The Gilderoy Expedition

by PaulAsaran

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Death, Kirins, Original Character, Mystery, Horror, Crystal Ponies, Adventure, Griffons
Length: 22414

When a griffon expedition goes missing in the Frozen North, the Crystal Empire answers the call. But as the crew of the Aurora Dawn will soon learn, there are things in the ice no mortal creature should uncover.

Somewhere in the Frozen North, a griffon expedition has gone missing. As the only airship specifically designed for the frigid environment, the Aurora Dawn and her crew's first mission out of the shipyards will be to find and rescue this lost expedition.

If only they knew what the expedition was really out there to find...

Inspired by the collective works of H.P. Lovecraft, though familiarity with Lovecraft's works are not necessary to get this.

I experimented quite a bit with narrative in this story, specifically in using different narrative voices depending upon the perspective. I'll leave it up to the readers if I pulled this off effectively.

My thanks to JawJoe for the exceptionally helpful prereading and suggestions on how to make this story all the better.

Now with a Russian translation, courtesy Steel_Ranger!

Published 2023-10-22 14:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2023-10-31 23:00:15 UTC

Cptn. D. Design, 01-20-1005

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

20 January 1005

One has to wonder what the blasted catbird was thinking. I have read the file on this Lord Gilderoy, who by all accounts appears to be as adept an explorer as ever there was in this world. Yet his history clarifies that he has never before been through the frost-ridden climates until this last expedition. You would think somegrif as capable as these files claim would have taken all necessary precautions, relying on the information and experience of creatures that have previously undertaken a journey of such peril. But according to my brief skimming of the data, he rebuffed all such offers of assistance.

His reasons appear to me as nothing more than blatant excuses for his ambition. The Lord apparently thought he was on to some great discovery beyond the belief of mortals, and thus not keen to share in the reaped rewards of praise and fame. I have to question just what he thought was so valuable on that lonely glacier. Not a soul has explored the Matti Ths Aioniotitas in I would think some twelve hundred years. I recall with little effort that my great uncle Frost Step was in the general vicinity once, but his old journals made clear that he never even considered stepping hoof on the glacier itself. I was never really sure why. The stallion himself noted that the icescape appeared perfectly suitable for sled teams, with ice smooth enough to make the journey a simple matter. Although he never says so openly in his letters and diary, I always had the queer impression that the stallion was unnerved by the locale.

It is of no matter. I for one am not easily made prey to superstition, and the Aurora Dawn has the finest crew in Her Highness’s air navy. She remains the only airship designed specifically for the purpose of arctic travel, at least until the Aurora Dusk and Northern Flurry leave the shipyards in a month’s time, and we are already prepared with full crew and complement thanks to our recently completed trial runs. It is therefore up to us to find and rescue the foolish Gilderoy and his crew. Assuming they even need rescue. It remains entirely possible that they merely became waylaid by bad weather and thus were forced to hunker down for the winter. If I have understood the matter properly, they certainly possess plenty enough provisions for such a measure provided they exercise strict rationing, and a griffon of Gilderoy’s experience should know to do that at the very least. Still, we shall operate under the assumption that the expedition is in immediate danger, and we are already well underway.

Mr. First Star tells me we should reach the glacier in fourteen hours. It will have to be enough.

Cptn. D. Design, 01-21-1005

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

21 January 1005

Forgive the pitiful state of my writing. The blasted journal won’t stay still.

Woke up this morning by a mighty crosswind so powerful it tossed me from my bunk outright! Quite the rude awakening. One might think we were unwelcome. It was only two in the morning, which meant we yet had another four hours of journeying before reaching our destination. I hurried to the bridge to find Ms. Merry Sherry, the acting helmsmare for the night, in furious battle against the ship’s controls. The griffons warned us that there was a powerful storm mucking about, but I daresay they undersold the thing!

Mr. First Star, who joined me on the bridge shortly afterwards with Ms. Coxswain and Specialist Rusty Iron, was quick to check our navigation equipment. Rusty Iron, not unlike myself, is a noble brat who joined the military because it was the appropriate thing for young ponies of aristocratic upbringing to do, but while ten years my senior he is a deplorable airpony. My second, Ms. Coxswain, once privately summed up the stallion’s entire existence in the fewest words possible: unprofessional, unprepared, and unconcerned. He has but one claim of genius that grants him any worth on a naval airship, but that one thing makes him outright indispensable: Rusty understands the workings, both intricate and macroscopic, of our buoying system of envelopes and gasses and magic like no other soul on Celestia’s green earth. Speaking strictly of this cold-weather model of airship, he helped design the things. On a mission of such extreme environments such as this, that expertise is all the more valuable, and I sent him straightaway to inspect the airship’s envelopes and ensure we remained airworthy in this frightful, frigid gale.

Despite the disturbing shaking and howling, Ms. Sherry did a commendable job at the controls. After much discussion and Mr. First Star mumbling over the navigational charts, it was determined that we could maintain course by steering into the wind at a particular angle. Mr. Iron returned shortly after, teeth chattering from cold and outright demanding somepony fetch him a thermos of fresh tea, and informed us that the envelope could take the strain, but only if we reduced speed. It is regrettable, but in this one matter I trust the stallion fully.

Mr. Star revised his estimates and put us getting to our destination in another twenty hours, distressingly longer than the four hours I had come to expect upon my rude awakening. I argued long and hard with Mr. Iron, hoping to put on a bit more speed. I must admit I fear a bit more for the expedition now, as I greatly underestimated the ferocity of the storm that had forced the prior expeditions – all sled-based rather than airborne – to turn back. These gales keep the ship vibrating from bow to rudder, with occasional jolts and jostles that make further sleep impossible. When I glance out my cabin windows I see great balls of hail as large as my hoof, held at bay only by the blessed, strategically placed enchantments granted the ship for exactly such potentialities. If this is the state of things up here, I cannot imagine the frozen, wet, screaming hell that must be the ground!

Cptn. D. Design, 01-21-1005, II

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

As predicted, returning to sleep is impossible with all this torrential shaking. I would go to the bridge, but I left Chief Mate Coxswain in charge and would hate to relieve her so soon. She is relatively new to her position, being a transfer from the Equestrian Navy – that is to say the sea vessels, not the airships – to help shore up the Crystal Empire’s admittedly flagging ranks, and still finds the act of commanding from an airship bridge a novel and enjoyable experience. I think doing so under these malevolent weather conditions would make a good experience for her, as it was for me in my own early days.

Sleep being ever-elusive and my command voluntarily relinquished, I have turned my attention to the details of our mission. I confess to having only skimmed the information packet before, having intended to go into further reading in the morning when near the glacier. But now I peruse the data, which came in quite a large package delivered by a kindly old pegasus gentlemare – another transfer from Equestria, no doubt. What I have found is, frankly, worthy of my utmost disdain.

It would appear this Gilderoy fellow is, to utilize his own terminology, an archaeological pariah. Though he has been on at least a dozen individual expeditions, none of them found anything that the archaeological or scientific communities have ever considered of note. In his writings he claims to have uncovered evidence for something he referred to as – and this term is as baffling to me as it was apparently absurd to his peers – “the place between places”. His most recent writings state that he was on the hunt for a great treasure vault created by some ancient cult, itself nearly forgotten to history. No wonder the griffon was a laughingstock and had to fund the vast majority of his expeditions out of his own pockets! There are even suggestions among his peers that he forged or faked much of his so-called “evidence”.

The current expedition, which we have been sent to find and potentially rescue, has far more mundane purposes. It is merely a scientific survey of ice cores taken from the Mighty Matti in hopes of uncovering some geological clues as to the glacier’s ancient and mysterious history. The Matti Ths Aioniotitas is said to have existed since before the Great Winter and has remained relatively unchanged in all these centuries. Given its utter lack of motion due to typical physical and magical phenomenon, there has actually been a great question as to whether it is affected by some unknowable magical effect. It would appear that Lord Gilderoy volunteered, unsolicited, to lead the expedition in an attempt to smooth over strains in his relationship with the greater scientific minds at his university, thereby preserving his very much endangered career.

Nothing other than disgust can describe my feelings on this matter. That the resources of Her Royal Highness’s air navy must be wasted on a degenerate con artist such as this is frankly insulting. Still, I suppose I cannot rightly leave to certain frigid death his crew – who most certainly can be accused of naught but scientific curiosity and seeking a good work’s fee – over a single irresponsible and possibly mad griffon. And who am I, once made pathetic and helpless under the yoke of that blight upon equinity whose name I dare not utter even in these writings, to refuse Her Highness, Princess Cadance, who rescued my race from said blight?

I only hope Lord Gilderoy has left his madness behind on this more grounded expedition, and so has not sent such a diverse and brave crew to their deaths in this terrible terrain.

Cptn. D. Design, 01-21-1005, III

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

We have officially crossed the edge of the Matti Ths Aioniotitas glacier as of forty minutes ago, not ten after passing through the storm. It is a bleak, desolate place, yet also rather lovely in its own way. The ice sheet extends as far as the eye can see, even from this incredible altitude of over two kilometers. It is remarkably free of snow or any other such natural obstruction, instead offering a vast, perfect plane of pale blue as far as the eye can bear witness.

No less astounding is the nature of the storm at our stern. It extends north and south seemingly forever, creating a singularly intimidating wall of gray, churning violence. I sent a scouting team of pegasi led by our best, Major Sleekwing, who came back with a most peculiar report: the storm appears to be stationary. Stationary! Whoever heard of a stationary storm? Yet he adamantly insisted on the truth of the idea, and his four wingmates backed him up with utmost seriousness. Not a one of them dared enter that roiling chaos, as they did not when the ship was bumbling its way through, for even the greatest of them would likely be torn apart by its vicious winds, crackling lightning, and deadly hailstones.

The crew of the Aurora Dawn were chosen as much for their experience in cold environment exploration as their naval abilities. I myself have been on three separate expeditions. The first was prior to the arrival of that black tyrant over a thousand years ago. I was a youth in my late teens on a vessel more aquatic in nature, as airships were not prevalent in those times. It was a simple survey and mapping expedition of the great icy seas in the far south, and I was little more than a deck cadet at the time. In more modern days I participated in two of the three northern surveys, dreary affairs intended to ascertain the fates of the Crystal Empire’s townships, colonies and outposts which had not joined the rest of us in our millennium of slumber. I am not overly fond of recalling those journeys, for they found nothing worth remembering, certainly not of any jovial nature.

I bring this history up only to recall that I have grown quite accustomed to these freezing climes and to remark on how this strangeness with the storm is wildly unnatural. I can think of no weather phenomenon that might explain it. Nor was Major Sleekwing of any ability to explain it, and that pegasus is our ultimate expert on the behavior of wild weather. I shudder to think that we may have to traverse it once more. How far along the horizon might it stretch? When I peer out from the upper deck in either direction, I swear I can see at the edge of the earth a certain darkness, as if the storm is taking on a curve. Could it be possible that the ominous clouds have formed a magnificent circle surrounding the entirety of the Mighty Matti? The thought is preposterous – certainly it gave that fool, Rusty Iron, a laugh – but I cannot shake it from my mind.

Yet I can hardly be called an expert in such matters. I am a navy pony, and no more. Yes, I have much experience with these environments, as my selection to captain this vessel demonstrates, but can lay no claims as to any knowledge in meteorology. Nor am I a fitting captain for combat scenarios; appropriate, as the Aurora Dawn was never intended to be nor fitted as a combat vessel. Her task is surveying, scouting, research, and the occasional rescue mission such as this one. She is also a prototype, and in a sense so am I, being untested for such a role as I find myself. Yes, I confess it in these pages: this is Aurora Dawn’s first mission, and mine as her captain. Why, she is barely a month out of the shipyard!

I write this not to show some doubt on my part. Far from it, I consider myself well-trained and, through both long experience and study, prepared for the task before us, with a capable crew on a capable vessel. I only bring such topics up to point out that there are a great many things I have not experienced, things like storms that inexplicably fail to move even in this wild weather. One must wonder what other mysterious things may be out here, and if Lord Gilderoy and his crew were unlucky enough to encounter them.

The storm must be a recent development. There are no records of such a continuous and strange thing prior to Gilderoy’s expedition. Certainly my great uncle Frost Step never mentioned such a phenomenon, and I pondered over those journals repeatedly in my wild-eyed youth. Perhaps they are a side-effect of the curse that plagued our former Empire – can it formally be called an empire at all if it is only one city, as it now is?

Only now does it dawn upon me that the prior rescue attempts may have been thwarted by that very same storm. Did not our orders mention the “aggressive weather”? But then that would mean this thing has been raging for over a month!

I will include this information in my report back to the Crystal City, which our unicorn communications officer Harmony Heart shall deliver through her prodigious telecommunication magics. Thank the Lady Hope for Equestrian transfers, those ponies bring the most wondrous talents to this otherwise underponied military organization!

Progress Report, 01-21-1005

From H.R.H. Aurora Dawn,
Captain Decadent Design,
Her Highness’s Northern Royal Air Navy

To: Northern Royal Air Navy Headquarters
Subject: First Daily Progress Report
Operation Snowbank, January 21, 1005

Operation delayed. Inclement weather, unusual behavior. Vast storm blocking ingress. Passed storm, full speed for search area. Gilderoy Expedition ETA two hours.

Recommend future weather study. Potentially unnatural or magical. Data packet following message.

End Report
Operation Snowbank
January 21, 1005

Cptn. D. Design, 01-21-1005, IV

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

I regret to report that search efforts have been suspended for the evening. Seven squadrons of pegasi scoured the landscape for no less than eight dragging, weary hours. There has yet to be any sign of the Gilderoy Expedition. The land area covered is far greater than we expected would be necessary. My staff and I can only presume that Gilderoy never reached the coordinates that he claimed to be seeking as instructed by the university. If he had there would have been some evidence; tents, the sleds, equipment, bodies, something! It is possible he was driven off-course, or was deceptive about his intentions for being out on this vast glacier. The intel certainly paints him as paranoid enough for the latter! The thought which grants us the greatest alarm is the possibility he never made it out of that Tirek-awful storm. Might we have passed him in the morning, our keel floating right over their poor endangered heads?

There is nothing for it now. It has grown too dark for either our pegasi or our deck crew to see much on the ice, and to continue searching in such conditions runs too great a risk of passing by the expedition in the night. We have set up anchoring bolts in the ice to hold this position and will resume in the morning.

I am beginning to understand, at least emotionally, what my great uncle was referring to when he wrote about this place. It perplexes me to no end, but I swear I have this ceaseless feeling of being watched. Even when alone and in the tight confines of the lower decks. It is a queer sensation at best. The most peculiar part is that I can sense, distinctly, a direction for this ghostly apparition of a feeling: down. It is almost as though the Matti Ths Aioniotitas itself is observing me right through the ship’s mighty oaken timbers.

I did not wish to mention it to the other officers or any crewponies, and tried to maintain a jovial, upbeat attitude during the evening’s dinner with some of the staff. Once dinner was finished and the others had retired, either for the evening or to their posts, I was surprised to find that one stayed behind. It was Rusty Iron, and he seemed out of sorts. He is usually quite the bore, his idea of good dialogue being to boast about his family’s wealth, his family’s pedigree, his family’s ten mansions (“regrettably” only three after the Empire’s return), and so on. I only invite him to most of the dinners because his hereditary boasting is not without the backing of reality, and a stallion in my position would do well not to offend the bloviating self-advertisement.

But tonight he was perturbed, and notably silent throughout the meal. When he remained behind, I knew he had something he felt important to speak of in private, but he was uncharacteristically hesitant. I humored him and, I must admit, felt some genuine concern. As tiresome as he is, Rusty Iron is still a member of my crew, and his knowledge of the very laws of thermodynamics and thaumaturgy that keep the Aurora Dawn afloat in this bitter cold is of singular importance. I reassured the stallion that, as his captain, he could be certain of my complete confidence, and plied him a little with some pours of brandy that, speaking strictly in terms of regulations, I was not meant to possess during the course of our mission. I jokingly insisted upon his secrecy. There, were we not even? Surely he could share in this thing which troubled him so.

And share he did, though now I wish he had not. It appears that I am not alone in my mental ordeal, for Rusty admitted most dramatically to encountering the same sense of eavesdropping from some unknowable “below”. But where for me this was merely an uncomfortable sensation surely caused by some temporary malady of my mental constitution, he believed the whole thing to be a foreboding premonition. For the expedition. For the Aurora Dawn. Perhaps, even, for the whole world. I pressed him further, hoping to ascertain the cause of these fears. He offered them, though only reluctantly, and he refused any further brandy for fear that the spirits would rob him of his faculties at a time when his very life might depend upon them. Rusty Iron confided in me that his late parents had both been well-known historians back in the Empire’s time. Shortly after his birth they became obsessed with studies of the occult and conspiracy theories involving ancient, long-dead civilizations.

Equestrians such as Ms. Coxswain and Mr. First Star have their own concepts of that term, “occult”. When they hear it, they think of Nightmare Moon followers or perhaps some zebra practicing strange but altogether benign magics that are purely products of an unfamiliar culture. They were not alive in the dark days before Celestia’s more than a thousand years of rule truly united the lands in harmony and peace. In those days, “occult” did not mean a few voodoo masks or lower class mages in overt clubs communing together over the wrongs of modern society.

There was a time when occultism was far more ruinous a pastime, when ponies examined things not to be comprehended by such limited minds. I confess I never witnessed any such things myself, so I could not go into detail even had I the desire to do so. Still I remember the whispers, the court cases, and the rumors of forbidden texts.

Rusty Iron knew of the latter with great intimacy, for his parents were among those who believed and sought out such unpleasant things. His mother, he claims, died of what medical practitioners of the time claimed had been a stroke, despite only being in her lower thirties. Rusty did not believe such tales, not for an instant, for he recalled the dark leather-bound book his mother had been reading from and the odiferous concoctions she crafted and drank using instructions buried within its many indecipherable pages. His father, on the other hoof, was deemed insane and incarcerated for his own safety shortly before Rusty came of age, only to escape when the black tyrant rose to prominence, joining that foul soul in his subjugation of our crystalline race. His body was found after the Empire’s return, presumably collateral damage in the original battle between the wicked one and the Royal Sisters, although Rusty refuses to rule out the possibility that his blasphemous father may have attempted to directly interfere in that great conflict.

None of these things I knew about my aristocratic companion, and they afforded me a certain pity and perhaps even respect for the stallion. Yes, Rusty Iron has his many faults, but who would not after coming from such a deranged familial legacy? Though I am no psychologist, I suspect that a great deal of his boasting is aimed towards blotting out the black mark his parents set upon said legacy. That he has thus far succeeded in life, both in his mental faculties and his career, in spite of that hideous history says much about his strength as an equine and does warrant praise.

Still, while I entertained his ravings, I never really bought into this occult nonsense. Oh, I believe in the occult, as surely as does any well-learned crystal pony, and let the Equestrians laugh. But to think that any of it has anything to do with this mission, in this ice-covered nowhere, is all a touch humorous. I do not deny these queer feelings of being watched, just as I do not doubt that if I can feel it then so too may others. But it is only nerves, brought on by a stressful voyage aboard an untested vessel. After all, is not the glacier we now float above referred to as the “Eye of Eternity”? Our imaginations are running away with us, little more.

I reassured Rusty that he may take all proper precautions to protect his person against occult dangers, provided they not interfere with the ship and his duties as an officer of Her Highness’s Royal Air Navy. This seemed to assuage him, and I was able to send him off to his bunk for the night in, if not high spirits, at least a calmer state than he had possessed at the start of our talk. I did not have the heart to tell him that I had not the faintest inkling what might constitute a “proper precaution” against the occult. Given his family history, he would have a far better comprehension of such things than I. But if it eases him and permits him to perform his duties adequately, I see no harm in the promise.

I think I shall have one more glass before lights out. All this occult talk has done my anxieties no favors.

Cptn. D. Design, 01-22-1005

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

22 January 1005

Thank the glorious princess on her immaculate crystal throne, I believe we have found them. On the very first of this morning’s searching flights, a squadron returned at about seven o’clock having sighted what may be a camp to the west. I have ordered the ship to investigate.

Yet it is curious. The coordinates specified by the squadron are far from the intended location Lord Gilderoy specified in his pre-departure reports. Once again I must question: a mistake, or an intentional deception? I suppose only our arrival on the scene can clarify things at this stage. We should arrive in just over an hour.

Cptn. D. Design, 01-22-1005, II

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

This is a most strange circumstance. It leaves my staff and me truly baffled. There is indeed a camp, but the whole thing is well and truly abandoned.

But I get so quickly ahead of myself. I must get my thoughts in order and tell the story properly.

The first sign of the camp was not the tents or equipment or sleds, but rather a great crack in the ice. Though no more wide than seventy centimeters, it spreads in a general southwest course a distance of approximately seven-hundred meters. It might not have even been visible from the ship were the ice in this region so pure that even the slightest marring becomes starkly visible in contrast. That there is no snow to speak of in this area no doubt helped tremendously.

The camp is centered over a part of the glacier that is pristine enough to allow naked sight to see deep beneath, though it is difficult to say how deep. What is clear and unmistakable is the formation of stone directly below, which consists of what appears to be a massive crater, within which lie three near-perfect circles of black: a great one in the center, two smaller ones in the southwest and southeast. Obsidian? Onyx? I am no geologist, but that does not prevent me from thinking the geography peculiar.

Gilderoy’s camp is set right in the middle of that great crack, which also happens to be near the center of that largest black formation, though not precisely. Yes, we know for certain that it is Gilderoy’s camp, but I am getting ahead of myself yet again.

Leaving Ms. Coxswain in charge, eight crewponies and myself boarded a lifeboat and descended to the camp for a personal inspection, joined by the pegasi squadron that had originally made the discovery. I offered Rusty Iron the chance to come along, hoping to ease his mind with action, but he adamantly refused. Though he never said as much, I strongly suspect the fellow feared whatever dark sensations worrying him might have their cause below. I did not press him, nor embarrass him by speaking of it, and instead invited Mr. First Star. This will no doubt be of greater aid anyway, as the experienced navigator might be able to make some sense of any maps or records found on the ice. Mr. Iron may busy himself with the “anti-occult” preparations he has in mind.

Upon landing, we found the camp in the contradictory state of organized chaos. The tents were raised, hard nails wedged in the ice to hold them steady against the biting wind. There were eight sleds, which accounted for all those listed in our copy of the expedition’s manifest, many of them still heavily laden with equipment and supplies. A short, wide apparatus was set over the crack in the middle of the camp. It was a puzzling device, clearly not designed for any boring but instead, I think, for pouring. Pouring what exactly was beyond any of us. All these things were in perfectly stable order, along with the food supplies in one tent, still reasonably stocked.

But in other ways, it was clear that this sight had been greatly, perhaps violently disturbed. One tent, clearly intended as a combined meeting room and mess hall, had the stools and tables thrown about, with certain parts looking almost like makeshift barriers. A set of smaller tents, apparently the sleeping quarters, were in mixed states ranging from undisturbed to the interior furnishing like sleeping bags and stools seemingly burned and torn apart, without so much as a scratch in the tents themselves. The largest tent houses all sorts of research paraphernalia well above and beyond my comprehension of the sciences, and much of that paraphernalia faced similar scorched scarring and destruction. One of the pegasi, a young lady ironically named Tip Toe, got shards inside two of her frogs and is currently in the ship’s infirmary, the icy floor making it all but impossible to spy the shattered glass.

All this and not a soul in sight. Not a griffon or a zebra or a diamond dog or a kirin. The place is utterly lifeless.

At this time there can be no question that the expedition met with catastrophe. But of what variety? Were they attacked by outside forces? That hardly seems likely, for what would be the point? This was a scientific expedition, and the equipment found on site would hardly be worth the expenditure required to get a raiding party of some sort out to this frigid emptiness. Mr. First Star proposed the possibility of a mutiny, citing how there are clearly not enough tents in the camp to support seventy-two souls, and some of the sleds appear prepped for travel. But for what reason would the crew take up arms against Gilderoy? They clearly had enough food and lodging, the enchanted heating gems are all in working order with spares readily available, and no payment was expected until after the expedition had concluded. And to finalize my refusal to believe in either theory, where is the evidence? No doubt there are signs of disturbance and violence, yet if the bodies were, say, dragged off to some unknown environs there would surely still be signs of blood, yet there are none.

I have issued orders for the squadrons to continue searching the area. There is still a small but not impossible chance of some creature escaping whatever happened in this place and even now wandering, lost and starving, atop the seemingly infinite ice. But if this great misfortune occurred shortly after Gilderoy was scheduled to arrive back in December then the odds of survivors out there are practically none, especially with all the food stores seemingly still here.

I dread writing the report I shall be sending back to the Crystal City after completing this private entry. The one solace available to me is a series of journals found in some of the tents, one apparently written by the griffon leader himself. I can only pray to the Royal Highnesses that they shed some light on this mystery. I have brought them up to the Aurora Dawn and divided them among some of my officers for study, keeping Gilderoy’s writings for myself. We shall see what comes of them.

Progress Report, 01-22-1005

From H.R.H. Aurora Dawn,
Captain Decadent Dawn,
Her Highness’s Northern Royal Air Navy

To: Northern Royal Air Navy Headquarters
Subject: Second Daily Progress Report
Operation Snowbank, January 22, 1005

Gilderoy camp located. Uninhabited. Signs of likely violence. All members missing.

Camp not in predicted location. Coordinates in data pack.

Rescue deemed unlikely. Search efforts ongoing. Investigation beginning on the morrow.

End Report
Operation Snowbank
January 22, 1005

Margrave Gilderoy, Date Unknown, w/Notes

From the private logbook of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown.

For two decades now, I have sought the mysteries of this world. I journeyed to the ancient pegasus plateau of Weng, where it is said a portal to other realities lies hidden. The plateau was too grand for any one explorer to fully comb, and all my search produced was a broken cylinder with a strange recipe carved in it. I plunged through the catacombs of Hollow Shades, which is believed by some to have been built upon the ruin of a ruin of a ruin where cats were worshipped and a mighty temple to ancient, powerful beings was hidden. I failed to find any evidence of it, but I did uncover a map claiming to be of cities belonging to civilizations predating history. I sought out a great archive supposedly built hundreds of millions of years ago, as reported by a stallion who insisted his body had been stolen from him by the terrible beings that once lived there. I discovered only a lone, crumbled building far too new to qualify, yet inhabited by an Abyssinian skeleton clutching tablets that spoke of strange rituals.

A cylinder, a map, and some tablets. Individually, they are only curious relics. I knew that together they might be more. Here, now, in this place long avoided and forgotten due to superstition and childish fear, I have my proof. Those idiots at Mystery Tonic University couldn’t stop me no matter how hard they tried. Oh, did they try. Secrets are not theirs alone to hoard like a bunch of dragons. They think I don’t know that they dabble in the obscure? Granted I have not and will likely never be able to produce a shred of proof, for they are far too careful in covering their tracks. There can be no other reason for them to collect and refuse to share such a trove of ancient artifacts! I know it, they know I know it, and they would end my career to ensure none believe me.

Once I have completed my work here at the eye, they won’t be able to hide it anymore. I will be vindicated, and they will be driven mad at my victory!

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes

Madness, or merely petty vindictiveness? One way or another, it is clear that Lord Gilderoy was not entirely forward with his reasons for being out here.

I simply must consult these contents with Mr. Iron. I am just aware enough of the dark lore to recognize allusions to certain occult elements. Not the modern concept of “occult”, to be certain. What this Gilderoy fellow writes of is clearly related to the dark concepts of my own time! How such knowledge survived a thousand years, especially after having been supposedly stamped out by Celestia’s flaming righteousness, I could not hope to speculate.

I shall leave Rusty be for this evening as he has his own material to read through, but tomorrow I will bring this up. He is bound to know more than I, given what he told me last night.

Margrave Gilderoy, Date Unknown, w/Notes II

From the private logbook of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown.

The ingredients for the recipe were difficult to find, especially considering some of them are extinct! I was able to find what I believe are reasonable modern substitutions, some artificially made. Bless you, Gertrude, for still having my back after all these years! I’d have brought you along had I thought your alchemy was necessary for the completion of this trip. Or you didn’t absolutely hate the cold.

Difficult as finding the ingredients was, making the stuff is simple even for a clumsy buffoon such as myself. Eastern Leaves made it easy to heat the stuff up properly; that kirin has been a huge help for this expedition, I honestly don’t know how we would have made it this far without her. Sweetooth and his fellow dogs did a commendable job setting up the pouring apparatus too, they’ve really pulled their weight. Literally!

I’ve had them set it up in the middle of his iris, just as the tablets told me.

His? Hers? Its?

Whatever they took the formation below to be, I can’t help feeling like it is staring at me. At all of us. Which is kind of funny, in a creepy sense. I mean, it’s the Matti Ths Aioniotitas, and we’re standing over what some ancient creatures referred to as its ‘iris’. How could it not be looking at us? It still feels strange. In a silly, perhaps childish manner.

The diamond dogs, they don’t like this place. No, not just ‘don’t like’, they hate it. Sweetooth tells me they can hear something with their overly sensitive ears, something like a whispering whistle that grates on their nerves. He asked, very politely, if they might form a separate camp elsewhere, just far enough away that they won’t have to listen to the noise. I agreed. They have been reasonable and beyond useful, and it’s not like they’ll be completely out of reach should we need them.

The brew needs a few hours to thicken. We’ll wait to try it out until morning. I’m so excited, I’m not sure I’ll get any sleep!

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes:

The diamond dogs had a separate camp? The pegasi never reported such a thing. I doubt them not in the slightest. They are the sharp-eyed masters of the air, and the ice sheet is not by any means covered in obstacles to simple sight, not even snow. If no report of a second camp was offered, then I have every reason to trust that one was never found. Unless, maybe, the dogs set their camp a truly significant distance from the main one. Or perhaps they abandoned the expedition altogether?

I curse Lord Gilderoy’s method of writing. I should like to derisively cast it aside as a victim of modern literature, for it is so unpleasantly simplistic. But I have read some of the modern scientific readings – one must keep up with the changes of history, especially if himself might be deemed a relic! – and know that more intellectual sorts do have at least some sense of proper literary capabilities. I can only assume Lord Gilderoy’s pedestrian style is indicative of his value as a member of the scientific community. No wonder this so-called Mystery Tonic University held him in such ill regard!

I would very much like to know the true details of Lord Gilderoy’s experiment, assuming ‘experiment’ would be the appropriate terminology. Alas, the beaked, self-styled buffoon adamantly refuses to explain such pertinent details. How am I meant to determine exactly what he was out to do if he cannot be bothered to keep such important records?

Margrave Gilderoy, Date Unknown, w/Notes III

From the private logbook of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown.

Good news: The brew works!

Bad news: This is going to take a while.

The liquid is viscous and dangerous. It ate the paint right off the pouring apparatus. Really changed its aesthetic! Eastern Leaves was very careful. Maybe too careful, but I don’t blame her. I got the impression this stuff would eat through flesh like a dragon through a gem mine. At least its high viscosity means it doesn’t splash easily.

It boiled and bubbled when it touched the ice, but in the end it ate right through. This process would have been much easier if we’d simply used one of the boring machines. We’ve only so many drill bits and must save those for the actual ice and rock, should we reach any of the latter. Plus I’d hate to wake up an ancient, all-powerful deity by sticking a needle in its eye!

Acid hardly seems better, but the tablets were very clear that this brew is the proper method of getting ~~his~~ its attention.

Gertrude used to tease me. There’s no point in correcting her and admitting that I don’t actually believe there’s a creature sleeping under the ice. That’s ridiculous. I am convinced there is something down there, something physical and old and very interesting. A ruin, perhaps? A great vault to antiquity? I couldn’t say for sure.

The formations below match what was described on the map and in the tablets perfectly! How could two such things from two completely different cultures and geological ages specify the exact same details and relate to the exact same recipe that itself was found in an entirely different location? My greatest hope is that what we have below us is a sealed tomb or trove to which the acid is the secret to gaining access. This drop of acid is merely a precursor, a check to ensure that it alone is not enough to simply open the long-buried gates and do most of the excavation work for us. If that fails—which, let’s face it, is likely—then we’ll just have to get down there the hard way.

I haven’t told the others about any of this. I am confident that Mystery Tonic or Low Rock has some spies and saboteurs amongst my crew. I trust Eastern Leaves, and the diamond dogs are far too forward and blunt to have any hope at being spies. The zebras? And especially the griffons? Who knows?

I probably shouldn’t even be writing this down. I’m due to meet with Sweetooth soon anyway.

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes:

Finally, some Cadance-blessed information!

So now at last I come to learn what Lord Gilderoy was after. Without access to his research notes, perhaps now being poured over by one of my fellow officers, I could not hope to judge his chances of success. Even so, what little I do see in these pages seem like precious little to base an entire expedition on, especially one so isolated and fretfully dangerous as this. But I must admit that Lord Gilderoy does not sound mad. Naive and paranoid, perhaps, but still in possession of his logical capabilities.

What he was after has been determined. Where he and his entire crew of seventy-two souls vanished to, however, remains a frustrating mystery. Were I to take in Rusty’s wild ramblings, I would guess something esoteric such as ‘into the aether’.

Margrave Gilderoy, Date Unknown, w/Notes IV

From the private logbook of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown.

Well, something clearly happened! Exactly what it means is anyone’s guess.

The entire camp was awoken last night by a cracking sound so loud I thought maybe lightning had struck! Upon stepping out of my tent I discovered the crack. It’s centered at the hole made by the acidic brew. It’s only a couple inches wide, but the purity of the ice makes it as obvious as can be. A quick measurement puts it around one-hundred-sixty feet in length.

Is this the acid’s doing? Common sense would say so, and it is the opinion formed by the others. They don’t know what I suspect, and I am not inclined to tell them.

It was one of the zebras, Mr. O—whom I name that way because writing it out is all but impossible, to say nothing for pronouncing it!—who first pointed out the whistling, and now we all can hear it. This is likely the same sound that the diamond dogs were complaining about yesterday, only now it is exposed through the crack. What in the world could be causing such a low, mournful sound?

We have the materials. Tomorrow I’ll brew a bit more of the acid and pour it down the glacier’s new throat. Perhaps we won’t have to excavate after all.

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes:

Whistling? I cannot recall any whistling. I will have to share this with my fellow officers and see if they heard anything.

This Lord Gilderoy would win no accolades for his nonexistent sense of self-preservation. By Luna, old bird, you have got a crack forming in the ice atop which your very camp is settled! At least move everyone to a safe distance! But apparently Lord Gilderoy lacked even that much situational awareness, as indicated by where we found his abandoned camp. My mind goes to great lengths in search of an excuse for how this woefully unprepared, narrow-minded catbird ever earned the trust of such learned institutions that they would not ban him from participating in practicing archeology, to say nothing for actually leading an expedition.

Perhaps the call of that wretched evil known as money is explanation enough. Which begs a further inquiry: how, exactly, can Gilderoy put forward the financial assets necessary to further such goals?

Margrave Gilderoy, Date Unknown, w/Notes V

From the private logbook of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown.

As exciting as it is cracking this ice, Eastern Leaves brought up a good point today. She reminded me that according to the paperwork I used to justify this expedition, we’re supposed to be collecting ice core samples for research into the glacier’s history. Tedious and boring stuff, not likely to wield anything of note as far as I’m concerned. It does get those geological history enthusiasts down at LRU going. We certainly don’t need seventy-two creatures here just to pour goop down a hole.

I’ve divided the expedition into five teams, each with twelve crew. I, of course, will remain here to continue the real point of this venture. The other teams are to spread out with an equal share of the boring equipment, collecting core samples at equal distances in a general spiral pattern. The good news is that I didn’t pick my team offclaw. Each of the collector teams will be led by an experienced professional who knows how to handle expeditions of this variety.

It was foolish not planning this from the beginning. I honestly hadn’t expected the map to lead me right to my target! Thought I’d be scouring the ice for weeks before I got this far. Eastern Leaves is a blessing from Boreas. She learned a bit of what I’m really after—not all of it, at least I don’t think so, but enough to understand that what’s under us is the true goal. I thought she might be a problem upon realizing that, but on the contrary, she seems every bit as eager for this as I am. I decided to keep her on my local team as a show of trust.

The second batch is almost ready. Once all the other teams have departed, I’ll pour it into the crack. Perhaps we won’t have to wait so long for results. To speed up the process, I’ve instructed the team to start taking bore samples at the edges of the crack. With any luck this will make the widening process go by faster and maybe create an opening large enough for us to enter with mere wingpower.

I won’t have any diamond dogs on my team. When I went to Sweetooth to tell him about the new instructions, he demanded that none of his people stay here. He was downright vicious about it! The old dog said there was something evil about that formation below, something his pack could sense instinctively. I knew better than to discount his instincts, so I didn’t argue, but I doubt it’s ‘evil’. More like there’s something down there that they are instinctually prone to dislike, in the same way dragons are subconsciously disturbed by the presence of ponies (a well-documented psychological problem, though they deny it to the last lizard).

It’s fine. I’ve got seven strong griffons and three zebras with potent alchemy, and together they are more than enough to do whatever work we might need. If worse comes to worst, Leaves has her potent fire magic, though I’d hate to turn her gift into a mere ice melting tool. Feels disrespectful.

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes:

Here at last we come to an explanation as to why the camp appeared so diminutive. Yet this discovery raises still further questions. If Gilderoy – I hesitate to refer to any creature who flagrantly wields such pedestrian terminology as ‘goop’ a lord – divided his expedition into a quintet, whatever occurred to the other four teams? Surely the search parties might have spotted some sign of their existence on the ice. And why is it that all eight sleds, the number they were reported to have on the whole, were found at the camp?

Gilderoy’s methodology is aggressive and dangerous, but not entirely lacking in merit. It is a pity he has not written down that mysterious recipe, so valuable for opening the ice, in these clumsy pages. Perhaps one of the other officers has uncovered an appropriate reference. Some sort of acidic substance? My modern chemistry is admittedly lacking, yet I seem to recall acid and ice not playing well together. Delivering the recipe to the Crystal City for analysis would no doubt make some learned scientist’s day.

Unrelated personal note: I really must inquire as to this rumor of great, vicious, wholly unpleasant dragons being disturbed by a mere pony’s presence. Certainly, such a wild and childish suggestion would have seen a stallion laughed out of town in the old times, never to return for fear of his shame being remarked upon and recalled to all who might be nearby! But then, it has been such a grievously long time. Mayhap today there is some paradoxical truth to the idea.

Of real concern are these diamond dogs Gilderoy speaks of and their admiral yet wholly mystifying instincts. Learning of such a thing, I am filled with regret at having not brought one along just to test the concept. I have heard there are dogs in the mountains west of the city. Great, shaggy creatures adapted to the snowy climate, with vast strength and size but ponderous, dim-witted existences. They were not present in the old days. Perhaps in a future expedition some could be brought along, although if their reaction is anything like that of this Sweetooth character then perhaps such an experiment would be deemed cruel by modern scientists and their coddling, limiting moralities.

The night grows long, and I shall have ever so much to do come the sunrise even before we continue our work here. Let me conclude this reading for tonight, and hope the others have discerned much more than I have in these cold, lost pages.

Cptn. D. Design, 01-23-1005

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

23 January 1005

Gilderoy referred to the strange phenomenon as ‘whistling’. To me, it is more akin to ringing, an infernal tinnitus that drives me ever closer to frustration. It is so abominably loud! I have ordered the ship to be repositioned to such a distance that it is not so grating. I had thought, perhaps, that such would only be a hundred meters at most. We are instead nearly half a kilometer away from the camp. Even at this distance the sound still pierces the brain, like unrepentant claws along an intentionally, diabolically placed chalkboard. It is quiet enough at the least to permit the resumption of regular thought, though I cannot avoid gritting my teeth from time to time when I pause and permit myself to consider it. Yet we must not create any further distance, lest the journey to the camp become too great a hindrance to our investigation.

The meeting this morning was quite revelatory. Each of my officers had the opportunity to summarize the history of the expedition hidden within the many pages found. I must make particular note of Ms. Coxswain, whose literary capacity is so magnificently prodigious and respectable as to allow her to not only completely read all her share of the files last night but to also write copious notes of staggering detail regarding what they revealed to her curious observations. With such a mind, one might be forgiven for wondering if she were related to that most prodigal and beloved of royal bibliophiles (long may she reign).

I shall try my best to create my own summary of events as we currently know them. Although there is not a doubt in my mind that Ms. Coxswain shall write her own such document, I fear it will be far too detailed and dense in nature for any reader falling below the mental capacity of the most esteemed of the intellectual elite. I am struck with befuddled amusement to think that I, a literate figure of the ancient times, should find some modern pony’s writing too dense!

The first thing of note is that there appears to have been wretched treachery within the Gilderoy expedition, although none of my colleagues have yet read which individual within the expedition was responsible for said barbarity, nor the reasoning behind it. Aside from such foul matters, it also has been clarified – primarily from Ms. Eastern Leaves’ notes as read by Cloudstone – that the camp faced some grave, overwhelming disaster when tensions were at their highest.

Cloudstone believes that some pages from the accounts for which he was responsible are missing. This is hardly an unexpected turn of events, as the papers were disorganized and scattered upon discovery and we had only so much time to gather and sort them before dividing the whole up to be read. It is not unreasonable to think that I or one of the other officers have Cloudstone’s missing pages or, no less probable, the pages are still somewhere in the camp, perhaps trapped behind a storage bin or fluttered out of the tents. Whatever the case may be, our choices are limited to forming theories based on what we have now and might, with luck and Celestia’s good will, yet discover.

To continue: the kirin’s capacity for the Equish language appears limited, yet is easily comprehensible regardless. She writes of some grave danger, the nature of which we have yet to ascertain. This might explain the strange barriers of detritus we found in some of the tents, as they may have been crafted as defensive bulwarks against this unspecified threat. The staff are unpleasantly nonplussed by these writings, and I blame them not for their concerns, for from where could such a threat come from in these frigid wastes? The ice is much too vast and flat of surface to bar a creature’s vision, which would surely stretch for several miles in any direction, so it confounds us that the crew did not notice such a problem hours or at least minutes before it fell upon the ill-fated people.

In all of this, one thing has been clearly confirmed by our studies, for in Ms. Coxswain’s portion of the readings was a clear and direct pronouncement of the demise of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown. Curiously, he did not succumb to the danger implied in these documents but was, rather, struck with a fit of raving madness that saw him fly so high into the atmosphere that his wings froze and the air left him, and so he plummeted to his sudden and disturbing death. Curiously, Ms. Eastern Leaves’s notes state that this death happened only an hour or so prior to the arrival of the mysterious doom about which she writes.

A simple timeline of the events are as follows: Gilderoy’s expedition arrived and began using some unfamiliar form of acid to eat away at the ice. The team was divided into five equal parts, with Gilderoy’s team remaining behind while the others went to gather ice cores. The papers, written by varying individuals, then speak of a growing tension in the camp, the various members becoming irritable and prone to aggression. Reasons for this are unclear, with explanations ranging from paranoid accusations, sabotage, mere stress, to – and Rusty was very eager to make a note of this – suspicions of curses and corrupting magics. From there the order of events are unclear. There came a bloodless mutiny, the decidedly insane Gilderoy perished, and something undescribed but deadly occurred. Which of these three events transpired first is a puzzle that we are all at an utter, damnable loss to determine. That, to the best of our knowledge and reading thus far, is where things lie.

Questions remain. What was this threat and why was it never described? Where are the bodies of the deceased? What of the survivors? If the other teams did indeed leave, why are all the sleds at the camp? And what is that infernal

Confound that Rusty Iron! Coming to pester me in the midst of writing in this journal, and all to make ludicrous claims! He drags me out into the freezing atmosphere only to point at the expedition sight over the starboard bow. In panicked and frightful tones did he insist that the three black formations beneath the ice have moved since yesterday. What nonsense! Clearly his unfounded belief in occult histories relating to this voyage have addled his mind, and I told him as such. He took great offense, which is hardly surprising, but I told him he had my permission to expand his special preparations if it would make the superstitious cretin’s primitive brain feel safer. Perhaps he does feel, as I do, that something is watching us, but at least I have the sense to understand when my own mind is battling against me!

And now I’ve lost the mood for this. Perhaps it is for the better. We are due to head back to the expedition site shortly and I need to be getting ready. Rusty will be joining us today, despite his most ardent protests. The greater reasoning behind this decision stems from the clear need to show confidence before all the officer staff. I must also begrudgingly acknowledge that Rusty’s scientific knowledge and his obsession with the occult have the potential to be helpful in deciphering some of the artifacts we left behind in our previous examination.

But I will not deny that a small voice in my brain is relishing this singular opportunity to frustrate and harass the stallion for his boorish nature and dogged persistence. Everypony has a quirk or two, but he is the only one on this ship that makes me consider bringing back the corporal punishment of the old times.

Progress Report, 01-23-1005

From H.R.H. Aurora Dawn,
Captain Decadent Dawn,
Her Highness’s Northern Royal Air Navy

To: Northern Royal Air Navy Headquarters
Subject: Third Daily Progress Report
Operation Snowbank, January 23, 1005

Lord Gilderoy potentially deceased. No body. Expedition members remain missing. Search radius widened.

Potential expedition mutiny and wildlife attack. Mutiny motive unclear. Type of wildlife unclear.

Possible magical anomaly. Vessel repositioned to mitigate impact.

Investigation ongoing. Further report tomorrow.

End Report
Operation Snowbank
January 23, 1005

Cptn. D. Design, 01-23-1005, III

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

This itching in the back of my skull is wont to drive me to the very boundaries of madness! The feeling is of such drastic heaviness to the mind such that I suspect I might take a pair of pliers and rip off some grotesque deformity from the back of my skull. I briefly visited Doctor Cloudstone about it, and even suggested she investigate the back of my head beneath the mane, but she discovered nothing that might explain the itching, alien sensation. At least I am not alone: Rusty Iron was in the medical bay with the same symptoms, as were a few others of the away team.

Though it seems obvious in hindsight, I failed at the time to realize that all the afflicted were of the crystalline pony race. Not a single member of the softer pony tribes – physically softer, mind you, I mean no insult to my dear kin! – were present. It was Doctor Cloudstone who made the observation. She is usually quite the bored individual, having taken to a life in the Royal Air Navy in the hopes of adding some excitement to her own wearying days. I daresay the mare found it, for she was uncharacteristically, cruelly fascinated by this petulant turn of events! She theorized that it might be some foul disease unearthed by Gilderoy and his acidic agent, finding its way to the surface of the Mighty Matti after thousands of years of prehistoric imprisonment. Rusty, understandably soured by her cheer in the face of our misery, was sure to point out that Cloudstone herself is a Crystal Pony, and remarked that she should show greater concern for her own people and her own health, especially as a learned practitioner of the medical sciences! The grimly grinning mare amiably countered that only those ponies who visited the camp appeared to be affected and that she could find no sign or example whatsoever of contagiousness.

So now I sit in my cabin, scratching out these words in this journal and hoping that a little rest will do me some modicum of good. Yet I find myself ill at ease, for problems abound. To begin, the Aurora Dawn is now twenty meters further from that monstrous crack in the ice. Somehow the anchoring bolts came loose and had to be re-applied. Our chief engineer, Mrs. Bracket, examined the entirety of the anchoring equipment and determined that the fault lay within the anchoring bolts themselves. Indeed, she demonstrated a sample bolt to me, revealing that the screw threads intended to grip the ice had been sheared entirely! She was all afoul with curses and insults that would make the lowliest mongrel of the most crime-laden slums blush, blaming the whole unprofessional affair on the incompetence of the forgers who crafted the bolts in the first place. She promptly replaced them and set the anchors once more.

Yet the mystery deepens. Despite the terrible storm still visible in the distance, in the vicinity of the camp the air is as still as a tomb. Clearly, the weather directly over the Matti Ths Aioniotitas is tamed. That in itself is cause for great confusion and study, for there hasn’t been a weather team to do said taming in the area for as long as the very concept has existed! By all accounts, as Sleekwing has affirmed, the weather here should be as wild as they come. Yet there is no wind. No clouds. No rain, and no snow. Only flat, smooth ice for so many kilometers as the bare equine eye can make out.

Which brings our attention to the above problem once more: the Aurora Dawn moved twenty meters further from the expedition camp. No wind! No navigation from the bridge! The magnificent magi-engines that make this noble vessel a reality have been turned off for nearly twenty-four hours!

By Tirek's blasted horns, how did the ship move?

I suppose I should at the very least be grateful that, of all the possible directions this confoundedness has taken us, it is away from that crack and its incessant ringing.

It would be best that I refocus my attention on why we are out here in this infernal, cold desert. This morning I ordered the pegasi teams to do another sweep of the area, but with a change in tactics. Now they are to stay low and hunt for evidence of these scientific borings Gilderoy and Ms. Eastern Leaves brought up in their individual journals. The idea, proposed by Ms. Sherry of all the unlikeliest ponies, is to follow the pattern of drillings as described to perhaps locate the missing borer teams. We are fortunate enough that within Doctor Cloudstone’s cache of reading materials last night was a detailed statement and description of the intended locations of the boreholes, but even with such a resource it will be a monstrous challenge to the pegasi, sharp-eyed though they may be, to spot what is little more than a small hole in the ice. There is a possibility that the deep depth of these ice extractions combined with the almost unnatural, lovely purity of the ice will make the discrepancy more visible, but I do not have high hopes.

In the meantime, I and a dozen ponies chosen for their calm attitudes and known caution in all things combed across Gilderoy’s camp in an intricately conducted hunt for any further evidence to assist us in our ongoing investigation. The search took up much of the afternoon and was significantly, frustratingly hampered by our collective loathing of that continuous and ever-disturbing ringing – or whistling, as the non-crystalline members of the team describe it.

Our laborious scouring produced fruit. Some papers missed in the initial, admittedly sloppy search have been discovered and brought back to the ship for analysis. I have assigned them to Coxswain, seeing as she has already exhausted her own material. Also discovered in one tent on the edge of camp was a cache of makeshift weapons, clearly put together with whatever materials were readily available. The natural assumption is that the primitive things were meant for use in the mutiny, particularly for the races that lacked more overt natural weapons such as the horrendous yet respectable claws and fangs of the griffons and dogs. However, it cannot be cast aside that these may have been intended more for the purposes of obligatory self-defense, particularly against whatever threat laid waste to the ill-fated camp.

The foul itching continues unabated! Time and time again my hoof runs along the back of my head, expecting to find a lump or feel some heat as in a fever or healing wound, yet there remains an foul nothing. How I would love to uncover evidence of injury, blatant and frightening, if only so that there might be some explanation for this ceaseless torture.

I fear my own capacity for concentration. I shall attempt to lie down. Perhaps a bout of blessed oblivion will allow this deleterious pain to run its due course and leave me in peace!

Margrave Gilderoy, Date Unknown, w/Notes VI

From the private logbook of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown.

It was good that I did not discount Sweetooth and his pack. We’ve succeeded in expanding the crack, and now I can say with confidence that the whistling they reported is real. It comes in a steady rhythm, up and down, like waves on a beach. It is strange.

So strange.

I can’t describe how it makes me feel. If I had to put it in a single word, I think I would choose ‘unpleasant’. I feel it is a sound that doesn’t belong within the audible range of griffon hearing.

I won’t be dismayed by some odd noise beneath the ice! My career is on the line.

The acid mixture is working, but not without problems. Namely, while the crack has gotten longer, it is not appreciably wider. Since our goal is to go down the thing, this is not encouraging. After some discussion with Leaves, we’ve decided to try pouring the acid down the extra boreholes we made earlier, the ones on either side of the crack. This might create additional cracks, or it might make the existing crack wider. Either result would be beneficial at this point.

My only concern is quantity. We’ve only so much of the ingredients for the acid. At this pace we may be forced to unload the pickaxes after all.

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes:

Sleep eludes me, what with that profoundly loathsome itching and ringing, so I have chosen to distract myself with further reading.

I knew from the other officers’ reports that the whistling was present in the camp before we arrived, but this is the first time Gilderoy mentions personally encountering it. It appears that he, too, interpreted it as whistling. Like waves? What an odd observation. In my head it is more akin to a tuning fork sorting through an infinite myriad of frequencies in a futile search for exactly the right sound, all for a purpose wholly unknown. With the feeling in my skull, one would think this metaphorical fork was being rapped directly against the back of my head.

Confound it, all this reading is meant to distract from these accursed feelings, not encourage more active preoccupation! I dread I shall never be rid of it, haunted by an audio specter well beyond my departure from this ghastly ice sheet.

Margrave Gilderoy, Date Unknown, w/Notes VII

From the private logbook of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown.

I have never encountered something so terrible in all my years!

We had poured the acid and been waiting to see what would result when the entire team was struck with what I can only call a mass hallucination. It started with a horrible shrieking. I can’t describe it. I don’t want to! Whatever it was, it filled me with a dread I’ve never felt before, as if a dragon were seconds from ripping me apart with its teeth!

As the sound went on, the ice shook with all the force of an earthquake, sending many of us sprawling and knocking down equipment and tents! I thought for sure the glacier would crack, and sure enough, it did. Pillars of ice rose and fell, the taller ones breaking apart and collapsing in cascading walls of shattered, sharp shards. The sky turned dark, even without any clouds, and wave after wave of terror swept over us like physical walls. I saw Gall tearing at his own face with his claws and shrieking! I was able to take off after much fumbling and struggle, but I swear the very air itself was shaking.

Then I watched as poor Gantry was crushed by a pillar that landed directly on top of him. I heard his bones crunching, and it is a sound I will remember to the end of my days.

Then, just as suddenly, it all stopped. Not just stopped, it disappeared as if it had never happened. No shrieking, no waves of terror. The Matti Ths Aioniotitas was as flat and pristine as it had ever been, with nary a crack to mar its surface aside from the one we’d created. The tents and equipment were exactly where they’d always been.

I can’t describe what happened. I have no idea. I only know a few things. First, that everyone in the camp experienced the hallucination at the same time. Second, that the crack is now substantially longer, and wide enough that we might be able to climb down it, though flying is still out of the question. Two of the borers fell due to the displacement but were too big to fall in the crevice completely.

Gall’s face is a bloody mess. That was no illusion.

Gantry is dead. I have no explanation. He’s been crushed, his bones little more than splinters, his blood staining the ice from a hundred small cuts. I saw him smashed by that jagged ice pillar, and I was not alone. At least four of our number, including Eastern Leaves, saw it as well. The pillar is gone. It’s not there! It was a hallucination!

Gantry is dead, as surely as the ice sheet is flat.

What in Boreas’s name have we uncovered?

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes:

What is this?

After reading this hideous entry, I could do naught but sit in my chair and stare at the jagged, fumbling words, clearly written by a griffon under substantial mental distress. Easy though it might be, easy and convenient, to dismiss what Gilderoy wrote, the manner of the unsteady scrawl heavily suggests that he believed the words he set upon the paper. I have compared this entry with past ones, examining the clawwriting, and I have no doubt it was written by Gilderoy, barring some capable forgery.

Ms. Coxswain mentioned in her report before that there were writings about supernatural happenings. The fact nearly put the distressingly paranoid Rusty Iron into a fit of baseless suspicion and dread. Yet I, like Coswain herself, dismissed the entries as exaggerations, flights of fancy, or perhaps simple-mindedness.

I cannot deny this entry has cracked my once-stalwart confidence.

Perhaps I am merely shaken by ongoing events. The ceaseless, damned ringing. The mad itching. The mysterious elements of this investigation. Yes. Yes, it is all getting to my head. I must believe that. I have no choice but to believe it. My intellect and reason cannot countenance the preposterous proposal that what the margrave ranted about in his ignorant writing might have some basis in reality.

I do not wish to keep reading, to entertain the mad ramblings of some selfish catbird about hallucinations and acids! I feel I must, nevertheless, continue. I cannot sleep, I will not let on to the crew that these documents are worming insecurities and fears into my brain, and I am obligated to finish the reading as part of this wholly unwelcome investigation. Oh, how I wish I could unload the task to some other luckless soul. Ms. Coxswain would no doubt leap at the chance, but no. The only excuse I have is childish, irresponsible, and I dare not entertain the notion.

So. Back to it.

Margrave Gilderoy, Date Unknown, w/Notes VIII

From the private logbook of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown.

Cowards, those zebras. All three of them, cowards! Yes, Gantry is dead. Yes, Gall’s face is so heavyset with bandages I’m not convinced he could lift it for the extra weight. Yes, we all suffered from the same fatal hallucination. I acknowledge all that.

We can’t stop now, for a great many reasons. Don’t they want to know why this happened, and prevent it from happening again? Don’t they want Gantry’s death and Gall’s pain to mean something? If we really want to get shallow with things, what about their pay, which they will certainly forfeit if they abandon the expedition now! There’s also my legacy to consider. I won’t let the name Gilderoy of Fletcherstown go down as belonging to a crackpot. My theories are sound, my ambitions noble.

I will not stop, and I won’t let them stop either!

The crack is wide enough, if barely. I’ve selected three griffons in the team: Grackle, Gestalt, and Gordon. They will join me as we attempt to climb down into the abyss. Leaves will remain behind to manage the others and ensure our anchors up top are secure throughout the climb. We estimate the crack is some 1,200 feet deep, based on some observations made earlier, but that could be off by hundreds. The plan is to only be down for a couple hours, just to see how rough the going is and secure the route with climbing lines. After what happened this morning, I’m taking no chances in regards to safety.

I’ve instructed Leaves to keep a close eye on those zebras. They were pretty vocal about leaving this place, but they can’t be allowed to abandon us. We need them. Leaves’ fire magic will make for a potent deterrent.

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes:

At least one good thing has come from the tiring work of these readings: the purposes and goals of the supposed mutiny to come are now startlingly transparent.

This is the last entry I possess from Gilderoy’s journal, but there are others. Everything else in this freshly organized and entirely undesirable pile of literary detritus appears to be paperwork. Manifests and the like, certainly not of any value regarding the ongoing investigation. I shall ask around, see which of my officers possess the papers that relate what came next in this tale. Let the ever-curious Coxswain have these pages for her own devoted study. Perhaps in her eager, learned and creative review she will uncover some crumb of importance that slipped past my increasingly burdened study.

Blast, now I possess nothing with which to distract from that quiet yet ever-present clanging and damnable itch. I suppose I shall attempt sleep again, though I hold out little hope for Princess Luna’s favor this night.

Cptn. D. Design, ???

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

I cannot believe that I am awake, or that I ever was. That which I just saw, it was something of foolish fantasy, and yet it was also so real!

Great Uncle Frost Step died twenty moons before my birth. He was my inspiration as a foal, what modern ponies term a ‘role model’, and I studied his voyages with ceaseless fascination. Those log books and journals and newspaper clipping were all that I knew of the stallion, and I lamented the cruel reality that I should never encounter him muzzle-to-muzzle without first being taken by the cold grip of eternity. The closest I ever came to knowing what he looked like was a portrait made in his middling years, back when he was a sea captain about to explore the islands of the Celestial Sea. It was drawn by a member of his crew on paper already yellowed with age at the time, rough and colorless and poorly angled as the mare in question was still new to her craft, though I understand she became quite famous in her later years.

That is what I saw tonight. A paper cutout, somehow made three-dimensional and hideously proportioned, with unnaturally stretched legs and a muzzle so sharp it could cut diamonds. It awoke me from my slumber with the rustle of its stumbling gait, and I was so driven by shock that I failed to scream as I very much wished to!

The thing stood in the darkness at the foot of my bed, staring at me with intense unpleasantness. It appeared every bit as puzzled by my existence as I by its own. Yet the more I returned its heavy gaze, the more a perplexing familiarity tugged at my strained and struggling psyche. Its mane, black like coal, shifted as if some foal were constantly drawing, erasing, and redrawing the lines in a perpetual cycle of dissatisfaction with the final image. Its eyes, though devoid of any living light, pierced into my heart as surely as any cold, unfeeling blade. I gazed upon that three-dimensional caricature of a two-dimensional squiggle and felt, with ragged confidence, that I must be in the throes of a nightmare!

Still, the familiarity would not leave. At last, I made the inconceivable connection: this thing appeared in the same manner as the portrait of my long dead great uncle given life. I could only gasp in wonder and terror, trying to imagine what magic, be it wicked or blessed, might have pulled this figure of my foalhood fantasies and dreams to this, the world of the living.

And then

And then the sound came. It came to my ears with all the softness of a whisper, yet in my mind it crashed like a mighty gong. My head shook with the reverberations such that I feared it might shatter as glass! I folded my traumatized ears and attempted to cover them with my hooves, but the noise was no mere auditory sensation. No, it was being fed mercilessly into my brain, drilling in and scratching at my every nerve ending. It was only after several seconds of endurance and the gradual fading of it that I understood the racket was that selfsame ringing tone that had been coming from the crack in the Matti Ths Aioniotitas all along.

My skull was aflame with itching! I swear to Celestia herself that the very grey matter encased in the protective layers of my skull was being rearranged. Cut, tucked, tightened, loosened, squished, squashed, plucked, poked, pushed, packed, pressed, mangled, mushed! I tried to shriek, but again, no sound could leave my throat. Was it fear? Was it some diabolical form of mental domination imposed upon my mortal form? I had no way to be certain. I only knew, with a certain hideous confidence, that there was indeed no sound at all in my cabin. I was alone with this thing beyond equine minds, utterly at its mercy.

The colossal, mind-shattering gong stopped, and the instant it did I heard something else, something wholly unexpected:

“Who are you?”

Reality was absurdly silent, but the words existed all the same. They were damnably strange, heavy yet off, as if the speaker could not settle on a tone or volume and thus uttered every syllable in a different manner. So flabbergasted was I by this development, so stunned by the ongoing shock, that I barely realized the question had been asked.

Until it came again: “Who are you?”

I stared at the entity, unable to formulate an answer. The absurd paper reality stared back, my uncle yet so clearly not. I recall my own name gradually, painfully forming in my mind, as though a jagged hook had sunk into the folds and crevices of my soul and pulled it out from the depths.

“Decadent. Dawn.”

This thing could read through my mind like an open tome. I had so many questions, all muddled and pushed aside by a single voice in my head screaming at the blasphemy to go away, go and leave me in peace! Yet my silent cries went ignored, or perhaps unheard.

Though it took not a step closer, there came the traumatic impression that the paper phantom had moved closer, was looming such as to make me a mere shadow to its painful magnificence. I possessed the disturbing sensation that it was scrutinizing me, little more than a lab rat under a microscope, the researcher holding just out of view the fine, sparkling point of a dissecting blade. Instead of a cut, however, I felt a rushing, swelling sensation, as if my entire body might explode from some powerful internal pressure. I was being fed something, not in any physical sense, but in the realm of my sensations and subconsciousness.

It was an urge. A simple yet powerful desire that momentarily took up every fragile edge of my awareness:

“Go away.”

Two words. Two simple, pathetic, easy words. Yet it was not words that I felt crushing my existence. I cannot explain the gargantuaness of that instinct and animal need pushed so forcefully into my soul by an entity whose very existence defies comprehension. It caught me in an iron grip and squeezed so tight that I became overwhelmed, weeping and shuddering and paralyzed in my bed.

Now I sit here, writing in this journal and feeling with every fiber of my being that I must leave this place. The expedition, the Matti Ths Aioniotitas, the Frozen North, all of it! Yet what I feel now is a mere shadow of the horror that had so powerfully gripped my heart, and I begin to wonder if it was not all just some morbidly fantastical night terror brought on by the mystery and stress of this mission.

I am torn between duty and desire. Were the former not such an important element of my entire existence, I might already have surrendered to the latter and ordered the ship east, into the ever-clawing storm and away from this monstrous place. But I am a captain of Her Highness’s Royal Air Navy, and as much as it pains me I cannot allow mere emotions to dictate my actions. I will see this investigation through, and in a day’s time laugh at the absurdity of being so torn up by the phantom apparitions of a mere dream.

That being said, I think I will inquire to Rusty about those occultist safety measures. Call it succumbing to weakness, but for my own comfort I shall indulge.

Cptn. D. Design, 01-24-1005

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

24 January 1005

I am starting to regret last night’s decision.

Rusty Iron has clearly been dreadfully affected by the ongoing events, and took to my blessing of his plans with a feverish fervor. Everywhere I cast my eyes in this distressingly peaceful morning I find symbols and runes. Most have been marked upon the ship with what I suspect to be ink from those ingenious pens and markers developed over the thousand years my kind devoted to involuntary slumber, whilst others have been crudely engraved directly into the wood or metal. Explaining this to Rear Admiral Long Reach will be frighteningly difficult, to say nothing of my ultimate decision to neither bring the subject up with Rusty nor punish him for the vandalism.

I had thought Rusty’s activities might provide a much needed sense of safety and security. Instead, I find myself feeling ridiculous. Why in Cadance’s name did I not inquire as to his exuberant plans before approving them? No, the query is the height of foolishness. I am well aware of the why of it. And if Long Reach had borne witness to the same apparition I had in my dreams, there is not a doubt he would have committed the same mistake.

At least it amuses the crew. Although I can’t help but suspect, by their collective countenance and hushed mannerisms, that they might appreciate Rusty’s efforts. Far be it for me to call them suspicious in such trying times. Coxswain has mentioned the whispers. Many wish to abandon this endeavor altogether, especially the crystal ponies who make up more than half the crew. If Rusty’s mad carvings and shapes can set their minds at ease, I find no cause to interrupt the proceedings.

On to the business at hoof. I am pleased – as much as anypony can be amidst that ever-present ringing and sense of being rudely stared at even when in complete isolation – to declare that our scouting parties have made some headway in their tedious search. The information taken from Gilderoy’s camp has led the pegasi accurately to the boreholes they were seeking, and hopefully today that trend will continue until such time that the four missing teams are found.

Yet I fear that is the only pleasant news to be had. The threads of the anchoring bolts were sheared yet again and the ship had drifted some eighty meters from the excavation camp overnight. Tiny Bracket was apoplectic upon making the discovery, and insists upon inspecting the rest of the spares for potential defects. In the meantime I have, despite my personal discomfort with the idea, ordered the ship returned to a location 250 meters distant from the camp. We are holding position via engine propulsion, which is tricky and requires constant monitoring. The ship’s rotors, though of ingenious design, are limited such that they can only move so slowly, which is too fast to hold the ship in a single location against such a small push or pull as we are facing.

We are indeed facing an external force. Careful observations along with the maneuvers of the morning confirm it. We remain utterly lost as to the source, as the only external force that could remotely make sense is wind and that is plainly nonexistent over the ice. Ms. Sherry suggested the possibility of magic, which is technically possible but would have been detected by one of our unicorn officers like Ms. Coxswain or Ms. Heart when they ran an investigatory spell across the ship. Whatever it is that pushes us along, it is something we have not witnessed before. Coxswain, being our most adept in matters of thaumaturgy, is investigating.

Then there is the ringing. It has grown no louder. It has grown no quieter. Yet it never leaves, and is having a clear deleterious effect on the crew. I witnessed one deckhoof washing the same minute portion of the ship over and over and over again, the scrub brush run dry from constant use. When I interrupted the mare to inquire about the bizarre behavior, she admitted being so intensely distracted by her own gnawing frustration with the ringing that she could think of naught else and thus got stuck in what can only be described as a mental loop of scrubbing and pondering and brooding. She was profusely apologetic, but I dismissed her adle-mindedness so long as she did, in fact, complete the job properly.

Still, the situation plagues the mind for reasons beyond the obvious. Ponies all over the ship are distracted, lethargic, moody and aggressive, and it all can be traced to the noise. There is a severe lack in crew efficiency and cohesion as a result, and I begin to question if something ought to be done about it. Rusty Iron’s well-meaning and overenthusiastic efforts may or may not be having an effect, it is too early to say for certain. They may be serving only to enhance the distraction with their mysterious symbols and alien characters.

I spoke with Cloudstone on the matter, only to be met with worse news. She can determine no biological cause for the itching that plagues myself and the crystal ponies from yesterday’s expedition. Worse, it appears to be spreading, but again, only to members of my own crystalline tribe. Cloudstone herself is now suffering from the ceaseless aggravation. She possesses the singular trait of finding the issue fascinating rather than infuriating. She did dare to offer one theory, though she was certain to press that it was only a theory with dubious likelihood of accuracy. This theory centers on the fact that to crystal ponies, the sounds we hear from the crack is like that of a ringing; a bell, a gong, a chime, or some strange mixture of such instrumentation. But to all other ponies, be they pegasi or earth ponies or unicorns, the sound is instead a whistling.

Crystal ponies possess certain biological distinctions from their southern kin. We do, in fact, maintain a certain amount of crystalline material within our bodies, which provides for our unique physical appearance and natural affinity for all things gemology. Cloudstone’s theory is that this audio phenomenon coming from the crevice in the ice is at a frequency that closely resonates with this physiology, thereby changing how we crystal ponies receive and comprehend it. The doctor refuses to specify a likelihood for this theory to be true, and emphasized again and again that she could not be certain of anything. Personally, I believe Cloudstone has come to accept this idea as having great merit but does not wish to say so for fear of her medical reputation. In regard to what kind of impact this might have on us physically, the doctor declined to speculate.

I trust Cloudstone completely in medical matters. I offered no arguments. The only disappointment I wished to express was in how her analysis failed to include some method by which we might stop the blasted itching! It has spread now. I feel it, like a thousand icy needles dancing along my spine. I dare say I’ve grown accustomed to the sensation, but by the princesses, I wish it was not necessary to do so. I have this horrid apprehension that something is slithering under my skin.

The last thing of note for the time being: that inky liquid material seen creeping up the crack was nearly at the surface of the ice this morning. I have called off today’s excursion to the camp. With all the ill results of this investigation so far, I dread the possibility of worse. For all I know, the liquid could be Gilderoy’s acidic mixture being vomited out like a deadly geyser. Best to steer clear until it runs its course and we can perform an examination from a safer distance.

I have taken some of Ms. Coxswain’s papers for reading, the ones she has not found time to read from our second excursion on the ice. I intend to go through them in the staff room. I am hesitant to acknowledge such in front of the crew, but the nightmare of the previous evening leaves me wary of my own quarters. It is a foolish sentiment, I am aware, and there will be no delay in pushing past it this evening, but for my own mental wellbeing I shall permit this weakness.

Progress Report, 01-24-1005

From H.R.H. Aurora Dawn,
Captain Decadent Dawn,
Her Highness’s Northern Royal Air Navy

To: Northern Royal Air Navy Headquarters
Subject: Fourth Daily Progress Report
Operation Snowbank, January 24, 1005

Unidentified material at Gilderoy camp. Natural or magical unclear. Direct investigation postponed until deemed safe.

Magical anomaly likelihood increased. Vessel repositioned again. Sabotage suspicions raised.

Potential medical situation. Crystal crew most impacted. Situation currently under control.

Investigation ongoing.

End Report
Operation Snowbank
January 24, 1005

???

i know of you

the time is not yet

be away

know of

you you you be

away be away be away be away be away

i know

not yet

the time be away

know of you

be away not yet i know not away of yet you

be away

Cptn. D. Design, ???

Somepony got into my private journal! Those scoundrels, I shall have their heads!

Cptn. D. Design, 01-24-1005, II

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

Rusty has raised the suggestion of abandoning the mission as a lost cause. I refused him outright, but privately I must admit to having been tempted. There is too much going on, events that defy explanation, the crew being driven down by this incessant racket, the invisible leer that haunts our every waking moments. My own horrible vision.

And now somepony has snuck into my cabin and written in my private journal. I am loath to confess that I lost my temper and flew into an unseemly, unprofessional rage at the sight of those scrawled words in no form of hoof or hornwriting I recognize. They almost look like the work of a child. A prank played by some uncouth, disrespectful member of the crew, perhaps. I hate to imagine one of my own committing the nefarious deed, but to whom else might I cast blame?

I spoke to the master at arms, if one can deem the shouting I threw about so violently as ‘speaking’. There is no denying that what happened is unacceptable conduct for the crew of one of Her Highness’s airships, but my own manner was every bit as unbecoming. Surprisingly, it was Rusty Iron who calmed me, brought me back to my cabin, and soothed my bearing with a purely medicinal dosage of my own regulation-unfriendly stash of brandy, which he refused to partake in beyond a single glass.

We spoke for over an hour in my quarters, each spilling forth our troubles and concerns. I, attempting to make up for my sudden display of immaturity, tried to keep things strictly professional, but was both intrigued and horrified when Rusty spoke to me of a grave secret. He spoke to his father last night. His father, who is well-known to have died in the final conflict between the princesses and that nameless blight upon the Crystal Empire’s tarnished legacy. The conversation, he said, had been a confusing one in which his father struggled to recognize him and even took several tries to recall his name. Rusty, thinking the whole matter a dream at the time, had begged his father to refresh his flagging memory of the dark secrets of the occult so that he might better face what was before us. His father provided no such answers, instead impressing upon him the firm and fierce instinct to leave this place and not return for a time so great that his many times great grandchildren would surely not live to see it come to pass.

A dream, Rusty had first claimed. Yet the more he spoke, in hushed and trembling airs, the more he questioned whether it was so. I chose not to speak of my own spectral, hideous encounter that night. The old stallion’s mind is strained enough as it is, to further stress his physical and mental constitution would be unbecoming. It was then that he asked, respectfully, politely, that we call the whole investigation off. Even if we chose not to reveal the supernatural elements of these encounters, could we not use the clear and documented medical malady affecting the entire crew as a justifiable excuse?

As I said previously, I rebuffed him, though kindly. We are officers of Princess Cadance’s Royal Air Navy, and we should act the part! He was clearly displeased by my decision, and I blame him not in the least, but he raised no further argument, and soon the matter was dropped entirely.

There is still the matter of who invaded the privacy of my journal. Even now, it steams me to my core. Yet time, Rusty's unusually conscientious conversation, and a bit of loosening of the nerves via suitable application of contraband brandy have altogether cooled my fearsome rage. Make no mistake, I intend to get to the bottom of it, yet for now it must be accepted that more pressing matters should remain at the forefront of my attention. I must take great strides to act the consummate professional and make up for my embarrassing, if temporary, forfeiture of composure in front of the crew.

Lady Eastern Leaves, 12-17-1004

17th December
85th Day of Harvest
4 Days to Winter

Year of the Snake 1004

I am given cause to wonder. I am given cause to fear.

My friend Gilderoy went in the crevice. My friend remained four hours. Two more than were promised.

What emerged is not griffon. No soul was griffon.

The griffon Grackle. The griffon Gestalt. The griffon Gordon. My friend Gilderoy.

The griffon Gestalt did not return. The griffon Gestalt attacked griffon Grackle. The griffon Grackle cut griffon Gestalt loose. So says griffon Gordon. We heard the screaming.

The griffon Grackle is covered in cuts. The griffon says the ice came alive as snakes. The griffon fought back. The evidence is in griffon Gordon’s flank.

The griffon Gordon wept and moaned. The griffon babbled. Now the griffon lies awake but unseeing.

My friend Gilderoy mutters and writes. My friend refuses food and water. My friend has lost his language for another. I cannot speak to my friend. I am at a loss.

Lady Eastern Leaves, ???, w/Notes

It comes. It comes.

The eyes. The mouths. The burning drip. It comes.

Zebra Zemmikka is gone. It engulfed Zemmikka. Zemmikka is gone.

I hide. Amongst the storage. Magic does nothing. Cannot burn it. Cannot stab it.

Screams. So many screams. Too many screams.

The teams. The teams are back. The teams are screaming.

What have we awakened?

I must leave. Take food. Take equipment. While the thing looks elsewhere.

It comes.

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes

It seems we finally have our monster, but there is damningly little information.

Even when frightened out of her wits, Eastern Leaves’s hoofwriting is fascinating. Easily digestible.

Digestible. Now there is a word. I wonder

My great uncle is here.

Distress Call, H.R.H. Aurora Dawn, CODE BLACK CRYSTALS

Acting Captain Coxswain, Aurora Dawn. Ship compromised. Unidentified creature. Magic useless. Weapons useless. All crystal ponies out of commission.

Code black crystals. Repeat, CODE BLACK CRYSTALS.

May be final message. Send nopony. If you do, NO CRYSTAL PONIES.

End message.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

I guess this is my journal now. My name is Coxswain. I am now the acting captain of the H.R.H. Aurora Dawn, following the loss of

I can’t

C.M. Coxswain, ???

It came in the night. It got on the ship by climbing the anchor chains. Its path is marked by blackened, singed wood.

I don’t know what it is, only that it must be what we saw coming out of the crevice. None of the lookouts saw it coming in the darkness. Magic wouldn’t touch it. Weapons made of steel sizzle and melt upon piercing its gelatinous form. It rolled over ponies, and they were gone. Just like that. Just like

It got Harmony Heart before the call could go out. I’ll remember her screams for the rest of my life. The communications equipment is

It’s still on the ship. I don’t know where, but it’s still here.

It is not alone.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

It’s been three days since that thing showed up.

I saw Rusty in the corridor. Or what used to be Rusty. He’s gone the way of all the crystal ponies. The squirming things covering his face, like a thousand thick, twisted worms. They grow directly from his flesh. It’s so hideous to look at. The creature ignores him, and he ignores it.

Some of the crystal ponies walked right into it. It swallowed them up, dissolved them. They did not scream. They uttered not a single sound. The wretched wriggling things on their faces and backs shivered with what I can’t help but think was excitement.

The whistling is so loud in our ears.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

We have a plan.

The creature follows the nearest pony, no matter what. A pegasus can lure it back down to the ice via the same anchor chain it used to get up here in the first place. Then we raise the anchors.

This would be a lot easier if the anchoring bolts hadn’t come out of the ice again. If Tiny Bracket weren’t one of those hideous things she’d be cursing up a storm. Speaking of, we’ve been steadily drifting away from the expedition camp for a while now, moving closer and closer to the very real storm that never seems to weaken, at the edge of the glacier. We’ll have to raise the anchors, replace the bolts, lower and secure them again, then lure the thing off.

We tried one without the proper anchoring. It refused to go down the line. We hope it’s because the chain wasn’t taut enough to seem like a proper path. Only one way to find out.

I hear its hissing movements. Time to move again.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

Merry Sherry is on the ice with an away team, gathering as much as they can fit into the lifeboats. Meanwhile, I sit up here pouring over everything we have trying to make sense of all this. No anchoring. We don’t dare risk it.

The ringing won’t stop. My headache is now a migraine.

Something is staring at me. It won’t stop staring.

My dreams are filled with night terrors.

The papers must have something.

It’s staring.

Staring.

Wait. It’s staring.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

That thing came back, Gilderoy’s unintentional creation. One of the pegasi saw it coming at dawn. Merry Sherry’s team barely got back to the lifeboats in time. Hopefully the things they collected will help us understand what we’re dealing with.

Will it follow us? Across the ice and through the storm and into the Crystal City? I can’t say, and that terrifies me. But if we can’t stop it, and we clearly can’t, perhaps the princess can. I don’t see that we have any other choice.

We’re leaving. If they ever ask me to return, I’ll resign on the spot.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

I observed the Matti Ths Aioniotitas as we departed.

The formations move. It’s slow, so it’s hard to make out. Almost like a trick of the eye.

But that terrible feeling, the kind I haven’t felt since I was a little filly that still believed in monsters under the bed. It is all the stronger. Our parents were wrong. Monsters do exist.

Gilderoy was ignorant enough to go poking this one in the eye.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

Nopony at the helm. Too dangerous to leave the cabin. I don’t have any food or water in here, but I don’t think it’ll matter. The ship is tough, but even the Aurora Dawn can’t just sit in a storm forever and expect to come out alright. My only hope now is for the winds to blow the ship out at some point before the envelope rips or the things damage something critical.

At least the captain has some good brandy in here. Against regulations, but who is going to court martial me?

C.M. Coxswain, ???

The ship’s going down!

It can’t go down, that thing is still out there, and in the storm

I can’t let this happen. The ship is rocking. Something to do with the envelope, maybe? I can’t tell from here. Damn it, if only I could talk to Rusty about this!

There’s nothing for it. My only chance is to make a break for the bridge and figure things out. I don’t know if anypony else is left alive or if the ship is even salvageable at this point, but I have to do something.

I know those ugly things are still roaming around. It’s their fault. It’s got to be. I’ll kill any that get in my way.

My name is Coxswain. That’s it, just Coxswain. Graduate of Celestia’s School of Gifted Unicorns, Chief Mate of the Aurora Dawn, and a loyal officer of Princess Cadance’s Northern Royal Air Navy. I’m leaving behind all my notes and studies on what we, the crew of the Aurora Dawn, encountered on the Matti Ths Aioniotitas Glacier. If I don’t make it, and there are indeed no other survivors, then I hope whoever finds this can make use of it.

Do not go to the glacier. Do not make our mistake.

Let it sleep.

Epilogue

In one dragging step, she was in shoulder-deep snow, barely able to push against its heavy weight. In the next, she tumbled across fresh, green grass and blessed, Celestia-gifted warmth.

The ponies who saw her inglorious arrival across the magical dome protecting the Crystal City thought her a necromantic skeleton, so emaciated was her form. But as she stood up on quaking legs, lungs heaving from weakness and effort, they spotted a mess of brown and green mane and an unusual, pronged horn, and they knew her to be that rare race of pony: the kirin.

Almost immediately, Sparkling Jewel sent her husband to get help while she trotted forward to assist the poor stranger. The kirin trembled like a leaf, barely able to support her own weight, and so Jewel wrapped a foreleg around the mare and guided her, carefully, to the picnic blanket. She felt so frail that it seemed even that faint effort might shatter her into a million pieces, and so cold she was painful to touch. One of her rear legs was black with frostbite, forcing the kirin to hobble awkwardly.

What was this young mare doing out in the frozen lands beyond the barrier? How long had she been out there? By Cadance’s love, how did she survive?

Jewel gave the mare some fresh, warm tea, which was greedily sucked down. This, at last, was enough to give her lips the ability to mutter quiet words. Jewel had to strain her ears to hear anything, and most of it was in the language of the far east and beyond her, but every now and then she’d hear words she recognized: “friends”, “storm”, “lost”, and easily the most alarming: “monsters”.

“You’re okay, dumpling.” Jewel kept pressed to the kirin’s side, just for the sake of giving her some much-needed body heat. “Everything’s gonna be okay. We’ll get you some help and you can tell us all about it.” She kept glancing towards the city in the distance, wondering how long her husband would be.

Word spread quickly. Soldiers in shining crystal armor arrived. They queried Jewel and the other witnesses, but they had nothing to add beyond the simple fact that a random kirin had somehow defeated the blizzard. Medical ponies came along and checked over the kirin’s entire body. Frostbite in multiple locations, dehydration, starvation, and minor injuries. Most were easy, though not quick, to be remedied with proper care. Save for the hind leg. That would have to go.

The kirin was in a terrible state. She lay in her hospital bed, staring with wide eyes at the ceiling. Sometimes she mumbled to herself. Other times she was deathly silent and still, so much so that passing nurses felt the urge to check her pulse. Soldiers and investigators tried to question her. She did not seem aware of their existence.

Then, as the sun kissed the distant horizon, the kirin received a special visitor. A royal one. When Princess Cadance walked into the room, the bedbound mare at last stirred. In her own language, strange beyond the comprehension of the guards and nurses, she asked, “Are alicorns gods?”

And Princess Cadance replied, in the same flowing language, “We are not.” She stared down at the kirin with such great sympathy and concern. “Whyever would you ask?”

The kirin swallowed, her eyes wide and wild, but her voice quiet. “I believe I have encountered a god.”

The princess pondered this reply, curious and uncertain. “What is your name?”

The bedbound equine heaved a long breath. And another. She seemed uncertain. “Eastern Leaves.”

A shift of hooves. Eyebrows rose. Cadance glanced at one of her guards, but reminded herself that they would not know the language. “Eastern Leaves. You were part of Lord Margrave Gilderoy’s expedition, were you not?”

Eastern Leaves gazed up at the alicorn, shocked speechless. At last, she gave a faint nod.

Cadance nodded in turn. “Are there other survivors?”

Tears welled in the kirin’s eyes, hot things that threatened to break what little control she possessed. “I-I don’t know.”

Closing her eyes, Cadance heaved a long sigh. But she did not despair. There was always hope. “Do not worry, my friend. You are alive, and we will find others. For now, you should get some rest.”

The kirin’s ears, the extremities clipped where the frostbitten parts had been removed, perked. She attempted to sit up, but her meager strength was not up for such an act. When she spoke, it was in a hushed, trembling tone. “You would go out there?”

Curiously, Cadance tilted her head. “We must at least try to find your friends.”

“No!” It was an attempt at a shout, but it came out dry and feeble. The kirin shook her head and pawed at the alicorn’s pink shoulder. “No. Don’t go. Let it sleep. Let it sleep! Mwnglui ot shogg. Don’t go.”

Cadance stepped back, alarmed at the outburst, though she kept her guards back with a raised wing. “But what of your friends?”

“Mwnglui ot shogg. It sleeps. It sleeps again. Let it sleep! Don’t go, don’t awaken it, it will kill us all. Don’t go! Mwnglui ot shogg!” Soon Eastern Leaves was naught but sobs and broken syllables, huddled tightly beneath her covers and trembling. But her eyes remained locked on Cadance, gaping and unseeing and, perhaps, mad with fear.

Cadance chose to leave. What else might she have done? She certainly wasn’t about to reveal that two more airships were out there even now, hours away from reaching the Matti Ths Aioniotitas.

Author's Notes (Spoilers Ahead!)

Hello everyone and (if you're reading this on the day of release) Happy Halloween! I wasn't originally going to write one of these, but seeing the commentary during the ten-day release period I figured I might as well.

So a few months back I was looking around for creepy material to share with my cousins over the spooky season when I came across the YouTube channel HorrorBabble. HorrorBabble is mostly readings of horror and Weird stories. While there I discovered they had a 22+-hour long video of Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos-related works. I listened to the entire thing over the course of a week, and it is to that we owe the existence of this story. I note several people mentioned At The Mountains of Madness, which is not surprising: it was while listening to that story in particular that I got this idea. Be warned that from here on I'll be explaining things directly, so those of you who prefer to keep things theoretical might want to stop reading now.

I wanted to make up something that was Lovecraftian but also had a certain pony element to it. My ultimate conclusion is that, yes, this is an Eldritch God type of being. But unlike so many cosmic horrors one might come across, this one isn't outright malevolent. It's entire motive?

Dude wants to enjoy it's nap in peace. Gilderoy's team, and later the crew of the Aurora Dawn, are just a bunch of annoying ants crawling on it and it's trying to swat them away. It even tried being nice about it; the bolts coming undone, the aggravating whistling, something gently pushing the airship away, even its directly contacting Decadent Design and Rusty, it was all the entity's attempts to gently shoo away the pests. Some people just don't know when to leave well enough alone.

A few other notes:

Gilderoy's mysterious acid mixture was, in fact, a recipe for creating a shoggoth. The one we see at the end, which also destroyed Gilderoy's crew, was in fact unwittingly created by him. Note that the shoggoth was not being controlled by the entity; it was just an animal doing its own thing.

The fatal hallucination Gilderoy's crew underwent was the moment the creature actually woke up. On that note: yes, it's been sleeping with its eye open.

The fact that the crystal ponies hear the whistling instead as ringing was meant to be an indicator that the entity had encountered crystal ponies before and had communicated with them once. But that was a long time ago and it doesn't quite remember the proper communication frequency right at the start. The mention of the sound "looking for the right frequency" was more accurate than Decadent realized. The moment that the creature appeared to him as a 2-D cutout was the moment it finally figured it out.

After the ponies failed to leave, even after the entity outright spoke to Decadent and told him to get off its lawn, it decided the time for niceties was over. That's when it used its power (transmitted via the "ringing") to transform the crystal ponies. But even this was little more than a warning, letting the non-crystals know that it was ready to do something worse if they didn't get going ASAP. That's why none of the transformed crystal ponies attacked right away; it was holding them back.

So why did the crystal ponies attack when the Aurora Dawn left? Well, when the ship went back into the storm, the entity realized they were leaving. At that point it didn't give a shit about them anymore and decided to try to get back to sleep. In so doing, however, it also stopped trying to control the crystal ponies. Unfortunately, its tampering with them also fucked up their brains, so they're now little more than feral, aggressive monsters.

The epilogue we have now is not the one I originally wrote. The original had Eastern Leaves arrive at the Crystal City at precisely the same time that the two new airships are leaving it to find the Aurora Dawn. Cadance didn't even make an appearance. Fundamentally, it would have been the same as the epilogue we have now, but JawJoe felt the coincidence of timing was just too contrived and convinced me to change tack a little, so I switched it so she arrives well after the airships have left.

I wanted to capture at least a little of Lovecraft's writing style, but felt it wouldn't make sense from the perspective we typically see of the show. Setting the story on an airship belonging to the Crystal Empire was a big part of my solution. The idea was to have the captain be a pre-Sombra crystal, and thus his writing style would be more dated. Other journal entries by Gilderoy and Coxswain would, in turn, be modernized to further reflect this element.

To further the above concept into the idea of different cultures, I also decided to change units based on origins. Thus do the ponies bring up metric units while Gilderoy speaks in Imperial units.

I really wanted to emphasize Eastern Leaves as not a native-English (or Equish as I like to ponify it) speaker and writer. I thus adapted some rules for her writing, which are based on some assumptions about her made-up-on-the-spot culture.

In her native language, pronouns other than "I" or "we" or "us" aren't a thing, so she struggled to remember to use them.

Another aspect of the culture I came up with was for her people to always refer to others by a certain relationship hierarchy. Most of the other crew are just strangers or coworkers, so she refers to them by their race before their name ("griffon Grackle", "zebra Zemmikka", etc). Gilderoy, however, she sees as a friend, so instead she calls him that ("friend Gilderoy"). The next step up would have been familial.

I greatly simplified Eastern Leaves' writing to the mostly strict format of Subject>Verb. A proper translation of her thoughts would have more complexity, but I wanted to use the simplification to indicate that she was still a novice in writing outside her own language. JawJoe noted the great coincidence (and generosity) of her to write everything in Equish even in the emotional moments, but we agreed that it was either that, come up with some convoluted reason that Decadent could read her language (Coxswain translating?), or omitting her entirely. I decided it wasn't worth the effort to fix at the time, but looking back I think a Coxswain-assisted translation would have been the better route.

Lovecraft's works tend to have a scientific slant to them, where some learned member of the scientific community goes through the trouble of explaining in detail the hows and whys of a given situation. I decided to do away with that element, specifically because I wanted to maintain a certain mystery for the reader rather than just telling them what's up outright. I included Coxswain and Cloudstone as the obligatory scientist characters but without letting them know too much, and Rusty was the obligatory "noble dabbling in the occult" character.

And that's all I've got! Feel free to ask questions, I might have neglected something. Thanks for reading and I'll see you all in the next one.

Mission Orders, 01-20-1005

From the Office of Sir Long Reach,
Rear Admiral, Her Highness’s Northern Royal Air Navy
The Crystal City

To: Decadent Design,
Captain, H.R.H. Aurora Dawn

In Summer of the year of 1004, an expedition led by one Lord Gilderoy of the University of the Low Rock Aeries entered the Frozen North. The purpose of this expedition was the retrieval of ice cores in the Matti Ths Aioniotitas glacial formation. This expedition, consisting of seventy-two souls of great diversity including griffons, zebras, diamond dogs, and one kirin, was expected to return to civilization before the coming of winter. In this they have failed, and there has been no contact with the expedition since December 13.

To date, the Council of Feathers has sent two further expeditions into the Frozen North in an effort to discover and, if necessary, rescue the Gilderoy Expedition. Both were forced to turn back due to being unequipped to handle the aggressive terrain and weather of the Matti Ths Aioniotitas. The Council thus sent an official request of aid to Equestria and the Crystal Empire.

Her Royal Highness Princess Cadance, in her magnanimity, hereby requests that the Aurora Dawn, being the only operational vessel of either Equestrian or Imperial fleets designed for arctic climates, proceed to the coordinates provided in this message’s accompanying data packet to ascertain the whereabouts of the missing expedition and, if necessary, render aid and rescue. Should rescue not be possible or feasible, the Aurora Dawn is to investigate and report as best it is able the fate of Lord Gilderoy and his team.

With Her Highness’s blessing and well-wishes,
Rear Admiral Long Reach,
January 20, 1005

Cptn. D. Design, 01-23-1005, II

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

I am little more than vexation, a cloud of confusion and ever-persistent annoyance.

There is something in that crack.

One of our pegasus escorts first noticed it as we were returning to the ship in our lifeboat. I barely cared at the time, for my mood had soured considerably with the day’s events. When finally pulled out of my sulk to observe the thing however, it proved an intellectual impossibility to deny its very real and perplexing nature. Deep within that jagged crevice and directly through the pristine ice was it visible, a mysterious blot of inky purple-green-black that appeared to be gradually squeezing its way out of the ice. It was so very deep, and its motions so very slow, but as we circled the area to study it I could form no other conclusion.

That buffoon, Rusty Iron, insisted it was dangerous, some hideous product of the occult and likely the selfsame threat that destroyed poor Gilderoy’s team. But such is impossible, for how could any such threat form deep beneath the ice and yet obtain for itself in short order a means of climbing to the surface? It is undoubtedly some near-liquid material being pushed out by the great pressures of the ice sheet, perhaps a form of petroleum. Still, it is peculiar that nopony recognized its rising until now. Has it been there all this time and not a soul noticed?

I lack the time to continue writing this, I merely wished to mark the queer discovery down prior to sending the next tediously obligatory report to the Crystal City. I shall continue after. Mayhap some time alone in my cabin will make the rest of this thoroughly unpleasant day pass with welcome swiftness.

Cptn. D. Design, 01-24-1005, III

From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.

With all the usual affairs of the ship completed for the evening, I have at last had a chance to sit down and read through some more of those papers we gathered from the camp. It had been my hope to read more of Gilderoy’s letters, but this proved impossible. Or rather, utterly pointless. All the remaining pages, of which there are not many, are filled with an unintelligible gibberish, scratched out seemingly at random across the pages as if the griffon had lost all sense of reason or intellect.

That is not to say there were no words. There were many, but none of them come together to make anything resembling a rational thought. Many of the scribbles, while clearly still characters of text, are in mysterious symbols and iconographies. I thought them merely random marks on the page at first, but after some study I realized that the seemingly nonsensical things were repeating in various places. That is when I realized that they were characters in an alien alphabet, or at least alien to my limited comprehension of alphabets. There is some Equish in there now and again, and the three-pointed markings typical of griffon text, but I cannot hope to comprehend any of it.

There is but one line that, with some effort and a bit of angling the page, recurs more frequently than all the others: “mwnglui ot shogg”. Whatever the blazes that is supposed to mean. If there was ever any doubt that Lord Gilderoy was driven mad in his pursuits, let them rest here, with these pages.

It is supremely fortunate that his second in command, the kirin Eastern Leaves, has notes of her own. I shall investigate them for my much-desired answers. May they distract me from the ogling "below", the itching, and the ever, ever eternal ringing.

Lady Eastern Leaves, 12-18-1004, w/Notes

18th December
86th Day of Harvest
3 Days to Winter

Year of the Snake 1004

My friend Gilderoy’s condition is unchanged. My friend has lost his language. I cannot speak to my friend.

My friend writes. Always writes. My friend shows me words. I do not understand. My friend is unhappy and afraid. Wild like beast. I do not know what to do.

Griffon Gordon is comatose. Griffon Grackle has disappeared. Did griffon Grackle go back down? Did griffon Grackle flee across the ice?

Whistling is louder. Zebras wish to leave. Griffons say wait for other teams.

Other teams should be back. Diamond dogs. Griffons. Zebras. What happened?

My friend said Eastern Leaves take charge. Take charge I will.

We wait for teams. We leave. I take friend Gilderoy home.

Zebras not happy. Zebras scared. Zebras make threats. Griffons back Eastern Leaves. I am grateful.

I understand.

Cptn. Decadent Dawn, Notes:

It would appear Eastern Leaves’ grasp of the Equestrian language is limited. Perhaps she could speak it better than she could write it. Still, her intentions and meanings are clear enough.

Her hornwriting is nothing short of art, beset with beautiful curves and lovely flourishes that seem different with every pass yet distinct and full of clarity. I dare say I am adoring of her style. Were I a younger stallion, I might have wanted to get to know her based on this alone.

Why did I write that? It would seem I am having significant difficulties with my concentration. I think it is the ringing and itching. Something is changing within me. As the seconds tick by I come more and more to suspect that it is no mere sensation of the mind.

Keep reading, old boy. Keep reading.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

It’s a running game. We can’t hurt it, but it is slow. We keep constant lookouts and move from place to place. We can’t stay on the bridge long enough to do much, and I’ve ordered no return to civilization. We can’t let that abomination loose back home. We got to the emergency comms and sent a message out. It’s the best we can do.

A few are against me on this. They want to go home. I admit, the thought is tempting. But the risk is too great.

It always pursues the closest pony. The pegasi are safe, because they can just fly to the ice sheet below. At that distance, it’s as if they don’t exist. So it comes for us. We can't abandon the ship, we'll never get home without it. Rusty’s pen markings do nothing, but it avoids the carvings he made, as if they somehow block it. We tried making more. Ours don’t work. We’re missing a step.

It is coming. I can hear the hiss of the wood burning in its path.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

Our plan worked. The creature is on the ice, where it belongs. I’ve ordered what’s left of the crew to fly us back to the camp. We need to gather those things which are left behind. Any bit of evidence and research material we can take back to the Crystal City might prove instrumental in understanding what happened here. For the sake of not letting it happen again, we must go back, if only briefly.

The crew aren’t happy. I think they’ll mutiny if I push them any further. But I must see this through properly.

We locked all the crystal ponies in the cargo hold. They remain

They remain.

At least they are passive. Nopony would touch them, so we used lassos and the butts of spears to guide them into position. I pray to Celestia, Luna, Cadance, Twilight, even Discord, that something might be done to save them.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

Celestia as my witness, we’ve all been blind. It was staring right at us the entire time.

The formations. They move.

They move.

Lord Gilderoy was on to more than he imagined. Rusty’s rantings and ravings about the occult weren’t just the paranoia of a less enlightened time like I thought.

The formations move. Why didn’t I notice? Why didn’t I take it seriously?

The ice is so pristine, but that doesn’t mean our view is clear. We thought we were hovering over an ice-buried crater all this time, but it’s not a crater. It defies all logic and reason, the very concept is terrible.

I found it in Gilderoy’s mad scribbles. The same lines repeated over and over again. The other languages are the same. He wasn’t saying different things. I think he was trying to warn Eastern Leaves, but his mind had been so broken by what he found down there that he couldn’t communicate it properly.

Matti Ths Aioniotitas. From the language of an ancient city that is well known to have existed near here before the time of the Great Winter. It means The Eye of Eternity. But that name is a mistake, an error made in some earlier translation. Gilderoy’s writings are proof of that now. His scribblings are the true name, written over and over again in multiple languages. The name he was desperately trying to get his friends to understand.

Mwnglui ot shogg

The Eye of the Abyss

The formations move. They aren’t formations.

It is staring at us.

C.M. Coxswain, ???

They’re loose. All of them, all at once. They’d been docile all this time, we didn’t even consider guarding them. If we had, we might have done something.

I saw Dr. Cloudstone. Could barely identify her. Those tentacle things were

Oh Celestia. I’m sorry, Sleekwing. I’m so sorry.

I don’t know what they are or what they’re doing. Rampaging. Some pegasi tried to flee, but we’re in the middle of the storm. It snatched most of them out of the sky instantly, like petals from a flower.

I’ve sealed myself in the captain’s quarters. It’s the only place I could get to in time. These creatures, our captain and former crewmates, they aren’t like that hideous thing. They can be killed. There were just too many.

I don’t think they’re very smart. They banged on the cabin door for a while, but eventually it’s like they forgot why and wandered off. I can still hear their steps, accompanied by that strange, sucking noise from their toothy tentacles.

But they keep banging. The walls. The floors. The ceiling.

Are they trying to rip the ship apart?

At least the ringing has stopped. And the sense of being watched.

Small comforts.

Mission Orders, 02-06-1005

From the Office of Sir Long Reach,
Rear Admiral, Her Highness’s Northern Royal Air Navy
The Crystal City

To: Meticulous Mendacity & High Ground,
Captains, H.R.H. Northern Flurry & H.R.H. Aurora Dusk

On January 20th, 1005, H.R.H. Aurora Dawn and her captain, Decadent Design, received orders from HQ. Those orders were to voyage to the Matti Ths Aioniotitas glacial formation on a search and rescue mission of the Gilderoy Expedition, which went missing in December of year 1004 – see data packet for details. H.R.H. Aurora Dawn sent daily updates to HQ during the mission.

Daily reports from H.R.H. Aurora Dawn ceased January 24. An emergency communication was received by multiple military stations on January 26, after which all attempts to communicate were unreturned. In the emergency communication, acting captain Coxswain issued CODE BLACK CRYSTALS.

H.R.H. Northern Flurry & H.R.H. Aurora Dusk are hereby ordered to dock at Crystal City Royal Air Navy HQ to receive supplies as well as additional military and rescue personnel consistent with requirements for a CODE BLACK CRYSTALS investigation, as well as undergo a mandatory crew change. H.R.H. Northern Flurry & H.R.H. Aurora Dusk are then to voyage to the Matti Ths Aioniotitas glacial formation to investigate disappearance of H.R.H. Aurora Dawn and the Gilderoy Expedition.

Prior to departure from HQ, Captains Meticulous Mendacity and High Ground are further instructed to meet with Her Royal Highness at the Crystal Castle as promptly as possible for a more detailed briefing.

Due to the risks inherent in CODE BLACK CRYSTALS-related objectives, this mission and its objectives shall be deemed CONFIDENTIAL until such time as Her Highness deems them fit for public consumption.

With Her Highness’s blessing and well-wishes,
Rear Admiral Long Reach,
February 6, 1005