The month of October is a month of festivities for its many residents. Every species—even the different pony races—had different customs, and hence different holidays. In this month alone the earth ponies would compete in the Running of the Leaves, pegasi would drink to the Hollowing of Seasons, Unicorns would hum the carols of The Star’s First Turning, Diamond Dogs would celebrate Gam Day (a year-long holiday), and one zebra would make pilgrimage in honour of the Equestrian equinox.
But throughout all the differences in customs and history, two holidays were, and still are, shared in common respect by almost every race: The Last Harvest, and Nightmare Night; In the last changeling hive in Equestria, the latter of these two was mere days away.
Most creatures whom still remember the changelings would be under the misconception that changelings did not care for festivities; the truth of the matter is that changelings did care, very much, for their festivities. Though not gifted with holidays in large quantity, every changeling could look forward to the next as a quality celebration. In every changeling holiday there was indeed much merry and mirth to be made, and many drinks to be had (though drinks, like food, held no nutritional value to a changeling, one drone plus plenty of alcohol could still equal a good time).
Nightmare Night was a special holiday, as it was, by nature and by origin, a changeling holiday. Most any pony you might ask of the matter would not know it, but the pony race had actually stolen the idea from changelings over a thousand years ago and twisted it into their own holiday. The changelings, however, still celebrated it the way it was originally meant to be.
Changelings, long before the big day, would practice all their most fearsome and most impressive shape shifting abilities, and upon the arrival of Nightmare Night the hive would be littered with everything from timber-wolves to small dragons and even to non-existent creatures thought up just for the occasion, though changelings talented enough for this were rare. Some changelings would put on a show of sort, enacting epic battles between themselves and some other changeling with an equally fantastic creature, others would simply show off their impressive creations, and others still would merely enjoy the mirth and marry; but be it impressive or simply sport, all capable changelings would shift shapes for the occasion.
This is where Mantodea, a young changeling in the last hive in Equestria, has a problem. Mantodea can’t shift shapes; not like other changelings in any matter. For changelings, shape shifting is a thing that comes with age, like a pony’s cutie mark. Some are “late bloomers.” Mantodea was a very late bloomer. So this year, like every year before it, Mantodea planned on spending Nightmare Night hiding in his home, simply waiting it out.
~
As I’d mentioned, it was only a few days until the changeling Nightmare Night, and at this time two changelings lay opposite each other in a spherical room, a design choice rather prominent in changeling architecture. One of these changelings you have already heard of; the fellow by the name of Mantodea. He was slender in form and had large, curious eyes. In his hooves he grasped a historical text supplied by his school. Changelings took pride in their vast records of history as it truly occurred, and this changeling in particular took great interest in the subject. Records of epic battles and heroes were among his favourites, but he also enjoyed learning of the other changeling swarms, driven from their hives by the pony princess Celestia long before Mantodea was born.
The other changeling was a friend, perhaps the only friend, of Mantodea, and his name was Tamite. He was a larger figure with broad shoulders, thick legs and a large, rounded stomach. This changeling was unique in that he was peculiarly fond of food—most changelings found food to be a pointless endeavour, and in every way it was. Still, there were some who enjoyed the sense of taste and the feeling of physical food more than others.¬
Tamite held a small figurine in his hooves, black in colour and impeccably detailed. It was a ferocious depiction, unrealistically so (though art is prone and welcome to exaggeration), of a changeling drone dressed in battle armour with a claymore held by his mouth over his shoulder, his eyes staring the other way towards a yet-to-be-carved opponent.
“Really…” Tamite began to mumble after a good while of examining the effigy, “I really, really don’t understand how you’re so good at this stuff.” Mantodea flicked both his ears in acknowledgement, but made no further reaction. He was currently enamoured with a story of Grennit, a changeling hero of old who won multiple provings (a changeling coliseum of sorts) with is bare hooves and became his queen’s right-wing guard. The story would go on to tell of how Grennit exploited his queen as a rebel. He was killed, but not before saving many swarms from his own in a valiant effort to inform the head hive. Mantodea would never make it that far though, as Tamite continued to bother him.
“Hey, you think you could make one of these for your best buddy?” Tamite lay the current carving down and extended his hoof to poke Mantodea in the shoulder. Mantodea shrugged off the first poke, and the second, but the third had him drop his text and look Tamite in the eyes. He would have expressed his frustration in one way or another, but Tamite was looking at him just pleadingly enough to make him shove that to the back of his mind.
“Tamite…” he said cautiously, “I really don’t think you’d look good in armour.”
Tamite rolled his eyes and made a “pfft” noise with his lips, leaning back in dismissal of the notion. “You’ve seen me in armour, Mantodea.”
“Yes I have, and that’s why I feel that way.”
Tamite tried to look insulted at the jab, but both knew it was a friendly tease and nothing more. Figuring he likely wouldn’t get anything more out of the current topic, Tamite decided to change it. “So… you gonna do anything for Nightmare Night this year?”
Mantodea shook his head.
“Maybe…” Tamite tilted his head, “just come with me and get some food? Drinks? I’ll buy.”
Mantodea merely repeated the previous gesture.
Tamite looked absentmindedly to the side, taking the momentary silence to think. Tamite had only known Mantodea for about a year now, but he knew him well enough to tell if something was wrong.
“Mants… is this normal for you?”
Mantodea’s lack of response would have been all Tamite needed to figure out it was, but after a while Mantodea accompanied the silence with a nod regardless. “I think you can guess why.”
That, Tamite could.
“You know you don’t have to be something, right? Plenty of changelings don’t.”
“They’ll ask why.” Mantodea let his slowly unfocusing eyes fall to the floor. “Someone always asks why…”
Tamite stared at his friend for just a moment, trying to gather some clue as to just what could have happened to him in his early Nightmare Nights.
“Well… Tamite tried to think of a solution for this. “You, uh… could just say you’re tired? Come on Mants, it’s Nightmare Night! Maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you, but you should enjoy it.” Tamite leaned forward and pushed on Mantodea’s horn so he had to face up towards him. “Come on, just have a few drinks, watch a show, or… something.
Tamite decided just to hope that the silence that continues to follow at least meant that Mantodea would think about it. Having little more to say and nothing more worth saying, Tamite relaxed and went back to examining Mantodea’s carving.
One would have expected Mantodea to return to his book, but as it was too many foul memories were running about in his mind for him to be in the mood. Instead he felt compelled to continue the conversation, albeit on a slightly different subject.
“What are you going to be for Nightmare Night?” he asked.
Tamite bit his lip but continued to look at the figurine.
“Not sure,” he stated soundly. “I mean, I know what I want to be, but I’m not sure if I can do it. It’s an original creature, so…”
Tamite now sat straight and again set the figurine beside him freeing his hooves to gesture as he spoke.
“I mean” he continued, “I can picture it in my head—sorta… I could describe it to you perfectly if I wanted, but when I try to become it, it just falls apart.”
Mantodea waited a moment before asking what he thought was an obvious question. “What does it look like?”
“Well since you asked” Tamite pounced on the question immediately, as if he had been waiting for it the whole time, “I guess I could try. It’s uh… well, it’s kind of like a pony in a way. Only its legs are longer and a lot thinner, and it’s like twice as tall. It has a long face too, and its hooves are pretty thick—”
“You sound like you’re describing a horse, Tamite,” Mantodea interjected.
Horses were ancient creatures that existed long before any changelings, or much of anything else for that matter. It is theorized that the modern pony races are descendants of horses, but nothing’s really there to prove it. Ancient myth and legend stated these creatures could run faster than the ancient wind and far faster than any living pony, and that they could jump across mountains and over oceans without any wings or magic.
“Is that what they’re called?” Tamite looked up and scratched at the back of his head as if in deep thought. “I’d thought I’d heard about it from somewhere. But never mind that, this is where it gets awesome.” Tamite shifted and stared Mantodea dead in the eye as he prepared to blow his friend’s mind with his incredible idea. “It’s mane and tail? They’re made of fire, and—”
“That’s not terribly original.”
Tamite’s air of excitement died off completely and he sunk down, as if pulled by the leg by some invisible force, giving Mantodea a cold glare.
“Yeah, well, it’s cool, so deal with it.” Tamite still felt dejected at the comment, but pressed onward regardless. “So, it also has green snake-eyes and sharp teeth that drip blood. I want to do something scary with its voice too, but since I can’t even get the shape down I wouldn’t count on that…”
Tamite got up and arched his back, craning his neck in a much-needed stretch. “Anyhoof, I really should get a little training in before the day ends. You want to come along?”
“Nah—” Mantodea stretched a bit himself, accompanying it with a yawn. “—I’m all tired ‘n stuff… I think I’ll just get some extra sleep if you don’t mind.”
Tamite shrugged indifferently and buzzed his wings, taking to the air and heading towards the door, located near the top of the spherical room. He tossed a wave behind himself, which Mantodea returned before he left.
~
Mantodea couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t lied; he had indeed been tired when Tamite left, and he still was. He was a sound sleeper, too; in fact he was unusually good at it, if one could be good at such a thing. He found himself too busy tossing about to nestle himself comfortably in the ball-like form he usually slept in though, and on the rare occasion he found an equally comfortable position his mind was too full of pointless thought for him to settle it down. It was perhaps a half-hour before he gave up entirely, and he did so grudgingly.
Wishing under his breath for one of the queen’s “speeches” to send him to sleep, Mantodea went to the room in his home where he kept all his books—and figurines.
Without a free shelf to store the large texts they all ended up, at one point or another, at the bottom of a growing pile of ancient history and legend in one corner of the room. On the other side of the room, on the shelves where the books probably should have been, were rows of carvings and figures of every sort. Dragons and knights lay locked in eternal, motionless battle amongst others doomed to suffer the same fate, all sprawled about in a mess of helmets, swords and blood. Absently remembering his latest creation, Mantodea fetched the figure Tamite had left and lined it up on the shelf along with the others.
Mantodea took a few minutes to stand and admire the carnage set before him. Now that his latest work had been completed, Mantodea had been planning on taking a break from the project. Then again, since he couldn’t sleep, he truly didn’t have anything better to do with his life; might as well get started on something new.
As he surveyed his collection so far Mantodea felt a surge of desire to create something… more—something bigger, better, more challenging than usual. Inspiration was normally Mantodea’s greatest roadblock, but that night he found that it came to him quickly and stuck to his mind like a barb.
Near the center of the room was a workbench and stool, atop which lay neatly aligned carving tools and a diminishing pile of carving material known to changelings as mabone.
Using one of the few spells he had a proper grasp of, Mantodea used telekinesis to drag over a curved scalpel-like instrument and a large wad of mabone.
Using a small, blank figure as reference, Mantodea began carving out a figure similar to a pony, only taller, with much thinner legs and a longer face. It took only a few minutes before his trained touch had carved the vague figure of a horse.
From there he used another tool to begin marking where he would add features and detail; nostrils, hooves, eyes, mouth, mane…
Mantodea began to feel a sharp, impromptu pang of guilt as he carved each standard feature, and took pause at the sensation.
“… Damn you, Tamite…”
Using some spare mabone to fill and erase the original markings, Mantodea began the task of reshaping the creature into something much more fearsome, something with fangs, and fire sprouting from where its mane and tail ought to be…
~
It took Mantodea several restless nights to complete the creature, but at last he did o, a mere day before Nightmare Night. He’d been growing impatient and eager to show his work to the friend for whom he’d made it, and at last he found himself with that chance.
In the same room in Mantodea’s house, Tamite sat back in the same spot he always did. Apparently Mantodea had something to show him, a concept he found difficult to accept.
“It’s been like, what, 3 days?” Tamite questioned, mostly to himself, as Mantodea was out of the room at the time.
Until Mantodea returned, Tamite amused himself by moving his hoof back and forth and feeling the air brush through the holes. When Mantodea did return, which he did in reasonably short time, he had his wing spread out, a small white figure balanced on his wing. It took Tamite a few moments, but at last he managed to recognise the design.
The horse-shaped carving, creamy white in colour, stood staring fiercely at all who dared lay their eyes upon it. An eternal snarl lay etched upon its face, revealing unnaturally sharp teeth with a slight curve to them. Above that and matching in sharpness of design were dark green eyes that bulged from either side of the face, both trained predatorily straight ahead at any dull-minded soul doomed to cross its gaze.
Lithe, trained muscles were visible across its leathery skin, bulging across its body and lifting one spindly leg up in the beginnings of a charge. From the muscles in its neck sprouted a fierce static flame that trailed down its body and flowed with the wind, producing images of embers that licked at the air above its flank before fading into darkness in its wake.
The cold flames reflected a glint in Tamite’s eye that grew into bewilderment and from there into intense gratitude.
“Mants… is that—” Tamite cut himself off as he realised how stupid a question that was. “—I mean… wow. That looks even better than I imagined it!”
Mantodea smiled and hoofed the daunting figure towards Tamite, who picked it up eagerly and began to examine it.
“I’d been thinking” Mantodea offered up, “that maybe I wouldn’t mind not being anything on Nightmare Night if I got to spend it in the wake of the most awesome friend ever. Especially”—Mantodea gestured to the figure—“If he looked like that.”
Tamite blinked his gaze away from the figurine just long enough to throw Mantodea a confused look. “I already told you, I’ve been trying, but I can’t really get the shape shifting right.”
“You said you couldn’t keep the image in your mind long enough to become it, right? Well, maybe if you had this to look at while you tried…”
Both became silent, one in awe of the brilliance while the other in pride of it. Without any hesitation Tamite moved the figure to a small table and positioned himself across from it, a look determination setting into his features.
Several minutes passed, all of which were likely failed attempts at the transformation, until, at last, changes began to set in throughout Tamite’s body. He became lighter, larger, and much more dangerous in appearance, step by step gaining likeness to the figure on the table, only on a much grander scale.
A mere day before Nightmare night, and Tamite finally had a grand and impressive form for the occasion.
“Um, Tamite?” Mantodea stifled his excitement to speak in a more toned down and confused voice, but still couldn’t keep his tone from baring traces of exuberance.
“Yeah?” Tamite’s new form trained one eye on Mantodea. It was noticeable that the voice was deep and carried an artificial echo; a small touch Tamite had added himself, among other things.
Light reflected in Mantodea’s eyes from the dancing flame of a creature that stood before him as he pointed to a leathery brown object clasped to Tamite’s back. “Is that…?”
Tamite’s lips curved into a smile that looked more bloodthirsty than amused (though the latter of which is what was intended). “Well Mants, I’ve seen you in armour, and, unlike me apparently, you look great in it.”
~
That next night, gladly known by all in the hive as Nightmare Night, both friends were ready and willing to set out unto the cavern in their respective disguises. Well… for the most part.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea.”
“You’re already doing it. Besides, I’m sure you have a great view from up there.”
“I feel ridiculous.”
“You’re fine. And would you take that helmet off?”
“No thank you.”
“Take off the helmet.”
“No.”
“Take it off.”
“No!”
A small number of changelings passing by had been scraped into a crowd and were witnessing an intriguing development. It would appear two young drones had conspired to create an admirable collaborative shape for the occasion. One had done an impressive job of capturing the frightening form of a flaming horse, while the other rode atop him on a saddle in a decorative suit of armour. Most every changeling would have liked to see the one on top remove his helmet so they might have an identity to relate their awe towards, but he seemed less than happy to oblige.
“Look at that, we’re gaining a crowd now!” Mantodea whispered from within the suit of armour.
“Are we?” Tamite glanced about himself as if noticing the crowd for the first time. “I guess that means they like your design, Mants.”
“It was your design.”
“My idea, your design,” Tamite corrected. His nostrils flared and he struck a pose, scraping a few more changelings into the crowd. Once he was satisfied with the number of onlookers, he reared up on his hind legs, kicking his forelegs into the air and letting loose an echoing screech. Mantodea rose with him, tightly grasping the edge of the saddle to keep from falling off. The motion still struck him by surprise however, and as a result he felt his helmet fall from his head. He caught it with his telekinesis, but not before every changeling in the crowd got a look at his face.
Mantodea wasn’t a fan of the attention, but he tried to make the best of the situation regardless. Letting his helmet fall under his wing, Mantodea drew the sword he’d borrowed and held it in his mouth, standing upright, releasing his own snarl and balancing on four legs atop Tamite’s back, whom still stood balanced on his hind legs.
Loud stomps of approval resonated from the crowd and within Mantodea’s ears, and at once all the attention didn’t seem quite so bad.
“See?” Tamite lowered himself and smiled knowingly. “Told you they like it.”
“I’ll get you back for that” Tamite spoke, though unconvincingly due to the lingering glow of pride he’d felt at the momentary approval.
“Fine, I’ll warn you next time. Hold on!” Tamite’s last two words were spoken as quickly as he could and were followed immediately by him lowering his body and proceeding to jump into the air. The jump made a quick, low arch across hundreds of feet of the cavern and over many more changelings.
When a changeling shape shifts, they take on naught but the appearance of the creature for which they do so. Tamite may have looked like a horse of ancient legend, but he could not jump nor run as impressively as a true horse, and his flaming mane and tail could never burn. No matter the form though, a changeling would retain its base traits and abilities throughout the transformation, meaning Tamite still had access to flight and magic. He was a fast flier on his own, and he took advantage of this to make the jump look as impressively authentic as he could, while he used his magic to keep Mantodea from starting off his back.
The caverns were dark and never met the light of day, so Tamite and his knightly companion were a very noticeable sight, sending the dim light of fire across the black and empty space. By now many more changelings with their own shape shift designs were out and about, and all but the most self-absorbed changelings stared in awe and stomped their hooves for the duo.
It was not the most impressive of sights to be seen that night, but all agreed it was a great way to kick off a great celebration.
~
Much later, in a bit of a drunken stupor, Tamite left Mantodea’s side to participate in a spur-of-the-moment collaborative showing in which an obviously intoxicated narrator described a battle that the two creatures on stage had to re-enact through improvisation.
That was far where Mantodea was, sitting at a table carved from a stalactite at the top of the cavern. All around him were similar tables packed with changelings, various other creatures and, above all else, empty glasses.
Mantodea was not much of a drinker (or an eater), but throughout the night he’d let a few drinks soften his senses, which he admittedly didn’t at all mind the sensation of. Somewhere along the road he’s lost his helmet, else he’d have been wearing it, what with Tamite gone. In fact, if he’d had his helmet he’d have tagged along to watch Tamite’s little venture, but he’d have rather avoided doing so without something to hide his face. It was Nightmare Night, after all. Was it not made to hide one’s face?
Song and dance, most of it be of war and creatures of legend, could be heard far below Mantodea. Candles softly lit the cavern and lent a discomforting light—at least to a changeling—to the atmosphere, and in the most discomforting nooks and crannies sat bards telling tales of horror and of mirth, the occasional snippet of which might make Mantodea snicker.
All of that was in the distance though. Where Mantodea sat, all was quiet but the muffled yet overpowering sound of festivity in the distance. Quiet, for this was the place where changelings went to fill up on drink ‘till weight bid them fall unto the chaos below. Mantodea enjoyed the quiet.
It came as little surprise to him, then, when someone came along to break that quiet.
“’Ello there!” A heavy-hoofed changeling drone sat himself down at Mantodea’s table, balancing two drinks on his head, and before Mantodea could object to the matter he found one of those drinks at the base of his hooves. “Youuu,” he drew the word out, “look lonely. Ah thought ye could use some comp’ny.”
Mantodea tried not to look as uncomfortable as he was. “I uh…” He stammered along as he tried to think of how to react, “that’s… very thoughtful?”
“n’actually” The changeling disagreed, “I didn’t think ‘bout it. ‘Jus did it.”
“And that’s why I’m sitting across from a drunken changeling on Nightmare Night,” Mantodea grumbled.
The changeling nodded as if in agreement. “Aye, and ye know what else’s weird?”
The changeling fell silent. It became apparent that the rhetorical question actually wasn’t all that rhetorical, so Mantodea decided he might as well humor him. “What’s that,” Mantodea sighed.
“That, is that ye ain’t look like nuthin’,” The changeling stumbled drunkenly. “Now why’s that?”
To most but the one who’d spoke it, the question would have been lost to the horrific misuse of language. But Mantodea knew the question, and the answer, as he’s been asked it before.
“I can’t shape shift,” Mantodea offered flatly. “That’s why.”
The changeling’s reaction more or less met Mantodea’s expectations. He burst into a full, hearty laugh, which blended well with the noise below. This ignited a momentary spike of indignant frustration in Mantodea, which drove him to ask “okay then, why don’t you ‘look like nuthin’?”
The question managed to quell the changeling’s laughter, and he shifted into a more upright position in preparation to tell a little story.
“Well,” he began, resting his forelegs on the table, “I’se used to be part of the guard here in th’ Everfree quadrant. So one day, this little pony”—he began to knock his hooves against the table in a walking motion and lower his voice, leaning in closer—“come clip-cloppin’ along in the forest. Now I come after it—” the changeling made a grand swooping motion with his forelegs “—and snatch the thing up!
“S’just a lil’ bugger, ye see? So it’s kickin’ and screamin’ away, but I don’t care none. That is, until the damn thing leans over—” The changeling rose suddenly, both in posture and voice, intensity lacing every word he spoke as he made a slashing motion on his forehead “—and bit my damn horn off!!”
A little taken aback by the outburst, Mantodea altered his gaze to the changeling’s forehead where his horn ought to be. It was still there. The changeling noticed his confusion and sat back down, shrugging off his anger for the moment.
“It only bit off the tip of m’ horn, so at least ah don’t have to look like a cripple…” his words trailed off into mumbling as he spoke, until Mantodea could no longer make them out and hence stopped trying to.
The changeling engaged Mantodea in conversation, or some deformed twin of it, a few more times before at last he ordered his final drink.
“This ‘n be it,” The changeling slurred excitedly, “nice meetin’ ye kid. An’ be proud ‘a dat horn ye got!”
And with that the changeling leaned back and chugged the rest of his drink, audibly guzzling it. Slowly he continued to lean back as he drank, until at last the glass was empty and the changeling leaned back far enough to fall off the seat. He let out a joyous cry as he fell to the floor of the cavern deep below, where he would buzz his wings to a landing that could barely be described as a success.
Mantodea was a bit more than amused at the display. It made him think, and that was decent to say the least. It struck him just how much a changeling could enjoy himself with such a tragic backstory, so insignificant to any but him. He almost found himself mildly jealous—not of the tragic nature of the story, but of having such a story to tell. Mantodea had no such stories; not yet. Or perhaps he did.
Mantodea donned a shallow grin as his mind ran through the night’s past events. He did have a story; a story of a dumb friend and his dumb idea that grew into one of the most remarkable nights in recent memory. The story may have been insignificant to all but the one who owned it, but perhaps that was the point.
Grinning, Mantodea grasped the drink the changeling had given him, and proceeded to guzzle it, leaning back slowly until his weight shifted back and he fell. He wore no helmet, but for once he felt perhaps he had no need to hide his face. Tonight was Nightmare Night.
