Post by Luna on Mar 26, 2014 22:51:08 GMT -5
Bardigan's House
Bardigan's retreat from the world is a charming little two story cottage set near the edge of Whitetail Woods. Away from the hustle and bustle of main paths and roads while still being close enough to easily access Ponyville, this seems like a perfect artist's getaway. Built out of sturdy wood and white brick, littered with leaves and vines from the forest as its owner is simply too busy creating to worry about things like that, it manages to be a house without being too ubiquitous among the tall trees. A smoking chimney sprouts out of the side, and several windows usually have a candle or two in them.
Within the house there is a mess of knick-knacks, odd artifacts, and not very valuable treasures all over the house, almost all of which are labeled with some esoteric message hinting at a greater story. All of them, however, are placed with reverent order, being not so much cluttered as carefully packed.
This is a clean establishment, taken care of by somepony with good order and appearances in mind. Upstairs one can find Bardigan's bedroom (the most comfortable in Ponyville!), Diamond Dancer's star-filled room, a sitting area, a back door leading to the garden and a nightmarishly crowded study with books and ink-spattered papers covering every inch.
Luna is there, as if she was always there, as if it wasn't five seconds ago that you very distinctly were looking right there and there is where she was not. Maybe someone here is not all there. She stands beside the fireplace, with firelight flickering over her flank. It does not touch her mane and tail, those rippling clouds of glowing blue speckled with spectral star stuff. Her face is regally dour, detached, and she stands so still she seems a statue, except that mane and tail are unforgable, and bluegreen eyes stare right at you as you reenter.
The looming nature of the Princess is reflected in the way Bardigan notices her: with slowly dawning comprehension. He walks from room to room with a bundle under his wing, eyes on the floor, and when he completes another circuit his pacing slowly grinds to a halt, and his laid-back ears creak forward to point at the alicorn in the living room. He raises his head, which is not covered by his hat and his mane is a bit of a mess. His eyes are stuck on Luna's the moment they meet. "Would it be vanity or paranoia if I assumed you're here to throw me in a dungeon?"
Luna does not move. Well, she's not absolutely immobile. Her mane and tail ripple in a nonexistent breeze, and her head tilts the slightest amount, her eyes tilt the few degrees, necessary to meet Bardigan's gaze. Otherwise she's a statue. Yep, she's all regal tonight. When she speaks, her mouth pulls the same 'the only thing moving' schtick. "I have come to give thee thy due for the opera, Playwright. That, indeed, is so."
"Mmm." Bardigan purses his lips, whether disappointed or depressed is anypony's guess. He gestures to the fire with one wing as he plops into a chair, opening his other wing to reveal the manuscript of the play itself, which he holds up with a hoof. It trembles. "I went through a lot of scenarios while walking in circles around my house," he says. "One of which was throwing this into the fire and then collapsing over a nearby table, weeping whilst cursing my ability to pull such beautiful terror from my writing. It was going to be very dramatic." Then he slumps and shrugs. "But I just sat down and this chair is far too comfortable to get up from again."
Luna watches, so impassive that maybe she just doesn't know what Bardigan is talking about. Certainly she goes on without directly acknowledging what he said. Her head turns, and a bag floats up out of nowhere, as if she had just been wearing it on her flank. The round, indigo blue velvet bag is the size of a pony's head, and tied with a black cord. She floats it over towards Bardigan, and drops it in front of his chair. When it hits the ground, it hits with a very loud clink and thump, as if filled with extremely heavy metal. Still impassive, she tells him, "First, Playwright, thy filthy lucre. Such material formalities must be disposed of. Thirty pieces of silver is the tradition, the gift given to he who arranged the first Summer Sun Celebration. Alas, we could find no silver on the treasure hoard, and scooped up that which we might."
Bardigan jumps at the sound of the bag hitting the floor. It reminds him far too much of doors closing. He glances down at the bag and then up at Luna, and then back down at the bag. He doesn't move, as though waiting for permission to actually pick it up. When she says that it is not silver in the bag, he slowly bends down, his curiosity overcoming him, and picks it up to poke his nose inside. "Well, I assure you, after all the demands for refunds I got the thought is appreciated..."
The bag contains 'treasure'. There is really no other word for it. A cup, a tiny crown, a horn ring, a fetlock bracelet, all made of gold and festooned not with the fat, raw gems that ponies normally trade around, but with intricately worked finished jewels. Those all make an awkward shape, so the rest of the space is filled with gold coins, bigger and heavier than bits and with peculiar eight legged lizards stamped on them. Everything looks old and worn. As you look over the treasure, Luna finally begins moving. She walks, slowly and gracefully, face still dour, halfway across the room until she is a mere pony-length or so away. Now the fire flickers behind her, shadowing her face except for her luminous bluegreen eyes. "If thou wish, we shall take it back and exchange it for silver, for truly indeed did thy pen take us back to that day of fury and heartache. Thou made us live again, Luna and Celestia both, the betrayal of the Summer Sun Celebration and the unforgivable crime we committed in our foalish rage. For that, we give thee this." Her head tilts down, the point of her horn lowering towards Bardigan. With a graceful but understated flourish, she draws a black crescent mark that hangs in the air, glowing - or perhaps sucking light into itself. Lifting her head again, she looks Bardigan in the eyes, as solemn as ever. "We hope thou shall not become jaded of these, as thy masterpieces mount."
Bardigan's nose remains stuck in the bag for some time. Only when Luna starts talking again does he lift his head, eyes widening. "You're thanking me," he realizes, not even shrinking away from her alarming proximity, not blinking even as the roiling seas in her eyes come close. "For *this.*" He absently fwaps the manuscript with his wing, making it flop. "Luna... I didn't write the ending to that play," he whispers, despairing. "The words flew out of my pen and got away from me. Other, better ponies than me deserve all this gold, this-..." He noses up at the crescent mark. "The story came *through* me, not from me."
"So great artists often describe." She takes a step back, out of reach of the floating black crescent, and then half-turns away. In the firelight, the pale moon on her left flank really does gleam like silver amidst the gooey black splotch. Her head turned, still regarding Bardigan, she goes on, "The power of thy writing evoked the feelings of thy princesses so strongly that our powers rose up within us and ran amok. Art of that magnitude can only be considered a towering success. While we believe it unsafe for ourselves to see the play again, we hope it has wide and long-lasting success amongst our subjects." A brief pause is the only emphasis before she adds, just as impassive as ever, "As ponies, we found it healing."
Bardigan ahems uncomfortably, fidgeting with his mane and curling it round his hoof. Great artists don't usually almost cause an apocalypse - but not many artists literally have their stories come to life, either. It's a strange position to be in. He listens to her like a contrite foal, none of her words truly comforting him. At least, until she says the magic word. He stops his fidgeting and starts to blink rapidly. There's the sound of a sniffle and a hoof wiping across a wet nose. "A good story always hurts, you know," he says. "Even happy ones hurt because it's over, and that peculiar wonder never really comes again. But, but I... even stories that hurt, I write them to try and help ponies. Because a good story also... gives you things. My stories are supposed to give." Another wet sniff. "That it helped you, *you* of all ponies even after everything that happened... oh, phooey on the gold and the honors. I, I can't..." He trails off.
Luna just watches you splutter, her face as blank and serious and princessly as ever. When you trail off, she tells you, voice stern, "Be careful with this mark, Playwright. We understand the last ended up on a cider spigot." That appears to be the end of the audience. She turns her head away from him, and walks into a dark corner of the room, deeply shadowed away from the fireplace's light. As she walks she fades into grey, and by the time she steps into that shadow she IS the shadow, and there is no pony left. Luna is gone. That is, except for a faint, amused voice that whispers past Bardigan's ear, "Not that that is not an appropriate tribute to our person."
Bardigan's hoof covers his eyes as the Princess departs. His ears perk at the sound of her fading voice, and then he looks up at the now empty room. "Well that depends on whether you made this one to stick!" he answers the crackling fire and the breeze from the window, slightly ajar. He looks up at the mark, floating serenely and ominously in midair. He chews his lip, glances back and forth to make sure he isn't being watched, and then impatiently reaches up to swipe it with his hoof.
It sticks.
Bardigan's retreat from the world is a charming little two story cottage set near the edge of Whitetail Woods. Away from the hustle and bustle of main paths and roads while still being close enough to easily access Ponyville, this seems like a perfect artist's getaway. Built out of sturdy wood and white brick, littered with leaves and vines from the forest as its owner is simply too busy creating to worry about things like that, it manages to be a house without being too ubiquitous among the tall trees. A smoking chimney sprouts out of the side, and several windows usually have a candle or two in them.
Within the house there is a mess of knick-knacks, odd artifacts, and not very valuable treasures all over the house, almost all of which are labeled with some esoteric message hinting at a greater story. All of them, however, are placed with reverent order, being not so much cluttered as carefully packed.
This is a clean establishment, taken care of by somepony with good order and appearances in mind. Upstairs one can find Bardigan's bedroom (the most comfortable in Ponyville!), Diamond Dancer's star-filled room, a sitting area, a back door leading to the garden and a nightmarishly crowded study with books and ink-spattered papers covering every inch.
Luna is there, as if she was always there, as if it wasn't five seconds ago that you very distinctly were looking right there and there is where she was not. Maybe someone here is not all there. She stands beside the fireplace, with firelight flickering over her flank. It does not touch her mane and tail, those rippling clouds of glowing blue speckled with spectral star stuff. Her face is regally dour, detached, and she stands so still she seems a statue, except that mane and tail are unforgable, and bluegreen eyes stare right at you as you reenter.
The looming nature of the Princess is reflected in the way Bardigan notices her: with slowly dawning comprehension. He walks from room to room with a bundle under his wing, eyes on the floor, and when he completes another circuit his pacing slowly grinds to a halt, and his laid-back ears creak forward to point at the alicorn in the living room. He raises his head, which is not covered by his hat and his mane is a bit of a mess. His eyes are stuck on Luna's the moment they meet. "Would it be vanity or paranoia if I assumed you're here to throw me in a dungeon?"
Luna does not move. Well, she's not absolutely immobile. Her mane and tail ripple in a nonexistent breeze, and her head tilts the slightest amount, her eyes tilt the few degrees, necessary to meet Bardigan's gaze. Otherwise she's a statue. Yep, she's all regal tonight. When she speaks, her mouth pulls the same 'the only thing moving' schtick. "I have come to give thee thy due for the opera, Playwright. That, indeed, is so."
"Mmm." Bardigan purses his lips, whether disappointed or depressed is anypony's guess. He gestures to the fire with one wing as he plops into a chair, opening his other wing to reveal the manuscript of the play itself, which he holds up with a hoof. It trembles. "I went through a lot of scenarios while walking in circles around my house," he says. "One of which was throwing this into the fire and then collapsing over a nearby table, weeping whilst cursing my ability to pull such beautiful terror from my writing. It was going to be very dramatic." Then he slumps and shrugs. "But I just sat down and this chair is far too comfortable to get up from again."
Luna watches, so impassive that maybe she just doesn't know what Bardigan is talking about. Certainly she goes on without directly acknowledging what he said. Her head turns, and a bag floats up out of nowhere, as if she had just been wearing it on her flank. The round, indigo blue velvet bag is the size of a pony's head, and tied with a black cord. She floats it over towards Bardigan, and drops it in front of his chair. When it hits the ground, it hits with a very loud clink and thump, as if filled with extremely heavy metal. Still impassive, she tells him, "First, Playwright, thy filthy lucre. Such material formalities must be disposed of. Thirty pieces of silver is the tradition, the gift given to he who arranged the first Summer Sun Celebration. Alas, we could find no silver on the treasure hoard, and scooped up that which we might."
Bardigan jumps at the sound of the bag hitting the floor. It reminds him far too much of doors closing. He glances down at the bag and then up at Luna, and then back down at the bag. He doesn't move, as though waiting for permission to actually pick it up. When she says that it is not silver in the bag, he slowly bends down, his curiosity overcoming him, and picks it up to poke his nose inside. "Well, I assure you, after all the demands for refunds I got the thought is appreciated..."
The bag contains 'treasure'. There is really no other word for it. A cup, a tiny crown, a horn ring, a fetlock bracelet, all made of gold and festooned not with the fat, raw gems that ponies normally trade around, but with intricately worked finished jewels. Those all make an awkward shape, so the rest of the space is filled with gold coins, bigger and heavier than bits and with peculiar eight legged lizards stamped on them. Everything looks old and worn. As you look over the treasure, Luna finally begins moving. She walks, slowly and gracefully, face still dour, halfway across the room until she is a mere pony-length or so away. Now the fire flickers behind her, shadowing her face except for her luminous bluegreen eyes. "If thou wish, we shall take it back and exchange it for silver, for truly indeed did thy pen take us back to that day of fury and heartache. Thou made us live again, Luna and Celestia both, the betrayal of the Summer Sun Celebration and the unforgivable crime we committed in our foalish rage. For that, we give thee this." Her head tilts down, the point of her horn lowering towards Bardigan. With a graceful but understated flourish, she draws a black crescent mark that hangs in the air, glowing - or perhaps sucking light into itself. Lifting her head again, she looks Bardigan in the eyes, as solemn as ever. "We hope thou shall not become jaded of these, as thy masterpieces mount."
Bardigan's nose remains stuck in the bag for some time. Only when Luna starts talking again does he lift his head, eyes widening. "You're thanking me," he realizes, not even shrinking away from her alarming proximity, not blinking even as the roiling seas in her eyes come close. "For *this.*" He absently fwaps the manuscript with his wing, making it flop. "Luna... I didn't write the ending to that play," he whispers, despairing. "The words flew out of my pen and got away from me. Other, better ponies than me deserve all this gold, this-..." He noses up at the crescent mark. "The story came *through* me, not from me."
"So great artists often describe." She takes a step back, out of reach of the floating black crescent, and then half-turns away. In the firelight, the pale moon on her left flank really does gleam like silver amidst the gooey black splotch. Her head turned, still regarding Bardigan, she goes on, "The power of thy writing evoked the feelings of thy princesses so strongly that our powers rose up within us and ran amok. Art of that magnitude can only be considered a towering success. While we believe it unsafe for ourselves to see the play again, we hope it has wide and long-lasting success amongst our subjects." A brief pause is the only emphasis before she adds, just as impassive as ever, "As ponies, we found it healing."
Bardigan ahems uncomfortably, fidgeting with his mane and curling it round his hoof. Great artists don't usually almost cause an apocalypse - but not many artists literally have their stories come to life, either. It's a strange position to be in. He listens to her like a contrite foal, none of her words truly comforting him. At least, until she says the magic word. He stops his fidgeting and starts to blink rapidly. There's the sound of a sniffle and a hoof wiping across a wet nose. "A good story always hurts, you know," he says. "Even happy ones hurt because it's over, and that peculiar wonder never really comes again. But, but I... even stories that hurt, I write them to try and help ponies. Because a good story also... gives you things. My stories are supposed to give." Another wet sniff. "That it helped you, *you* of all ponies even after everything that happened... oh, phooey on the gold and the honors. I, I can't..." He trails off.
Luna just watches you splutter, her face as blank and serious and princessly as ever. When you trail off, she tells you, voice stern, "Be careful with this mark, Playwright. We understand the last ended up on a cider spigot." That appears to be the end of the audience. She turns her head away from him, and walks into a dark corner of the room, deeply shadowed away from the fireplace's light. As she walks she fades into grey, and by the time she steps into that shadow she IS the shadow, and there is no pony left. Luna is gone. That is, except for a faint, amused voice that whispers past Bardigan's ear, "Not that that is not an appropriate tribute to our person."
Bardigan's hoof covers his eyes as the Princess departs. His ears perk at the sound of her fading voice, and then he looks up at the now empty room. "Well that depends on whether you made this one to stick!" he answers the crackling fire and the breeze from the window, slightly ajar. He looks up at the mark, floating serenely and ominously in midair. He chews his lip, glances back and forth to make sure he isn't being watched, and then impatiently reaches up to swipe it with his hoof.
It sticks.