“It can’t end this way!” Coltson shouted. The helpless assistant looked on from across the chasm as his master and his nemesis grappled on the edge of the fiery precipice. The primal falls of magma echoed the feelings of fury passed with each blow of the combatants and the futile certainty of the assistant.
“I told you, Sherclop, that this can only end one of two ways,” Doctor X continued. “One of us must die, and the other will live, and it appears”- he hit Sherclop with a surprise left hook- “to be turning to my favor!”
“Run, Coltson! Save yourself!” Sherclop shouted, dazed, bloody, and with victory not completely out of sight- but his eyes were away from his nemesis, he was lying on the very edge-
Sherclop somehow dodged the next blow without vision, rolling around and slamming his hoof into X’s ankle, buckling it as he rose into a boxing stance. “There’s only one amulet to protect us from the lava!” He barely evaded the next blow; his opponent, smelling blood, revenge and victory, attacked unceasingly. “Get out of here before the volcano blows!”
“I can’t leave you here!”
Coltson watched, conflicting desires leaving him in agony- to be loyal and leave, or to be loyal to the death. His master could not last much longer.
Sherclop ducked the next blow, caught X’s foreleg, and then the ledge beneath them cracked-
......
Golden Hooves put down his quill and crossed his forelegs on his desk. He laid his head down and let out his evident frustration with a loud groan. What’s wrong with me? This is terrible. Raising his head slightly, he peered again at what he had written with clear disdain. He buried his head again in his forelegs and let out an even louder sigh. Come on, think! You’ve written harder novels than this before; why is this one so difficult? Finally, he had enough. He decided he would stop for today and resume his increasingly vain attempts to finish the climax of his latest novel. Rising from his desk, he trotted over to his bar and fixed himself a drink, settling himself in his window seat. To sit at the window’s perch and drink was normally enough of a respite, but today proved to be especially frustrating. It was a beautiful day in Canterlot, and the streets were packed with the hustle and bustle of a large city’s throughways. The daily lives of the myriad of ponies trotting about set his mind thinking, but he could not focus- could not lose himself in their movements and his imagination. No brilliant ideas came to his mind that he could use to continue his novel.
Dissatisfied, he glanced around his small apartment and thought about his past. He looked at the newspaper clippings he had framed after his last novel had washed through the streets like wildfire. In one, there was a picture of him shaking hooves with the mayor; another held a photo of him at a book signing. Each framed article raved about his latest creation, how it was better than his last tale and his infinite potential. One called it “A brilliant work of fiction destined to become a classic.” Another lauded “The best piece of fiction to be released from Canterlot in years.”
He continued to glance around at the interior of his dwelling, slowly breathing in the memories of all that he saw: the many awards he had accumulated over the years for the various pieces he had written, the trophies and plaques adorning his walls. Below were framed articles, some he had written and some praising him. His eyes came to rest on a newspaper clipping that had been framed for him by his father. It was the first article he had ever written, and it was the time that he had learned he was destined to be a writer. Golden remembered that day well. His father, just as he had done on many occasions, had taken him to the newspaper office that he ran. Golden had loved to go there, and was always thrilled when his father invited him along. He loved everything about the place: the smells, the noise, the rushing of ponies as they went along writing reports and trading information about the latest news to come in. His father had led him straight to his office, which was a little odd to Golden. Normally, his father allowed him to wander around the offices watching the reporters working on their stories. Today was different. As Golden closed the door behind them, his father sat down behind his desk. Usually he was a happy figure, full of laughter, but today he had a sterner cast to his gaze. His father pointed a hoof towards a chair in front of the desk as Golden came up and sat down; he watched his son’s movements carefully.
“Son,” he began, “I’ve watched you grow into a fine young colt, full of spirit and enthusiasm. That’s one of the reasons I kept bringing you here. I remember my father doing the same for me, although back then things were a little different. But I recognized the same look I had when I was younger.” He slid his chair back and pulled open one of the desk drawers. “I have something for you.”
Golden sat in the chair, desperate with anticipation, attempting to hold himself back from leaning over and looking into the drawer.
“This has been passed down through our family for generations. Your great-grandfather gave it to your grandfather, who then gave it to me; and now I pass it on to you.” He pulled out a large bound notebook that appeared to be stuffed to the brim with gradually aging newspaper clippings. He reached across the desk and handed it to Golden. It was heavier than he expected it to be, but he took it carefully and laid it on his lap. He slowly lifted the cover and stared with incomprehension at what he saw. They were newspaper articles- articles written by his great-grandfather. A few more pages, and he reached his grandfather’s articles, and then the articles of the quietly smiling father across the desk. Golden reached the end, and noticed with some confusion the profusion of blank pages.
“I-I don’t understand. What is this?” His father smiled as he stood up and came around the desk to stand behind his son.
“These are news articles that your great-grandfather, grandfather, and I wrote, beginning from when we were each colts your age. These are what started us down the path of becoming journalists, writers, and eventually owners of this newspaper. Your great-grandfather decided that it is important to see the history of where our family has been. All of the sights that we have seen and written about are here in this book. This is part of your family’s history, Golden, and now it is time for you to become a part of it.” His father put a supporting hoof on Golden’s shoulder and then trotted over to a lampstand set on an intricately carved cabinet. He opened a central drawer and pulled out a bound, solid-looking but compact notebook and an aged quill that seemed nearly as durable as it was old. He stood there for a moment- an undefinable look of fate in his eye passed in a blink as he looked at Golden- and then came back over to his son, who was slowly and curiously leafing through the pages of the book. “Here. i think these might come in handy. The quill was mine, but I’m afraid my notebook is all filled up- you’re going to have to start your own.” A nearly nostalgic, almost melancholy smile passed his face, but his son’s absorption let the sentiment pass without notice. “Take good care of them, and you might just find your path in life.” He handed them to Golden, who with wide eyes, took them slowly and stared.
“What does this mean? Am I going to write for the newspaper?” His father once again sat behind his desk and put his hooves together.
“Yes, my son. Your great-grandfather, your grandfather, and myself had columns that were directly written for younger ponies, such as yourself. We wrote stories about intrigues at school, what our friends did in the summertime, even the vacations we took. We wrote about anything that interested us, and it was printed as an article in the paper. As we grew older, our interests and subjects changed, but we never ceased writing and reporting. Now, this is your job. Congratulations Golden, you are now officially a reporter!” Golden beamed with pride as he continued to admire the items his father had given him. It was so unexpected- not even in his wildest dreams- he could only imagine now the treasure stored in the book, and the things he would find to place in it.
“I-I don’t know what to say! This is, more than I ever wanted! Thank you!” He jumped up from his seat, ran around the desk and tackled his father in the tightest hug he could produce. His father laughed as he patted his son on his back.
"You’re welcome.” He then gently held Golden a distance apart as he looked into his son’s joy-filled eyes. “Just remember, this is a big responsibility. Don’t ever take this lightly: being an investigative reporter is tough work, but it can also be very rewarding.”
“I won’t! I promise!” Golden dropped down and started to trot to the office door.
“Oh! One more thing. Every time you publish an article, put it in the book. That way, you can have something to look back on and remember where you started your journey.” Golden nodded at his father, dazed and exuberant, overwhelmed with happiness, as he pushed open the door into the new world.
......
Golden grinned as he trotted over to his bookshelf and took out the notebook his father had bestowed upon him. It was much heavier than before: he had added quite a few articles and stories to its pages. As he turned each page, he felt a warmth of memory as he remembered what each held. A school play, a friend’s party, a trip out into the country, and eventually the beginnings of what would become some of his first literary works. Each article held a different piece of his past, and they all told stories to him more than anypony else could imagine. He closed the book, a slight tug of dismay at the miniscule dust that had covered it, and placed it back on the shelf. Unfortunately, it had been no help in his current predicament and neither had he put anything in it recently. The great unanalyzable artistic endowment that had so blessed his mind was curiously and disturbingly absent. Writer’s block was a common occurrence, but he had never experienced it with this severity. Golden reached for a drink and found it empty; finding no respite in the world his weary eyes found his easy chair. He sunk into its waiting arms, closed his eyes and drifted into the quiet unconscious reflectiveness of sleep.
......
Indiana Pone wielded his machete with fierce determination as he hacked his way through the dense jungle, each vorpal swing rending a path rapidly becoming clearer. The smell of damp leaves and rotting foliage permeated his nostrils as he sensed his goal coming ever closer. With a few more swings, the last barrier fell away and his eyes shot open with tired adrenaline. A gigantic stone monolith loomed before him, obscured by the jungle’s vines and mossy tendrils.
The Lost Temple of the Manetecs!
His wild eyes soon were matched by a fearless grin. He hadn’t slept in days; the jungle had kept him on edge in the merciless environment. He was immeasurably fortuitous to make it alive this far, but he wasn’t about to stop. Cautiously approaching the weathered stone face, he kept his eyes wary and quick for danger. Thieves, tribesponies, vengeful ex-comrades- he wasn’t about to write anything off. Continuing his wary glances around, he slipped a small jewel-encrusted pendant from his pack, passing his hoof slowly over the stone face, searching for a hole of the same size. He found the key with a quick and quiet laugh at his own cleverness, but his eyes betrayed his determination and experience born of countless forays. As he placed the pendant, he heard an audible click and a large stone door began to inch its way into the temple. He quickly backed off, and the voracious appetite in his soul nearly burned him away as the door finally came to a halt. The hiss of air subsiding, the light penetrated the blackening shadows, wind stale for over a thousand years rushing out and in.
Indiana stepped inside; his anticipation overflowed for an instant and he seized an ancient rotting torch from off the wall-
The stone door slammed shut behind him, quick and final as lightning. He rushed over and crashed into the wall- it was too late- equal measures of anger and panic flooded him. He blindly rummaged through his pack and found a match; he lit the fire and one of his sudden emotions was calmed. The other would be much harder to subdue.
Well, I’m not getting out that way...
He looked back at this pack lying on the ground, and unable to think of an alternative way to use his time measured by the burning of the torch, looked through the contents. Setting the torch aside, he flipped through his journal. In his vital notes were inscribed symbols of a forgotten language, a language he soon spotted with a suppressed shiver of thrilled anticipation. Positive that treasure lie ahead, he began cautiously down the long stone hallway. No need to trap myself deeper in this hole.
After a few minutes, somewhat more confident that his death was not prepared to drop from the ceiling onto him, he trotted into a slightly larger room. Pausing for a moment to concentrate, he observed the two passages leading out of the room into unknown sections. Two obvious passages, that is. According to the legend inscribed in his journal, this was one of a series of traps- he suspected series, but he could not know for sure, because he only had part of the journal. I didn’t exactly have a choice about fleeing the natives, though. There’s supposed to be a sign somewhere- the Manetecs obviously had no lack of ingenuity in creating traps, and seeing how they’ve almost gotten me killed already...
He circled the room, examining the walls and floor for anything that would reveal a third option. As he skirted the rightmost passage, he noticed a faint glimmer on the wall. Some small measure of relief graced his bloodshot eyes, and he again placed the pendant in the indentation. He leapt back as the floor began to rumble, but only the center of the room descended, forming steps. The third way. This has to be it.
He trotted along, still cautious yet gradually drawn to the panoramic murals completely covering the walls. Indiana marvelled at them for a moment, and then realized: This is the culture and the history of the Manetecs. This is priceless... This is their world. And I’m the first to see it in over a thousand years.
Soaring above it all, what he could only imagine to be a temple dominated the scene. The gigantic expanse of the panoramic life shot down farther than the eye could see in the torchlight; he could spend hours breathing it all in. Houses, markets, constructs of stone and wood and jungle plant tamed, intricate and personal with detail of a thousand minds worn into them. Ponies of over a thousand year’s distance, their own customs and lives described in beautiful symbol, existed in a thousand different states and stations ran about, struggled, prospered and fell. He could see barters, hunters, farmers, warriors, foals blossoming into youth; it was a complete city and it flew into the distance. He could only imagine the complexity of life and the wonder of the world as it was so long ago.
Yet then the sky trembled and blackened. He trotted along the corridor, comprehending at a rapidly increasing pace, and his nerves trembled as he felt the fear- the terror- the mood darkening; and something waited in the black jungle. The caustic emotion of the past seeped through the panorama, as a once-distant threat slipped ever-closer until it assaulted the ancient city. Twisted shadows and vines rose up and fought the civilization, and the houses crumbled and the foals fled into the safety of the temple and the light retreated from the sky, until at last-
The panorama ran short. He had reached the end of the long hall, breathless with anticipation and tumultuous emotion, yet the end had been blasted clean, burned off. There was but char left for him to wonder and guess at. So had they fell, in fire and fear and blackness consumed and the end hopelessly obscured. He felt a pang of curiosity and sympathy, but he looked on past the sprawling mural. A door barred his way into the next room, and he could see a glint and shimmer reflected through the cracks...
But the door was only wooden, and he had had enough teasing. He slammed his shoulder into the door and the rotted structure collapsed, and at the end of the passageway lay the end of his journey. His mind cleared of all concern for the Manetecs as he spotted the hoard of their treasure.
Gold! Jewels, ancient coins, diadems, ornaments that he could not fathom the purpose of; there was treasure beyond all the scope of his imagination and all the desperation of his dreams! He rushed forward to the end of the room- and then walls slammed down with sickening thuds ahead and behind him, trapping him just feet away from the treasure. Terror shot through him as the torch went out, and he managed to reignite it, only for the mounting fear to paralyze him.
The walls were closer than an instant before. No, no, no, this can’t-
He ran to the end and pushed in vain against the unchanging stone; the merciless walls ground together another inch as the fullest horror of despair coursed through him-
I’m going to die here!
......
Golden bolted upright with a start, panting heavily as his arms pressed against the walls that were not there and then against his own body to make sure of himself as the brutal dream subsided. He laughed a kind of nervous laugh as he laid back again in his chair. It was only a dream... thank Celestia. it was only a dream. Awoken under pressure, it took him minutes longer than he was comfortable with to catch his breath. After a single moment of indecision he stood up and eyed his typewriter. Several crumpled pages and an aggrieved temper later he stood up and paced in thought deeper and just as fruitless as all the other thinking he had done that night. On a moment’s anger, he hurled the imperfect ideas into a bin in an uncharacteristic lack of control. Breathing heavily again, his thoughts turned back inward.
Why is this happening to me? What did I do? I’m losing it, I’m losing my ability; I can’t write; I can’t think; there has to be a solution.
His apartment seemed to press in on him again as his dream flashed back into his consciousness in irregular intervals. Like the gleams of treasure, the glass and the plaques adorning his walls shot rays of subtle light across the distance. To stare at them was, for him, to stare into his own past... his accomplishments, his treasure, his...
That’s it! That’s how I get my inspiration back! Tomorrow, I become an adventurer! I need a plan, though. And I’m going to need some maps, and food, of course, some writing materials; I can’t forget about some extra clothes and I’m going to need to sleep safely somehow...
