The faint dripping of water echoed through the massive room. From the bare boned look and the remains of empty barrels, what was once a simple storage room was now derelict, wooden beams lay scattered on the floor, the unsupported ceiling threatening to crumble at any moment. Puddles of water pooled where the stones had sunken into the floor, their surface iridescent from the thin layer of oil that they had collected on their journey from whatever their source. The heavy smell of mold hung in the air like a thick cloud of fog.
Octavia twitched as a drop of water splattered onto her forehead. The cellist pushed herself up, water rushing out of her soaking wet mane and hitting her back with a wet squelch. She had seen better days. Her once pristine coat was ruffled and dirty with grime and murky basement water. Octavia shivered, drops of water running down her body like sweat. Blood rushed through her body and her vision started to swim.
"Vi...Vinyl...?" she croaked, her roommate's name the first one she remembered. Octavia shook her head and placed a hoof on her forehead to stop her swaying. The pony coughed and cleared her throat. "Vinyl!?" she called, this time more clearly. Her voice echoed throughout the stone room. Only the faint creaks of the few wooden beams still standing answered her.
Suddenly, her ears detected a quiet cracking sound from above. As a few splinters and stones showered the cellist, she panicked, knowing what would happen if she didn't move. Her eyes shot around the room, trying to find the exit. Her heart beat even faster when all she saw were crushed crates and empty wine racks. The second Octavia spotted the half-rotting door, just barely hanging from its hinges, she shot out of the way faster than a rabbit running from a fox.
With a soul-shuddering rumble, the ceiling collapsed, sending large boulders and wooden supports crashing where the cellist stood only moments ago.
Octavia ran. A lifetime of playing an instrument had left her physically lacking, but adrenaline compensated for it somewhat. She flinched, almost tripping when a rock hit her rear left leg. Behind her, each failed support brought its load that it once carried onto the next, were the cycle repeated in a deadly chain reaction. The door seemed to be no closer, but steadily, the ground seemed to feel firmer, and dryer. Octavia squeezed her eyes shut, gulped, and plunged headfirst into the door.
No matter how thick or strong something might've been, years of humidity and neglect had turned solid oak into balsa. With a wet crunch, the cellist punched a pony-sized hole with her head straight through the door, just in time before a slew of barrels tumbled from overhead on the stone floor of the storage room. A putrid odor washed over her as numerous watertight containers broke open, their contents turned to mush years ago.
Her heart thudded as she sat down to catch her breath, drowsiness and headache forgotten after a near-death experience. She stared through the hole she had made. Rocks and wooden beams were faintly visible behind the cloud of dust that hung in the air. She coughed, her normally soothing voice now harsh and gritty from the floating bits of old wood and dust. The cellist backed off out of the cloud in a hurry.
A cold, wet substance reached her right foreleg. Octavia looked down. A thick, black liquid was slowly leaking out of one of the barrels and had stuck to her like glue. The tar-like substance refused to release its hold, even after she scraped it with on the sharp edge of a mangled piece of metal. She sighed. It had seeped deep into her coat, requiring a pair of sharp shears before enduring an embarrassing bald patch for weeks, not to mention the intense itching that would follow after the hairs would start growing.
The cellist looked around. A long, empty hallway stretched to either side of the now caved in room. From the musty feel and the damp air, she concluded that wherever she was, it was deep underground. Still dripping water, Octavia randomly chose a direction.
***
The dark atmosphere sent shivers through her spine, making her hairs stand on end. The wall torches were dark, small piles of ashes still piled up underneath. A cold gust of wind blew past the pony, chilling her mane and back, still damp from the puddle. Octavia jumped as the wooden supports creaked overhead. Luckily, they seemed to be sturdier than the ones that had been holding up the ceiling in the storage room.
The black liquid had solidified into a uncomfortably hot cast, her skin sweaty underneath her coat. It didn't feel too heavy, nor did it hamper her ability to run, but it felt foreign and unnatural. She knew that it would have to be removed before she could play normally again.
Octavia's thoughts turned to her cello. It was relatively new, as cellos went, but she had taken a liking to it during music school and has stuck with it since. A few scratches appeared over the years, but that was what made it unique. It had been said by the most devoted that every instrument eventually changes ever so slightly to match the musician's style.
A light flickered in the distance. The cellist gasped, it was the first source of light she had seen since she had woken up in the now caved in storage room. Octavia ran, desperate to be near something brighter.
It was a wall torch, sitting in a metal holder and almost burned out. Ash had piled up underneath it, one of the many signs that the light wouldn't last. She inched closer to warm her cold hooves. The warm, comforting flame flickered as Octavia closed her eyes in relief. She leaned against the wall to catch her breath, when a slight crunch caused her to stop.
The cellist lifted her left hoof to reveal a mangled, tattered scrap of paper. Her eyes widened at the delicate and elegant hoofwriting that she immediately identified as her own. Octavia swiped the paper from the floor. Bordering the edge were wavy staff lines with random notes, a little detail that convinced her to purchase the notebook in the first place.
Somehow Vinyl, you managed to make me write in this journal before we even left the airfield.
Never allow Vinyl to bring her... "wub machine." We had to endure two hours of security checks because she decided to use an experimental oscillating crystal that the guards said it could be used for focusing a beam of magic into a weapon that could be used to cut through the hull of an airship. Vinyl only drooled in awe, so I had to walk to the post office hauling all of her equipment and had it ordered it sent to our home while paying the postage out of my own bag of bits.
Of course she offered to pay for food on the two day journey, so I guess I cannot continue being annoyed with her. She gorged herself on deep-fried cheese sticks from the buffet while I settled with a salad. I was constantly humming a tune that I cannot recall for the life of me. It had an uplifting feel, yet sorrow at points.
NOTE TO SELF - Write down melody if recalled.
But below her own written words was a short phrase. The letters had a sharp and hurried look to it, as if whoever wrote it didn't have much time.
rETurN TO ThE sOUrCe
Octavia's hoof shook, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to remember recent events. Even an event as recent as her escape from the storage room was fuzzy.
According to the page, she and her roommate had left on some sort of trip. But the four words under it puzzled her. Had she written it in a fit of madness, or were there other forces at play here?
She jumped when something gently rubbed against her rear leg. The battered page had disintegrated in her shaking, bits of paper creating a miniature snowstorm that joined the small pile of ash.
Suddenly, a gust of wind shot past her, sending more chills down her spine and making the already tiny flame flicker even dimmer. Octavia gasped and brought her head closer to the torch.
"Oh, nonononono! Please don't-" She stopped when her panicked breath extinguished the flame. "Oh Celestia..."
A small wisp of smoke curled up as it slowly disappeared. Her mouth scrunched into a grimace, but soon descended into a frown as she started to shiver again. The remaining glowing embers went dark, making the already desolate hallway seemed emptier. Never before did the cellist appreciate simple illumination.
A ghostly glow appeared in the distance as her sight readjusted to the dark. The remains of the torch and the page fluttered in the wind. Octavia's eyes shot open as she remembered visiting a cave on a vacation once.
"Remember! If you ever get stuck in a cave, the wind has to come from somewhere!"
The tour guide was a baby-blue, overly cheerful mare that was also seven months pregnant as she made clear during the trip. Personally, the cellist found her to be a little annoying, but her words were stuck inside of her head.
She started galloping towards the source, her dark mane trailing behind her like a cape in the wind.
The cellist squinted, trying to see through the darkness. Suddenly, the wind started to blow fast enough that a faint, empty whistling could be heard by her sensitive ears.
Octavia screeched to a halt and slowly reached out with a hoof. A faint, wooden clunk sounded as she climbed onto the first step of the staircase. Her mouth formed the largest grin in her life.
Progress.
***
The stairs were the complete opposite of the basement room. The wood was free from molds or rot, with a dry, papery feeling beneath her hooves, Octavia stepped cautiously, as if the next step could disintegrate into sawdust. The bare staircase creaked as she climbed higher and higher, but held firm under her hooves. More than once she would find herself listening to the faint but oddly comforting whistling of the breeze, assuring her that she followed the road to freedom.
She froze.
The last echoes of the creaks faded away into the darkness. Experimentally, she loudly hit the next step.
Her trained musician ears twitched as she timed her steps. The voice of her late mentor resurfaced, teaching the young Octavia on the importance of beats.
60 Beats per Minute. Larghetto.
Her hooves hit the stairs in a controlled manner, each moving when she wanted them to, and the walls replied each with an echo. For an entire, agonizing minute, she moved at a snail's pace, eyes closed.
The cellist froze. In between her precise steps, a rouge echo reached her ears, distorting her steady rhythm.
It was as if...
But Octavia never gave it another thought once she gratefully opened the door and entered the castle proper.
***
The usually dim flickering of candles seemed almost blinding. Octavia blinked, the small flames glared like a flare to her eyes, which were well-adjusted to the darkness of the underground.
When the glares faded away, she found herself in a large, well-used kitchen. The floor was heavily scuffed from countless years of heavy usage and had charred spots where small embers has escaped the fire pit. Cabinets were stuffed, counter tops were overrun with fresh food, and it seemed that dinner was just a few minutes away.
The cellist slowly walked out of the stairway and closed the door behind her. No squeaks came from the well-oiled hinges, and the door closed with barely a thud.
Her eyes slowly took in her surroundings as she advanced.
The fireplace burned with a warm, toasty glow as the flame inside flickered and licked at the bottom of the black wrought iron cauldron. A thick, hearty soup bubbled inside, its consistency almost like gravy. The mere sight of it made Octavia's stomach growl in hunger, with the smell leaving the usually dignified and prim mare drooling.
She shook her head, resisting the urge. She told herself that she could wait until the rightful owner came along. Trying to ignore all of the food piled up in barrels, on top of wooden cutting boards, and some that were still fresh from the gardens, Octavia raised her head to search for an exit.
Once again, her ears turned and twisted as she detected faint music coming from somewhere to her left. It was stereotypical dinner music, one that would give patrons at a restaurant something to block out other conversations, but not dominate their ears. A simple, melody-less tune on a piano.
***
Little by little, the hallway seemed to become more ornate as she walked towards the music. It was unnoticeable. The red drapes got a little brighter and more vibrant, the stones had a few extra minutes of being polished, and the pictures seemed more and more expensive. The torches also reflected the overall pattern. From crude torches which resembled burning clubs, the ones farthest from the kitchens had intricate patterns carved into their holders, and the flame, by some unknown process, burned a pure white, illuminating the hallway as if the roof was removed and the sun was at the zenith.
And by the time she reached the massive, gold inlaid doors surrounded by two statues of highly-polished armor on top of a pair of pedestals, also highly polished, Octavia knew that she was at the mercy of whoever was on the other side of the door.
She took one last breath, and placed her hooves on the door.
Only for the door to meet her head as a maid rushed through.
"Oh! Oh my!"
Her squeaky voice of adolescence was the only thing Octavia heard while her head throbbed in pain. She could remember a body picking her up from underneath, and her hooves sliding across the thick, rich carpet as she was dragged around to locations unknown. But slowly, her vision began to return, and her mind sharpened.
A grey unicorn mare in a maid uniform and a well-dressed pegasus stallion stared at her in concern. Through the blur, Octavia could see a large, red stain on the maid's once white apron.
"Oh my was correct Miss Silver. Though I cannot fathom why she was behind that door..." His deep rumbling voice spoke of power and charisma, but also had a fatherly feel to it, as if all of our problems could be wiped away by his speech alone.
"I-I-I apologize Master Sturmgeist! I-I wasn't being cautious and-" the maid rattled on and on, as if it was her first day of employment.
"Now, now, Miss Silver." he stopped her, "It isn't me you should be facing."
"Of-of course." Silver took a deep breath and turned her head towards the cellist. "Miss...?"
Octavia mind answered with a word of acknowledgment, but from her mouth came a rough gurgle.
Maid Silver gasped, her already damp eyes now crying fully, she slowly lowered her head onto Master Sturmgeist's shoulder, her own shaking from the sobs.
But finally, her mind organized the jumble of paperwork, and she replied.
"Water..."
Her voice cracked, and was barely audible. But their ears picked up her request, and Maid Silver stood at attention.
"Miss Silver?" Sturmgeist turned to his maid.
"At once sir!" Silver's voice had aged ten years. The once uneasy and shaky voiced replaced by a clear, strong pillar of confidence. She rushed to the door, but slowed to a halt. Gently pushing the door open, she confirmed that there were no more potential victims behind. With her concerns washed away, Maid Silver galloped towards the kitchens.
"Now Miss," he gently place a hoof on Octavia's shoulder, "please accept my most humble apologies for this incident."
Her vision returned to her fully. In front of her was a pegasus stallion, his deep, navy blue fur contrasted heavily with his bright red military dress uniform. His greying facial hair only accentuated his outfit.
He hurriedly stopped her when she opened her mouth to reply.
"Ah-" he awkwardly stopped, "Let us leave the conversation until you have been taken care of." Sturmgeist looked towards the door. "Speaking of which- Miss Silver?!" he called.
"Yes sir!" the maid replied, returning with a metal tray floating on a bed of white magic, with a pitcher of clear water and ice that clinked with each step that she took resting on the top.
Octavia looked around the room fully for the first time. The dining room was absolutely massive. Crimson red drapes and flags of various origins were placed around the room, as if the leaders of the world were being expected. A set of doors were open at the end, which revealed a large hall where the guests would be greeted, and their hats and coats would be removed and taken away for storage.
Behind the host's chair was a fireplace, inside many large logs still whistled as steam shot out of the sides, indicating that the fire had been starting not too long ago. Around the intricate masonry that held the fire, swords and various other bladed weapons hung above, right, and left of the raging fire. They were all masterpieces, each more than likely a family heirloom passed down generations. Some had vicious spikes that were still pink from the blood they drew years ago, while others curved smoothly, as if they were flowing in a non-existent wind.
She turned her attention towards the dining table itself.
Long enough to seat a staggering amount of guests, a velvet red tablecloth covered the smooth, featureless tabletop. But though the room had once experienced the upbeat mood of a party, it was anything but at that day. Only the first two candles nearest to Sturmgeist's were lit, indicating that a quiet evening was all that was planned. At the end of the table was an ornate set of silverware, plenty of forks, spoons, something that looked like it was taken from the wall of weapons, knives, plates bowls, and many others that were clearly for the master of the house. To the right was a smaller, simpler set. The silver was just as polished, but there were fewer utensils, and the bowls seemed smaller.
The maid set the tray down and began filling her own glass. A few ice cubes clinked as they fell, and when the final drop fell from the mouth of the pitcher, the maid gently lifted the now full glass in a white glow, her horn radiating the same color. Only the smallest of ripples disturbed the surface as the cup slowly floated towards the downed cellist.
The pegasus slid his forelegs under Octavia, helping her rise just enough that she could swallow.
Octavia drank, closing her eyes at the cold and refreshing drink. As the water poured down her throat, she realized for the first time how dry her throat really was. An ice cube gently brushed against her lips.
She gasped in surprise, taking heavy breaths. But no more than a second later she returned her lips to the glass, greedily gulping down the contents within, a small, but steady stream of water escaping around her mouth and dripping down her neck.
As Octavia drank, the music continued. Her ears picked up on the slight crackles that ingrained the piano, revealing it to be a recording of a past performance.
The last of the water ran down her throat, and her chest heaved as she took in air by the lungful. As her eyes fluttered, a surprise wave of fatigue ran over her, and their last words echoed in her ears.
"Miss Silver, please prepare a guest room for her."
"I suppose the bed-warmers are unnecessary?"
"Yes Miss Silver, just a bed will do."
Author's Note
Inspired by-
Amnesia (A lot.)
Slender Man (Also a lot.)
Those pages were a mix of Slenderman papers and parts of Daniel's journal. Coincidence that both games had pages to find and collect? I think not.
Also another fun fact - Octavia is best background pony. Is it because I used to play the cello? Probably.
This story was for practicing writing atmosphere and emotions. Hope I did well.
By the way, deep-fried cheese sticks are a guilty pleasure of mine.
