Just lines on paper. Hard to imagine such a principle taking such significance for everyone. Meticulously arranged lines , each one a special stroke, like swimming through a pool of white ethereal… stuff. or Perhaps just the infinite echoes of the mind, trying to convey how Brilliant you are and how you deserve Fame and glory? Maybe theres some mad pony out there who thinks that all he would want, all he needs, is the simple pat on the back for writing something that at the least Works on some quantifiable level. But how rare is the pony, man, or being who writes just because he loves the world, and loves the quill scratching against dry canvas, as he sits in a muggy room with the hierophant , the hermit, and the lovers without another? Only occasionally does the card look up, and give a queer smile. or perhaps the hermit wanters, looking to drown his eternal suffering with the soured grape? Then, and only Then, does the marbled card ponder a critical question; is one the fool, the jester, or the strength, the mighty one?

But I must be getting ahead of myself. or perhaps you are reading too slow? Or Perhaps- No, It Must be me., Every play must have a stage to stand on, and thus this one shall. First, let me pull up a map of equestria

http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2012/221/f/f/hd_map_of_equestria__official___by_austiniousi-d59y8wl.jpg

Ah, much better. Now, I want you to travel down, down down the map, from the Frozen Peaks to Canterlot, From Canterlot to the small, humble town of Ponyville- which i still think should had be titled Groninburg, but a 25-to-one vote is irrefutable- Past Los Pegasus, going out, out, out to sea- going until the continent of Equestria is just a distant glimmer in the eyes of the aspiring sailor- and Go three days longer until you find it- A place hushed out of modern history books, a swollen, burnt landmass first declared and only known as the badlands.

What is this cursed place like? imagine a desert without oasis, without any respite from the beating sun. Imagine a jungle without fruit, as poison snakes bite your legs and hordes of mosquitoes bite at your skin. Imagine a mountain without end, reaching up as if it intended to touch the sun itself with its peak. Then, You will know the badlands- hushed, haunted, angry. But, somehow, a queer creature stakes out an existence there, just under the soil. An Anomaly, really: A creature who feeds on the most bountiful resource, but cannot obtain itself- novocinyphes, The Scourge of ponies, The hive- Or as you race of Highly advanced apes might quickly declare them to be from the adventure board game, Changeling.

Changelings are queer Creatures, Approximately 6 feet tall, mostly in the leg length. They are all jet black, with large open pus on their horns, wings, and legs. they sport a sharp set of incisors, similar to the mythic vampires of lore ( even suggested to be the origin of vampires, which is poppy cock- trust me, they are plenty real). They are completely bald, without a speck of Hair on their chitinous shells, which inch long plates are constantly in movement.

Giant Buildings of dirt and sod, glued together with mucus, reaching, crawling up and down, constantly reaching for the surfaces to break through, to the earth to hide, is what the hive is. Picture a mighty city built under ground, but all buildings built with one purpose- to Be identical. Thus, we come across the first of the lesser known rules of changelings, as proposed by Clover the Clever's “Loving Locus”, is that every changeling i identical. there is only two classes- The Queen, and her seed. every changeling, from egg to decay, from the abyss and back, is raised the same- The exact same formula, again and again. Any signs of uniqueness was stamped out immediately, but because every one must be the same, all felt the bite of the whip.

For us Civil ones, we abhor the idea of Identicality- which is what drives stallions to buy big needless houses and tools and humans big fancy cars around their 40’s, and what drives the screaming infant to yell “NO!’ Again and again, even if it is something it wants. However, changeling culture treats identicality different- to be the same is to be the best. Everything is for the hive, not for me- It has been noted on the rare occasions a changeling speaks it says “we’ And “us”, as the replacement for “I” and “me”, which are the equivalent of human dutch and pony actions.

The second rule of changelings is that a changeling cannot Truly love Another. This rule, as i have seen time and time again, is refuted with the fact a changeling would starve without love- but is the love the mother gives to her seed The same as the love a wife gives to a husband? Of Course not. You see, If some changeling would Fall in love he would break the first rule of changeling kind- it would be a unique act. every changeling loves and hates thy mother equally, without exception.

Thus, we come to the final rule of changelings, the most damning of them all. some choke as it is read aloud, as the sad truth of it can be crushing to others. This rule, beyond others, Is accepted, and is never conquested, as it must be undeniably true.

Changelings Aren’t, And will never be capable of creativity

To Create, one must love. And To love, one must be unique. This basic rule Is unbreakable. it cannot be unwritten, it cannot be made an exception. A changeling, from egg to air, Is dull- the same pony again and again, as if every changeling is one.

What If I Told you that one changeling broke all these rules?

Would you believe me?

Just quills against paper, i am. scratching away…

Scratching…

Scratching…

"Featherweight?"

Author's Note

I have No idea how good this is. while i have spend tons of man hours inside of my head thinking about this concept, im not sure how well in transfers into paper. hopefully the intro inst to bad, but...