Post by Deleted on Aug 17, 2012 20:06:05 GMT -6
||| OCTAVIA |||
#Name; Octavia
#Age Group ; Young adult
#Gender ; Female
#Species; Pony (Earth Pony)
#Cutie Mark ; A pinkish-purple treble clef
#Occupation ; Octavia is a cello player, and performs with a range of groups including the Canterlot Fillyharmonic, as well as several smaller ensembles. Though the pride of her career, so far, was becoming the third chair cello for the CFH, her fondest memories and her favorite performances came from a small group of about 20 ponies, who still meet on occasion to play both privately and at small-affair gatherings.
#Powers and Abilities ; While the cello is her instrument of choice, Octavia’s natural ear and mind for music are unmatched. She may have been much more of a prodigy, had her playing not been the least of her musical talents. She plays well, but any skill she has with a bow was gained through hard work and determination rather than birthright and natural inclination.
#Physique ; Average in build, though she does diet and exercise regularly in order to keep her stamina up.
#Mane and fur color and style ; Her body is a light gray, and her mane is a much darker shade of the same color. She keeps her mane perfectly and professionally brushed back so that it sweeps down her side, ending just above the ground.
#Eye color ; Gray-ish purple
#Other appearance details (optional) ; Octavia wears a white collar and a pink bow tie, which she may change the color of from time to time.
#Personality ;
Octavia is a musician to the core. It’s very rare if she is caught not humming some sort of tune outside of conversation. She is happiest while playing a concert, and if questioned she will say so quickly. She’s not anti-social, by any means, in fact she can be quite welcoming and friendly, so long as the pony she’s talking to has something in common with her. A love of music is definitely a plus, but other interesting topics may keep her talking as well. When confronted with less “refined” ponies, she can be sharp and sarcastic, though rarely truly unkind. Oddly enough, when direct antagonistic behavior is shown towards her, she forces herself to remain extremely calm, speaking quietly when yelled at, staring evenly and unmoving at those who would openly attack her. Inside, however, sometimes she just wishes she could knock a pony’s block off. Octavia doesn’t discourage easily, but she can get frustrated with repeated failure or agitation, which could cause her to change her demeanour and either shout out her frustrations or berate a particularly rude individual.
#History ;
Octavia was born into a lower middle class family in Canterlot. Though her parents could easily afford their expenses, their lack of “wealth” as it were made her the butt of a variety of jokes from the more monetarily inclined children. She grew up at the bottom of her school’s social ladder, but she was never alone. Other ponies who were in similar situations joined her in bottom-barreling it. Eventually, these would grow to be the best friends she could have. For now, it was more about survival and strength in numbers.
Even from an early age, Octavia saw her destiny in music. She absolutely loved it. Sure, she went through a...well, rebellious phase where she thought she was meant to be a punk rocker (The rest of those pictures WILL be burned), but it became quickly obvious that classical music was and always would be her favorite. She retained her respect and interest in other music genres to this day, but the open-ended glory of classical was to her what cartoons and comic books were to her classmates. She found herself listening to it almost constantly, and if she wasn’t listening to it she was thinking about it, somewhere back in the deep reaches of her mind. She would pretend to play an instrument when her favorite parts came up, imagining herself in the orchestra, creating the sweeping beauty she loved so much.
Her parents caught wind of this, not that it was a particularly difficult thing to catch. They, being the loving, supporting caregivers they were, started saving some money, off to the side. Several months later (and actually a short time after her birthday), Octavia came home to a large, wrapped present. Tearing into it and nearly crying with joy, she unraveled her very first cello.
It was small and meant for children, but it was her favorite thing in the world. To her unending chagrin, she found that even though the music flowed through her head like viscous water tumbling softly against the pebbles of a stony brooke, it tumbled from her hooves like an overfull garbage can falling down a rocky mountain. She quickly saw through her parents’ feigned grins and pained compliments and, with a huff, practiced neigh on constantly. With all the bullies at school, the one thing she hated more than anything in the world was the sound that scratched its way out of that cello when she first started. It dawned on her that it was probably just as tortuous to any other unfortunate souls listening in, so she took to heading some distance out of town for her practices, in the forest along the foot of the mountain. She was close enough to the city for it to be safe, but far enough away so that she didn’t pollute the air with what she considered the worst sounds imaginable.
After she lost track of time once, she informed her parents (and the search party that had been formed) of exactly what location she would be practicing in. They agreed that, so long as she was back by or shortly after sunset, she could practice all she liked.
Over time she did get better. She even remembered the first time, the feeling she got when she first found the ‘sweet spot’. She had taken a deep breath and, like a million times before, drew the bow across the strings. What filled her ears was the glorious sound of music. A deep note that held through the entire draw, wavering just enough to be considered tasteful, ending in a perfect decrescendo. She had stood breathless in the aftermath of the lone note, and soon found that she could reproduce it. And that she could change the pitch. She wasn’t perfect, by any means, but it was music. She resolved that, so long as she could keep that up, she could start practicing in her own room.
It wasn’t until she got home and was greeted at the door by a mother who, upon seeing her daughter, gasped in shock that she realized she’d found her cutie mark.
At first, all the little pony could do was practice her scales and basic routines, but within a year she had learned enough to be the talk of her neighborhood. Unlike some foals, who upon finding an instrument keep their captive audience awake until all hours of the morning, Octavia gently lulled the area to sleep at night, playing softly and slowly. She didn’t just want to play her music, she wanted it to be appreciated. She wanted to be a guide to all the emotions she felt when she heard music herself. This was quickly noticed by the Canterlot Foals’ Symphony, and before long she found herself in an ensemble of like-minded ponies. Shortly after joining, several new members began registering as well. She found herself shocked when her friends, those who had sat through the torment of rejection with her, started finding their own musical instruments to play.
She remembered each and every reason.
“You played such wonderful music! I wanted to do it too!”
“I didn’t even THINK about music before! Do you know how awesome this tuba is? Answer: Extremely awesome.”
“Heh, well, everyone else was doing it, so I figured...Why not play the trumpet?”
“It’s just that...when you played....you looked so....happy.”
And they weren’t just joining because of the group mentality. They were pretty good. As the group practiced together, she started to realize that they were VERY good. Some of them even better than her. But for some reason, they looked up to her, respected her, almost to the point of calling her the ‘leader’ of their mini-ensemble.
They grew up together, playing their music. Their first job was, as a group, to play at some birthday party or another. Most of them were so nervous it was a bomb and they weren’t hired again for months. Still, eventually they evened their nerves out and, together, registered as their own ensemble. They started small, doing a select few pieces, but slowly began to build their repertoire to fit more and more niches. They played for a few small parties, then they served as the background music for a few coffee houses. Their biggest ‘break’ was when they were asked to play the accompanying music to a production of “West Side Ponies.” They needed to take on several new members to do that. That show got them noticed, and, after a long discussion, they decided that it wouldn’t be an atrocity for the individuals to play with other outfits. Several of them did. Many went on to head their own ensembles, or to be a ‘flute for hire’ and play wherever somepony was needed.
Octavia herself registered and was accepted (squee! *Cough* I mean...yay!) into the Canterlot Fillyharmonic. Several of her friends made it as well. Still, on a regular basis they meet up again on a street somewhere, or in a coffee house, or at a small gathering, just to play.
To this day, Octavia has kept the cello that her parents bought her those years ago. The wood is a little warped, and the bow’s strings are hopelessly frayed, but nonetheless she has it as a reminder of where everything started.The Roleplayer's Corner
#Nickname ; Max Kodan
#Age ; 24
#Gender ; Male
#How did you find us? ; Blame Whammy. Brought me in through The Writer’s Group chat.
#Sample RP ;
Octavia smiled, humming to herself the piece that she had just finished playing. She set her bow carefully in its place and closed the cello’s case, clicking the latches shut. With a bit of effort, she slung it over her back and turned, walking off towards the rear door of the theatre. She softly sang the allegretto of the song, sweeping her head slightly as she did. Her eyes closed as the crescendo reached its peak, and she rose herself up on the tips of her hooves, before dropping back into step when the melody picked up again. She opened her eyes just a sliver and found herself near the open door. She smiled and stepped into the night air, taking a deep breath and releasing it.
It had been a good show. She had only heard two or three mistakes from the entire orchestra, and only one of those was from her. She was still kicking herself over it, but none of them were the kind of mistake that most ponies in the audience would notice. Still, measure 143, measure 143, measure 143. She repeated the mantra and vowed to look at the music once more when she got home. Tomorrow was a day off. She would do her morning routine of practicing that one bar over and over again until she felt satisfied that she’d made up for the little mistake. As usual, on the way home, she fended off the inevitable offers of assistance. Despite the fact that the case she carried was bigger than her, she needed no help, thank you. You’re very sweet, but I’ve got it all under control. I do this every day. Thank you. Really.
Finally, home. She carefully removed the cello from her back and set it in the corner of the room, lovingly patting the case before yawning and walking over to her bed. She stood herself up on her hind legs and then let herself fall, twisting and landing on her back. She sighed contentedly and crawled her way under her covers, nestling up against the pillow and gently humming her favorite part of the piece as she drifted off to sleep.