The covenant was complete, new-found power flowed in his body. Cold agony wracked thru him, like tendrils made of ice crept and dug in, groping at his organs. It was horrible. It was good. His labored breath became small clouds of steam as the air he breathed in was much warmer than what he breathed out.
He looked to Skippy and Scruffy. Skippy's horror was clear, but what Scruffy was experiencing was much more interesting. Scruffy lay where he fell, still whimpering in pain, but the pain he saw was not interesting. It was the hate Scruffy's broken body released that he enjoyed. It had told him it was good and it was. It never lied to him.
With it’s power he formed ice claws to his paws effortlessly, and shattered the ice with a thought. The hate Scruffy felt grew higher and it licked it's lips, he licked his lips. Scruffy would never have this and he knew it. Pain was not to be kept to oneself, pain was to be shared. It was a teacher and it hungered for students. He left to find them; Scruffy's hate followed him as he left. Skippy however let out the breath he had held.
They had heard the singing on the hill, in the hill. It sang to them in their bodies and minds. It was dreaming, sleeping thru warm seasons and hungry. It's song told them as much and more. How every meal had left them hungry, how every drink had left them thirsty, how every gem left them poor, always empty never full. The song led them to the hill and on the hill it came forth. Like fabric in the wind It's form danced with little tangible form beyond a pony head and hooves. It spoke to them then.
Skippy collapsed in tears, crying out from the pain. It's voice was not heard in their ears, but their heads and chests. The voice in Skippy's chest caused him fear and agony, it did not care. It offered him and Scruffy it's power, but only if worthy. Scruffy never saw the blow to his gut coming, or the one to his nose. It didn't prove his worth, it was what’s inside that counts. And he had it.
He could see the town as he climbed down the hill, at night lights could be seen in the windows. Ponies enjoyed dinner with family and friends at this hour. Always full, never empty. They were never to be as empty as he was to be. It was as disgusted as he was, and they knew why. After all, its dreaming form inhabited his body. A friend that would never leave him, his only friend, the only shoulder he knew he could cry on. And there hunger was shared.
He hated the ponies and ponies hated him. He was a filthy, stupid animal who never knew anything. Never to be anything but a bogeyman to scare their children and a freak adults eye with disgust. He was to be meager in infamy and to have no praise, an insect, a creature of no value. The suffering of one pony, of one griffin, of one minotaur had more value. They had more value than that of a dog, that of ten dogs, that of a pile of dogs. Ponies were the center, and by its judgment they were not just unworthy, but never worthy.
A pony may expand on their territory and never have to feel bad, a pony could steal their gems and never have to feel bad, a pony could throw rocks at them and never have to feel bad. They preached good value, but only to what they value as all others were false. It could only be false, as it was not theirs. The dogs were already dead to them. It had promised to make him alive. He felt good to be alive.
A dog to the east spoke of his own way to life. He and It cared not for this dog’s ideal, not his plan, but a sight the dog spoke of. The dog of the east spoke of destroying a pony town. All adult ponies were impaled on stakes, left to suffer and die. The sight of their burned town and crying children being the last they saw. The beaten and bruised children were left to live to serve as witness. When a pony or ponies came to the sight they would know the lesson. The dog of the east called it a lesson.
He and It cared not for the lesson, but cared for the student. The suffering of the valuable would mean something. Dead to be never met again, tears of children to avenge, a hated foe to stop. That was the only joy. Hate was joy. The tears, the pain, all were meaningless without hate. Hate was in there, It knew it was. And the student would share that hate and keep sharing. It's appetite was whet, his appetite was whet.
The hate gave meaning to the meaningless, it gave it filling, it gave him filling. Ponies were loath to share fullness to those of no value or significance. Far above generosity, above kindness to unwanted creatures too dumb to abide. The ponies taught him lessons, and now he wanted to show what they had taught. It wanted to see what he could teach. Hate was not to be kept to one’s self, hate is to be shared.
He felt it's hunger pangs, his hunger pangs. He knew what to eat, it told him so. They wanted the cold fire that burned in his chest to engulf the town. They wanted to see ponies fight over apples as the orchard was now ash, to fight over water as the well was now toxic, to turn blind panic to hate. Hate, hate, more hate. To be churning in bellies that had not known hunger, echoing in minds unable or unwilling, throbbing in hearts of the hypocritical good. Good and evil were the same, it told him so. It never lied to him.
It had told him good had contempt for the unwanted and unusable. It would save and befriend wanted monsters, but spit at mundane unwanted creatures. Good had contempt for evil, dogs were evil by existing, and therefore good had contempt for the mere existence of the unwanted. Good was evil, it cared only for what it valued and spat at what it didn't, what it spat at was evil. It told him so, It never lied to him.
It was time to eat, they thought. The town had nothing to expect as he was nothing. The crops were unguarded, the well was unguarded, and the ponies were unguarded. It would take them away; it would take them all away. Not just due to it being there to be taken, but what he was taught. Ponies would take from dogs with no hesitation; he knew that, it knew that. It was sharing what they taught him, a student showing a teacher what they learned in class.
He would be the town’s night monster. As panic came from the burning crops, the town eye would focus on that fire, and he would move in and out of sight. He would break what he would break, take what he would take, and harm what he would harm. It said he could handle the town ponies; it has never lied to him. The hate of the ruined town would feel for the night monster will be good. Better than any meal he had ever tasted in his life. And he would thank them with words of wisdom, based on what they taught the unwanted to do.
"Suffer, succumb, die." He uttered in though, cold breath and steam escaping his mouth as he lit the wheat. The wheat would burn, the bread would burn, and the food would burn. He relished the thought of the fire eating their colorful wrapping paper, the heart shaped cards they share amongst themselves, all they enjoyed and that he was never to enjoy. He was not them, he was not to enjoy it, it told him so, it never lied to him.
The town ponies were fast, they saw him. A lone Diamond Dog, standing not far from a burning field. He felt the hate they had; it was good, but not enough. It spoke to them, he spoke to them. "I want more." He said in a clear voice. Some ponies backed away, either from his words or his breath. When other ponies stepped forward he breathed deep and bellowed forth it's cold. As the saviors were frozen in place, the saved ran for their homes and locked the doors.
One hero was not encased, the earth walker's head shook as is struggled to get free of the ice. As he approached the walker looked up and then away as it continued to struggle. He gave it no choice, he grabbed the walkers head and forced it to look in his eyes, in it's eyes. The walker did not give what It wanted, what he wanted, so he dug his claw in to the walkers face. When the walker sees his face it would see the scar, when it sees the scar it would remember him, and it would remember him to hate him.
He took to the town next, smashing mail boxes and windows. He destroyed the well and threw all he felt like into it. The mail boxes, the wells stones and bucket, burnt cinders and ash, a pony encased in ice. He felt the hate, but it was never enough. He left when more would be heroes emerged from their homes after he began destroying items in a store. They did not peruse him as he hoped, but he tasted there hate from afar. He decided to rest then.
The ponies would refresh themselves with what they still had, and it disgusted It, it disgusted him. But still they had to repair what he did. The well, their crops, scar face. When they recover they will remember him, when they tell others what they know others will know him. He felt it's hunger pangs, he felt it's hunger pangs. They needed more, more towns to need of healing, more to share it's gift. When this town healed, new crops planted and a new clean well, he would come back to break it and take it away.
As he slept and it sang his mind, in dream, wondered. What value did ponies have to the ground metal on which metal boxes ride? What of the metal boxes that ride this metal? If he took away the ground metal he took away the metal boxes and what they carried? To take what they have would cause hate, it needed a plan, he needed a plan. So much to share, he wanted to share his cold emptiness and flame. It was the only thing he could share with any real value, it told him so, It never lied to him.
In time the town spoke of him, a diamond dog that breathed ice. A dog that took less than he destroyed. Ponies were baffled, a dog comes to steal and take what doesn't belong to it and certainly does not breathe ice. An earth pony with a deep scar down his face gave the dog a nickname. He called it a hell-hound.
And yet he complained
That his belly was not full
Author's Note
In retrospect, did any of the Conversion bureau fics have Wendigos in them? Any at all? If not, I'll call first for the idea. NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW! (Evil laugh) Thanks for your support, or lack there of intrepid readers and true believers. Teach that hated thing whose boss and hopes he dies soon. You proved you want to! OK, minus three, but they don't talk much. Probably just scared, who can blame them? I'm not pleasant. To be fair, what reason do I have to be pleasant?