fair is two blocks down the road, you know." There came hearty and insincere laughter from all directions. Clef wheeled around and realised that, to his dismay, some of the guests had noticed his presence, and more damningly, his clothes. Not only did this leave him out in the open and without a place or pony to hide behind, but the sound of a group of ponies laughing the way they were was bound to turn a few heads, namely, Scarf Girl and Journalist Guy. With his options severely limited and his time short, Clef stared at the ceiling meaningfully and slowly paced around the room, pulling the old 'If I Ignore You, You'll Ignore Me' routine that guilty or secretive people do when they want to hide themselves in plain sight, but secretly want others to see them.

Clef Scribbles had come to see 'Death of a Salespony' after hearing high praise from his colleagues. They were the worst kind of sceptics, those with palettes so jaded that they could feed a family of dragons for two months. They stubbornly turned their noses up at 'A View From the Bridle' and 'All My Foals', both of which were written by the same author as this very play. Yet, despite their best efforts to dislike 'Death of a Salespony', there came back from them an unexpected and much welcomed positive review all around. Clef felt almost obliged to travel all the way from Ponyville to Stalliongrad to see it for himself, despite drama not being one of his strong suits. He was a composer of music first, and a part-time writer second. If it weren't for the company he kept, he would have possessed the literacy of a griffon. After viewing the play for himself, he followed the member of the audience who just so happened to be in front of him, having heard of some sort of after party being held in a nearby hotel. His mind was abuzz with two distinct trains of thought as he left the building; one was forming an opinion of what he had just seen, and the other was roughly three quarters of a new composition he had been formulating during the quieter periods of the play. As the audience made their pilgrimage to the hotel shrine on the other side of the street, the few fragments of information finally fused, and he at last had a proper opinion. I liked the premise, he mused to himself, but the story had this... overwhelming and uncomfortable sense of depression and sadness which wasn't fun to experience. Hmph, it figures that the only play those fools back in Ponyville like is a depressing one. Still, the themes of father and son bonding created some interesting da-deedum-dum... DARNIT! Clef's two trains of thought had collided, and the resulting wreck had ensnared his sense of orientation completely. When he took a step back, cleared his mind, and focused on what was in front of him, he was still staring into the back of the stallion in front of him, except now they were inside a well-lit and extravagant hall, with small cliques of sharply dressed ponies in good standing chattering amongst themselves, and a crowded bar with more dressed ponies demanding a well-deserved drink from the proactive bartender. The auditorium was mildly humid, and it doesn't take a stretch of the imagination to suppose that a careless attendee would neglect to drink something before going in to sit down in a partially comfortable chair for a few hours, surrounded by people in the exact same predicament. But, Clef thought ahead, and snagged a quick fix of cider before going in to see the play. He came to the seemingly obvious realisation that he was one of the only guests who wasn't formally dressed. While he came dressed in his usual attire, a green jacket with white frills and brown straps dangling from the collar, and had not bothered to comb his wild, grey unkempt mane, everyone else had gone to the trouble of picking the best suit or dress, combing and cleaning their mane thoroughly, and wore the latest perfume from Prance. Dressing up to go and see a play was a bizarrely decadent concept to Clef, though outside of his small circle of cynics-come-acquaintances, he wasn't a terribly social creature, and his knowledge of the droll pastime people dubbed 'partying' came primarily from books too old to be even considered remotely relevant. It seemed that everywhere he looked, there were finely outfitted ponies... all apart from two pegasi headed towards a white unicorn perched beside the bar. He wanted to approach them, but felt as though he would be intruding on them. After all, for all he knew, they could be high class ponies who simply forgot to wear fine clothes to the play, a forgiveable mistake for people as seemingly intelligent as they were. He chose to keep his distance, maintaining a distant and watchful eye on the two of them, using the nattering trios and quartets of attendees as convenient hiding spots to disappear from their gaze at a moment's notice.

Partheus scanned the pegasus, taking particularly close notice of his dragon wings, which didn't match with the rest of his body. Gosh, he thought, it looks like they were sewn on or something. Poor guy... another victim of Celestia's cruelty, probably. "Well, we're all misfits around here. For instance, I'm what's known as a human. To put it shortly, I'm a bald monkey with opposable thumbs and a big brain. I'm currently travelling around Equestria to learn more about this place. I'm new here, you see, so I don't know much about you ponies. So, that's why I'm not freaking out like how I would imagine most ponies would. Besides, the whole idea of talking horses is considered abnormal where I'm from, so you don't have to worry about feeling left out."

Partheus stood there in a daze as Amber Wands explained the inner workings of her wand. Man, he thought, she really knows her stuff! I barely know anything about magic, and what I do know is narrated in my head in Twilight's nagging voice, so I try not to think about it that much... "...uh huh. Interesting. Well, if it'll help us fix this whole mess with Discord, that's all I need to know." He looked over to Sanctuary, then back at Amber Wands. "So, what's the plan, you guys? Do we still head over to the encampment?"

Partheus scratched his head and woke up to see Gravel talking to a pegasus with dragon wings. "Gravel, who's this? Another intruder?"

Partheus scanned Amber Wands curiously, not quite sure what to say in response to her query. "Uhh... yeah, Discord got me real good... he turned me into a... hairless monkey... I used to be a unicorn, and now I'm a bald chimp, hehe... How embarrassing..." Great, he thought, just what I need. I'm the first of my kind around these parts in Torbolt knows how long, so after this whole mess is dealt with, and I'm still on my two legs, everybody will start asking me questions like 'What are you?' or 'Where did you come from?' I can't answer those questions. Celestia said not to tell them too much, because she wanted to keep her populace somewhat innocent of the outside world... "For sake of convenience, just call me a 'human' for now, okay? I think it's got a nice ring to it!" he stuck his thumb up at Amber Wands and smiled cheekily, trying to hide his utter embarrassment. He noticed the wand orbiting around Amber Wands. "Err, I might not be the leading expert on magic, but why do you use a wand? Isn't that what the horn on your head is used for?"

Partheus saw Gravel come towards him, and when she hugged him, the red lightning disappeared from around him, his mind becoming clearer. "Gravel? Oh thank Torbolt you're okay!" He squeezed Gravel tightly, making sure not to grab her shoulder. "I thought you were dead... But, you're okay now, so all is well. Come on, let's go back to the ruins. I think we've had quite a day."

((Feel free to write about it, then. I'll wait until you catch up with Gravel.))

((Oh well, you can join back in if you want.))

((She said earlier that she wanted to finish Gravel's story off so you could join. Also, after having a massive speech like that, and closing her eyes like that immediately afterwards, we have to assume she's dead.))

((Gravel died, and Partheus is now determined to kill Celestia. She was the one who cursed Gravel with being a gorgon in the first place, because she supported Luna at the time of Nightmare Moon.))

Partheus stared into Gravel's motionless face, cradling her lifeless body in his arms. He shed a single manly tear, and wiped it from his face. She was just an innocent mare who was subjected to an eternity of misery, he thought. And only now, in her last few moments alive, did she discover friendship... Partheus stood up and began to slowly well up with rage, still holding Gravel in his arms. I'll make that tyrant pay with her life, he thought. She is no god, and she is no loving ruler. It's all propaganda and brainwashing, fuelled by fear, and propagated by the individual who has taken over Equestria. These so-called 'villains' of Equestria are nothing more than people who stood up against her rule, and were cursed with insanity, mutation, or both... He placed Gravel on the ground, positioning her in the same position she slept in. He looked up to the sky, his body beginning to surge with a strange red lightning, crying out into the woods, "CELESTIA!" He darted off into the woods, following nothing but his instinctive rage, with revenge in his eyes, and murder on his mind. "Your days of ruling this land with an iron hoof are over, Celestia! Once I return to Canterlot, you better be ready, because I won't hold back!" The red lightning formed a cone around his body as he sped off into the forest, thinking of nothing but revenge...

((Sorry, exams and stuff held me back. Plus, I'm currently in the middle of a much bigger RP that requires my full attention. It's called "The Hunter Approaches", if you want to read along...)) Partheus looked into Gravel's eyes with condolence. "You have my word, I'm not leaving you here to die. And you aren't a sick freak. You're a poor unfortunate soul who was unfairly cursed by Celestia long ago, and I will do whatever I can to make sure the curse is lifted." He rubbed the bandage gently, giving reassuring looks into Gravel's eyes as the healing ointment began to take effect.

Partheus observed Gravel temporarily twitching in her dream-like torpor. He placed his hand on her to calm her down. "Hey hey hey, calm down!" He rubbed her shoulder assertively. "That's it, just relax. The healing ointment will take effect soon." He sat by her side still, daring not to move from her side for a single moment.

Yay! My character is legit! (Wait, wasn't I already legit before?) No, you weren't. You were a stowaway. And how are we talking? (No thanks to you and your fetish for drama, I'm used to being in places I'm not welcome in. And, we're able to talk because Pinkie Pie broke the 4th Wall... again... One moment, I'll go get the Duct Tape...)

Partheus returned to his living quarters, changed into his pyjamas, and sat on his bedside. He reached for his sword, unsheathed it, and observed it admirably. I wonder how I channel my energy into this thing, he thought. He focused on his inner energy, and tried to shift it all into the hand that was holding the sword. It pooled together in his hand, but for some reason, was not travelling up through the sword. He tried concentrating it in different points, different spreads, and different hands, but the sword would simply not absorb any of the energy from his hand. Wait a moment, he thought. What did Celestia say about the sword's properties? "It is an extension of yourself, like a good sword should be..." Realising where he had gone wrong, he tried the unthinkable; he stood up from his bed, envisioned the sword as if it were an extension of his arm, and held it outwards from himself. He then focused his energy not in his hand, but the imaginary limb beyond his hand. Although tricky to understand at first, he soon grasped the concept, fully believing that the sword was a part of his body. Suddenly, energy surged into the blade, lighting up his living quarters with a bright white glow. Excellent, he thought. This sword will surely add the edge I need to defe- Without warning, Partheus collapsed in a heap onto his bed, sword in hand, and everything faded to black...

Partheus looked at the bandages covering his forearms. They were glowing with some strange energy, and he could feel them soothing the burns already. "Thanks. I'll be sure to practise all I've learned today in my own training hall tomorrow." He rolled down his tattered sleeves, partially covering the bandages. "My sword can channel my inner power, bolstering it's strength and cutting power. I'll have to get used to pouring in my energy into a weapon, but with some practise, I should be fine." He looked suspiciously at Shining Armour. "Why do you ask, anyway? Are you interested in sparring with me some time? I'd be more than happy to oblige if that's what you're after."

As the flames sped towards him, Partheus focused, recited the approprite incantations, and pushed towards the fireball with both hands. The flames only got so far as four feet from Partheus before exploding into harmless fireworks like before. But, some of the smaller fragments of the fireball were still heading towards Partheus. He had no time to think; without enough power left to cast another counter-spell, he raised his arms to protect his face. The flames hit Partheus, tearing through the sleeves of his shirt, and leaving marks on his forearms. His shirt didn't catch fire, though he suffered third degree burns as a result. He crumpled to the floor and nursed his sore arms, trying not to scream out in pain. "I'm... fine... don't... worry..." Partheus stood up, both wrists singed, body exhausted, and walked back to his position on the arena, arms hanging limply by his side. "Nothing some healing lotion won't fix. I'll be fine. Is that all for today, Shining Armour?"