Expedition log number one, I would suppose. Professor A.
Having just so barely survived the trip to our destination, I believe I have changed my mind. Where originally I had every intention of not leaving an expedition log for the putrescent runts in the Capital - if only to spit in their face - I do now believe that I will simply not remain operational if deprived of the ability to relay my thoughts on paper. The pressure of all the infuriating interactions I had been part of had better be relayed on paper, as I dictate my thoughts word to quill, than through other means. There is, after all, only so much a mind deprived of ignorance, idiocy, and general weirdness can take.
Should any of our… my attempts fail, I suppose it could also serve as a relic to whoever finds it among the rust and dust of fallen hopes and dedications. That said, even with how horrendous the trip had gone, and with how cruelly I had been treated in terms of personnel requirements, the probability of failure is a distinctly low number.
As the others set up camp near our destination, for it is not a Professor’s dignity that will allow him to partake in such filthy work, I feel I should detail the journey in short.
From Canterlot Towers and their Historical Academy to the southern woods of pine and swampy mucous, we took a painful fortnight of various methods of travel. The carriage provided by the Academy proved faulty, and had to be discarded two days into our descent down south. While we did procure one from a minor apple farm settlement near the Capital City, that had to have been the first of many straws to lash the proverbial camel’s back into flesh-strippedness. These were not any straws that I had any intention to count. A great many of them had to have been met with impact, however, as from that point, I had not heard the end of the incessant, insufferable, increasingly infuriating whining. The cart was merely the start of our misfortunes as we treaded the poorly mapped regions, ever southwards, exploring the forests and lowlands - a focus of my companions, and the sheer depth of equine inadequacy - a focus of my own.
I could very well detail the extent to which my fellow arhaeologists… oh, I do apologize, I have forgotten the quotation marks in my vehemence. These “archaeologists”, whom my party is entirely comprised of, oh, their constant complaints of highly imaginative and particularly colorful nature could well make for a psychology paper - perhaps, even a psychiatrical one, in some cases. I am not, however, on any business of this matter in this blighted place. As they complained their way through the edges of the Untamed Everfree, weeped their way past the old Discordian-era battle site, and eventually planted their weak rumps by the river right next to the now neighbouring marshlands, they had successfully drained most of my patience and none of my resolve.
It was a dreadful fortnight, and I had more than a steam train’s worth of smoke pass through my lungs in order to calm myself enough to even dictate this paper. I can quite clearly see the quill tumble in the air as I speak, as even my own received pronunciation is starting to slowly falter under the sheer boiling rage the thoughts give me. This is, however, the worst it could ever get, for today, we have arrived at our destination.
This visibly unimpressive, somewhat odd in structure, admittedly rather confusing-looking temple. The very few filthy folk that inhabit the nearby settlmements refuse to speak much of it, and feign anxiety with expert proficency when asked. An admirable effort, I admit - surely they intend to leave a memorable imprint in a traveler’s mind, all too eager to be excited and impressed, so that that very traveler may spread the word, expectedly resulting in more business for the shoddy inns and pubs by the mushy roads and hairstrand forests. Their tricks do not fool me.
They call this place the “Temple of Death”. As much as I wish to say a snide remark on the ridiculous nature of such a name, I fear it might end up being all too symbolically fitting.
Should I succeed, then perhaps, it may very well be what I had always intended it to be. And you, dear Princess Celestia, should bloody well have found that out first. But you never did. I know you never did.
End of log.
Expedition log number two.
The night had passed uneventfully. However backwards my companions are, they are, at the very least, physically capable of establishing a camp - even if it is smaller than I would have preferred.
Myself, I had examined the surroundings while the remaining five were left to bicker and fumble with the supplies. The decision had primarily been influenced by my desire to keep away from these imbeciles. I am a theorist, a labourer of science, not a looking colt for a dreadfully ill-equipped expedition. Neither am I a charpony for these open air disaster settlers. I would not allow a task exceeding in complexity the lifting of a stone to befall any of the five that I had the misfortune of having been sent alongside with.
Admittedly, the signs that I am looking for are also not of any nature that would console these bumbling idiots should they gather the mental matter to notice them.
The area is clearly of artificial origin. The forests which surround the structure start off thick, lush enough for mid-summer, but as they close into the centre, the gaps widen and the trunks themselves lose in density. I would risk sounding like some of my companions, but they do, in fact, look like the closer to the temple, the less life there is in them. Unlike them, however, I do believe that it is merely the result of extreme magic output from a consistent power source. Judging by the distance at which the trees begin to die out, I would say that the estimated downwards distance would be a proximity of a hundred meters. A thirty odd meter radius surrounding the very temple has no visible vegetation whatsoever. I am supposing that the… creators of this place would have used the currently accepted magical usuals for establishing high-intensity links. I should assume no less, if not more.
The temple itself, in basic structure, seems to support this theory. We have most certainly not arrived at the temple proper - this is merely the entrance. Whereas most relics of the old times, the Windigo Reign in particular, have their artifacts perchet atop soil, ages darker than these hide their secrets much deeper. The theories I have in regards to the reason for such a trend have formed entire books, and it is those theories that I am fuelled by on my search to find the proverbial acid with which to spit into the Princess’ face. These ascending steps and stairs edged out of stern greenish stone and covered with ominous windows are by no means what the temple truly entails - an intricate web of chambers, which should…
I must stop here. It would not be productive if I entered a fit right here once more. Suffice it to say, dear reader, dear blistering, rotting, clustered slug for a cunt Princess Celestia, that if you are so interested as to the contents of my theories for which you had shunned me and my work for all the years that I had lead a scientific career, you have a number of books at your disposal. Should you not, well, this issue can be fixed.
I’ll see to it.
End of bloody log.
Expedition log number three.
I wish to say that I had lost all hope in equinity, but that would be a filthy lie. I never truly had any. This day’s issues, however, simply reinforce my beliefs further. What they do not reinforce is my cane, which I don’t seem to be able to cleanse of Marston Rivers’ blood. Blood truly is thicker than water - especially when the pony bearing said blood is unbelieveably thick to begin with. To give the situation that lead to this state of affairs the exact amount of mind it deserves, I shall simply mention that there had been a disagreement in camp. I came out on top.
She is still operational, of course. It was a disciplinary action. As radiant as the wish to see the disgusting creature that claims to be of the same species as I choke on its own vital liquids, its skull shattered by my trusty cane, it shall remain unfulfilled. For now, the bruises on her back and flank should remind her who gives orders in this expedition.
The lowly mare is worth none of the mind I pay to her, but her actions are simply designed to draw my attention. This meek, worthless, simply stupid specimen should never have been allowed to enter the establishment - let alone graduate with a diploma! Perhaps, it is not her naívete and mind-boggling influx of ridiculous ideas that bother me the most, but what she stands for. Rivers is what should have been thrown into the trash on birth, by all mindful standards, and yet here she is. One minor relief in this situation is that to this point, her contribution to the annoyance had not been truly detrimental. While she did nearly get us stuck at the apple farm we purchased the new carriage from with her ludicrous antics, she barely compares to the rest.
I suppose that this night can be relegated to an account of my inadequate companions, if only for my mind to rest somewhat more easily for tonight. There is little else to report on, as after our disagreement, no progress had been made.
The highly depressing point of the matter is simply that there exist other equine creatures that overshadow Marston Rivers in their proficency for obscuring progress.
Take, for example, Mr. Day Walker. The stallion is a naturalist, so I fear I cannot judge his professional qualities - what I can judge, however, is the fact that his head is the thickest liquid container there exists. And the liquid it containts is not that of normal bodily nature, no, and neither is it gray matter, so dearly missing from near everyone I in my direct vicinity - it is alcohol. I am not a drinking colt, myself, so I cannot properly identify the nature of the exact drinks he consumes, but the matter is simply that Princess Celestia had simply decided to supply me with a drunk, washed up, highly delusional Outback naturalist for an archaeological expedition.
He would have been tolerable, as I can see that the stallion used to be nearly educated and almost literate - much more than I could say about any other Outback individual - but he cultivates too much trouble in the group. These airheaded delinquents gather around him as if his literal high spirits maintain their figurative ones. If not for him, they would long ago had been culled, ran away, and left me to do my work the right way. Granted, I am not entirely sure if my plan truly would have worked out should I have embarked on the journey by myself, but the point simply stands that Day Walker, in his miserable existence, maintains the obnoxious persistence of those who surround me.
To make matters worse, I find a steadily increasing piece of my soul burn to ashes each time he merely speaks. The Outback accent is the crudest mockery of the received pronunciation, I must say, as are the Outback ponies by themselves. It is because of him that I keep the quill on lockdown - it is not unlikely that it may confuse his voice for mine, however disgusting the thought is. This is the only way they could find this journal. That would be quite higly suboptimal - it is, after, all for my and your eyes only.
Another source of trouble would be Ms. Quash. Her matter does remind me that I should give my companions one remark of positivity - they are all quite diverse. Ms. Quash, I should say, would be what’d happen if Marston Rivers had been taken from the passage above and turned on her head. It is slightly humorous, in retrospect, how the two mares are nearly polar opposites of one another in behavior, but generate effectively the same amount of headache for me.
It is with surprising boldness of character that Quash takes the step from a being that I could feasibly respect into one I despise rather vehemently. The way her evident intelligence and straight set of priorities merge into a demeanor of an absolutely rancid, manipulative, despicable cunt of a mare is almost artistic. I wonder if she has actors in her line - I wouldn’t ask, of course, as it seems that we have reached a level of mutuality at which neither of us wish to see the other.
That did not stop her from trying to enact another power coup over the expedition during today’s disagreements. I had managed to take her down verbally, but my ears do still sting from the shrill sound of her voice. Unfortunately, the mere fact that I mention a coup so casually is simply the dark reality of the situation - the mare has intentions of her own. Celestia, you putrescent bitch, you knew who to pick for my crew, didn’t you? I do sometimes wonder if you know more than I assume you do…
While this does conclude the list of members, as well as my lung capacity, since speaking of Marston Rivers alone does send me into a painful fit of proper anger, I do have to make note of another meddler in our ranks. Mr. Sand Storm.
Brought in by Day Walker as a guide and supposed expert on the paranormal, which this “Temple of Death” is commonly thought to be, the Arabic equine had thus far merely reinforced my beliefs in regards to their kind. The shawl which covers his preposterously long, brown face, is that of both cloth and lies. While he pretends to know more than he does, it is more than clear that with each explanation of a seemingly unnatural event, the stallion - the bloody horse, if one should pardon my language - is simply raising his eventual bill. According to him, we had passed through two cursed creeks, one haunted swamp, violated the rules of at least four groups of undead spirits, and, in general, should all die rather soon. When that comes not to pass, it will, of course, be him that we owe this all.
That is his design. Sand Storm, or however his Arabic name is pronounced originally, has a hole of significant size in his plan.
The superstitious horse believes that it is our— my intention to explore the temple and then leave, expectedly unscathed.
If you are reading this, dear Princess Celestia, then you can take a very careful guess as to why exactly this is a very faulty line of thinking.
End of log.
Expedition log number four.
Progress was not a word that I expected to say in such company, but the luring creek of the open passages did take over these imbeciles. Today, myself, Sand Storm, and Day Walker had entered the temple for the first time, having spent adequate enough time preparing for potential issues while passing. Pushing the abnormality disruptor forward and armed with ensparkled torches, we were relatively safe when it came to any haunting notices.
The sad truth of relics such as this temple is merely that they have a tendency of being overrun with leftover magic and minded concepts, quasianimated temporal effigies. Ghosts, in a laypony’s word. Non-existential trash left over after another meddler departs. All we had to worry about was a potential cave-in or a set of obstacles left by the Creators, but I knew that could not have been the case.
I can most certainly remember Sand Storm complaining over how the first halls seemed too clean, too smooth, lacking any of the aforementioned traps. A relatively fitting concern, as I would have expressed something of a similar vein had I not been better informed than the rest. The poor horse was so distressed that he left a hastily scribbled marking in front of a plate, evidently saying “Trap” in a decidedly geographically unrelated langauge, saying it would bring about good luck. How, I haven’t got a clue.
Following that, well… I cannot say with certainty. It is here that Equestrian most assuredly fails me, that, or my mind itself. What happened then, it… happened. That is as much as I seem to be able to recollect. I returned to consciousness in camp, frustrated beyond belief, and Day Walker was star-gazing with a particularly distressed expression on his thick, mustached face.
We had wasted up to four hours, and yet I remember nothing. That was not part of the plan. Admittedly, it was something I knew could happen, and that does not unnerve all too much. I came prepared. I… suppose that the stage has now been set. We will re-enter for a more detailed examination tomorrow. Judging by what the rest are saying, what had happened inside the temple was not of eventful nature. They would have noticed any significant abnormality, far too frightened of what may have happened to become distracted.
There is definite progress, I can tell. I feel as if I should be excited, as if I should, with the same ardor as before, tell you, dear Princess Celestia, how deeply mistaken you were in all matters. Unfortunately, all I feel at the moment is a mild headache, a heavy tongue, and a peculiar desire to consume a cigar and then rest my tired head to sleep.
Of course, I would rather not, as this one last… No, sod that. End of log.
