Octavia fidgeted backstage, ensuring her mane was in perfect form, her cello tuned, and that her bow wasn't frayed or missing any strings. Her equipment was perfect, and as she strode out onto the stage, cello in one hoof, bow in the other, she felt pleased that her performance would match her instrument's perfection as well.
Carefully, she set down the cello, resting it by the long spike that protruded from its bottom. She stood on her hind legs, a delicate and graceful synergy as she and her cello used each other for balance. Finally, she raised the bow to the strings, and began to play. The sweet melody of Beethoofen's Sixth filled the hall. It was a grand theatre that she often packed to the rafters, tonight being no exception. Octavia was extraordinarily professional, there were no tears of emotion as she played, not like other ponies she had met, a certain mint-green lyrist sprang to mind on that train of thought. No, she simply played the notes with her trademark poise and preci