H͉̭̭͈͗̔́̇ͨ̽͋̐͘e̴͈̖͈̲͎͓̹̩̓̈́͒͛̀͂͘l̼̣̻͈͙̠͍̜̄͑ͦ́́ͅl͖̎̾̚o̼͓̤̳͚̙̖̫ͣ͛̀̏̎̎ͭ̂̕͞͡,͕͔͎̯͕̒̇ ̟̻͚̙̀̎͒̌͛ͦ̀̚͜P̃̒̔̓҉̩̣̪̀́o͍̜̖̱̟̿ͦ̅͌̏̽ͨn̞̩͉̱͓̘̥̗͙̍͠ĭͤ̉͊̔͏̦̯̭͓͇̖e̢͇͖̜̥̰͎̫ͧ̇̿́ͥ͒̀̎͘͠s̱̦͎͍̃ͯ͘͜!̺̖͍͚͈̙̣̀͊̈ͨ

The radioactive sun rose over the cold, sterile desert, washing the alien landscapes in hues of bright magnesium fire. The dawn of a glorious day, Celestia's orb grandly awakening once again. Yet more than just the mother star rose above the earth, for from the wretched depths of an ordinary-looking hole, i͗t͋̂̍ͨ̂ ̫͕̣̙̒ͫ͂͜cͪ͛͋ͥͬ́͛҉ă̯͕͇͇͎̟̠̈́ͩ̌̎̓m̖͈͍̲͚̆̎̈e̹̬.

Hundreds of miles away, a pink pony possessing curly hair suddenly contracted a back-spasm. "Winter is coming!" she uttered frostily. Her employers eyed her warily. "Oh wait, wrong franchise. Um, tweaky back means... ă̗͔̻͇̤̂̊͂n͍͙̥͎͉͍̜ͮ̀͒̓͐ ̫ͧ͑ͥ̒̋u͈̖̯̲̗ͭ̈n̰̾ͤͫ̎ͦ̎̚ǩ̺̱̲̰̙̰̓̅̒n̥̘̞͈ͧ̓ó̫̯͚̼̟̠̉͆͗͋w͍̜͇̓̊a͖̞̥̓b̖͉̼͇̭́ͥl̜̤̖̲̮͙̒ͬe̼̺͈͉̰̝ͪ̏͗ ͉̖̔̀͐͒c̖͒ȍ̭͕̲͉̺ͩͭ̓ͯ͊̊s̐ͮ͂ͮͥͦ̚m͎͖̱̠͕̠̩ͭ̓́̍ͯi̭͖̗̟̠͎̐̐͐̃̈̐c͎͍͍ͨ̄̉ ̤̊e̎ͥͧ̐́ͫ̆ͅn̮͙̠̩ẗ̫̫̦̩͈̅i̝͔̬͕̬̟ͦ̃̓ͫ͛t͕̰̝̼̠̩̳ͪ̒ͩyͤ̾̌͋ ͎͚͙͚f̫̖ͨ͂̂ͯͭͅř̑̄̈o͉̱͇̩̜̼̿ͤ̀̎̋̀mͫ̐ ̯̫̤̋͗͂͌ͤ͐͛aͥ̄̿̂ͧñ̪̼̮̣̦̺ͤ̚ỏ̻̣̉t̺̠̱͛̽̆̊ͅh͚̑e̲̹͕ͫͯ̃͗ͬr̹͔̫̪͔̭͓ ̗̤̳̺̠͓̾ͫͭ͋ͮͫḓ͈i͕̯̥̠̔̇̃̂m̹̼̟̓̂ͥ̽̏̓eͧ̓̏̍n̺̈s̠͈ͣ̎͋̏i̜̠̱͉̽ͯͤͭ̾̅̚ō̦̮̼̲͎̃n͙̯ ̦̝͖͇ͨͪ͗ͯͯͯͩi̹̜̩̜͔ș̰͇̜̪͓̭ͥͯ̈̑ ͓̰͓͚c̖͈͙̠͚͚̓o̻̘̭͈̓m̫͕̤͈̿̑ͭ̂̄̇ĭ̺̀͛͂̎n͎̫̜̠ͯ̃ğ̞̮̣̎͑ͥͯ̓̾... I think?"

The pink horse realized the magnitude of its statement and rushed to alert its friends. Together, the six mares assembled in a hollowed out tree. The purple one with wings of awkwardness and horn of power paced in circles. "Pinkie," she asked, "What should we expect? As an ℯʟⅾяḯ¢н  α♭☺мḯηαтїøᾔ yourself, can you describe i̺̻̫̩̘̾ͬ̽ť̪̣̦̟͍̜́͋͗̉͊̚?"

"Nopsies! I have no idea!" Pinkie replied. "Only that ỉ̜̲͕ͫt̘̭̠̬͔̗͋ͦ ̭͙̥̱̣̻̌̇ͥ̽̆̿̽̚c̬͔ͬͦo͖͇͇̓ͦḿ̮̹̀ͮ͛͛͛̚e͓̟̺̻̥ͥs̙̘̫̼̹̞͉͆ͥ͆̑̒̐ͅͅ."

Yes, to describe i͚̟̲͙̬ͥͭ̏̈t̩̦̥͖͍̦͐ͪ would be futile, for when one gazed upon i̲ͥ̌͂͋̊̊̎t̩̗̙̰̮͊ͥ͞ͅš̬̗̹̭̳̏̊̔͊͠ countenance, one's eyes witnessed ą ̶m̛i̵l̶l͞i͞on̶ f̴litting̷ ̕i͠m͡ag͢e͞s ͠o̢f͏ áb͝śurdiţy,͏ ͞fl͜as̛hès͜ ̀of ͢c͘h͘a͠o̴s̸ the mind refused to processes. A few definites could be agreed on: i̟̜ͨͫ͊t̯̪̙͔̫͔̐ͧ͛̍͒̑̀ wa̵s ̷a br͜ow͡ņísh̢-͟g͟r҉ęy̸i͘s͘h ͢bl͝ob ̨t͟he ̧siz͜e͠ ǫf ҉a͞ ̧l̶ar̀ge͜ carri͞a͡g͠e͡,̛ ͝a͜n͠d i͚̟̲͙̬ͥͭ̏̈t̩̦̥͖͍̦͐ͪ o̢o͝z̷ed ͠alo͘ng t̸he̕ g̴rou͞n̴d̢ n̢ot unļike̕ a ̀slug.̛ I̫ͪͧ̾̒̐͗̎t̳̣̘̰͓̩̗͊͛̈́ͨ̉ͦ ̯͕͎͉̌ͤ͆̈ͨ̍c̠͚͍̠͛̚a̞̜̱͉ḷ̴ͣl̮̤̤̿́̆͂e̠̗͖͐͘d͐ͬ͜ ͎͇͉̖̽ͬ̅͝ĩ̸͖̣̤͍̃ͦ͂̅t̷̲͉͒̃̇̿͒̚s̰̱͉͚̱̒ͭ̓ͫe͎̻̤͙͔̩̖ͤ̀̆̂ͧͥ͘l͈̅̆ͩͣḟ͇̳̞͈͓̲͈ͩ ̶̦̩̰̙͒͊Zͮ͏͍̣̦̦a̲͙̱̠̩͖͙̓̉̊̂͘l͕̥̘͌̄ͭg̵̭̥̦ͨo̞͕̗͗̈́. Beyond this, one could only dreaḿ ͜m̶ad͟ dr̀eams̶ ̸as poor facsimile substitutes for its ̨i̲ͥ̌͂͋̊̊̎t̩̗̙̰̮͊ͥ͞ͅš̬̗̹̭̳̏̊̔͊͠ a͜c͞tua̛l ap̀p̷ear̷a̸nce.̀

But how i͈̬̇̈́t̥̜̲̳̫̘ͪ͂ͣ͋ͥ looked was nothing compared to how i̔̐͑̆̍ͅț̱̮̯͍̑ͫͥ͌ sounded. Iţş v̢o͜ice̸,̷ ͟if͘ ͞i̕t͟ ̸could͜ ҉even ҉be ̧ća̵ļle͘d̶ a҉ ̷v̷òíc̴e̢,҉ ̀was͏ l̷i͠k̶e a͞ ̡t͏h̴oųsánḑ ͞b́r̶ass͝ trum̷p̶e̴ts̢ ̷pļay͢i͜ng ͏di͡f̴f҉e̢r͢ȩnt͞ to̶ne͡s̸, ̧a͜ hun̡ḑre̷d̵ g͟las̵s̡e͡s sh̴a͜t͞t͢e̕ring͏ at ͝on͟c͜e. ͘It͡ ̛hưmmed̡ ͜w̵it̕h̢ the ̡ef̶fe̷rv͡es̴ce͢ǹt ęn̵e̢r̨gý of ͝a̴ ҉p҉ac͢k of chi҉hưáh͟ua̛s̕ ̸thuǹd҉ęr͘ing͞ ̴t̕ow͘a̵rd ̶a p͝iģe̵on at ͘a ͡dog p̕ar͡k. A͘t̵ t̢he͝ ̵s̴am͡ę t̀íḿe,́ the l̀òw ̧ba̡ss̷y̡ nơt͠es̛ ̵of pu͞lsar̷s͟ th҉robb̵e̛d ͞ou̕t̷ ͢f͟r̕om͞ ҉i̵t̢s ̕be͏iņg. In smell, in touch, in taste, and in a dozen other senses unknown to the ponies of the world, i̶͎͎̘̐͛͋̃̀ͤ̔ṱ̢̮̳͈͎̭̘̆̏̇͋ͨ̈͜ ẁas҉ ͠e͟qu̢a͟ll̀y̡ ͢baf͟f̡linǵ.̴ Can one explain "red" to she who is colorblind? Nay.So̶ ͞i҉t̢ w͟a̡s̷ ͟with ̡t̛his thing̶.̢ Let us not dwell further on what i҉҉̷́̕t̴͘͘͢͜ was, but rather what í͏̨t͞ did.

Ĩ̺̫̪̹̟̯͆ͨ̂̽̓̚t͙͕̮͉͇̎͛ͣ̿́͢ͅ crawled out of its birthing hole in the desert sands east of Appleloosa, h͖̪͇ͬ͋ͮ̾̆ṵ̯̬͍̒̾ͬ̀̊ͪ̈́͝n̙̻͑͛̌g̭͍̪̻̫ͣ̾ŕ̡͕̹̪̦̹̣̯ͫͣ̂̆͊͆y͏̬͕̲ ̡̘͎͍̭̞̝̩̅̈́͂for the attention of the creatures native to this dimension. I̹̳̬͎̻̪͚̓̾t̞͕̠̯ͩ̓ͬ̐̿ͫ̅͜ ͢so̴ug̨h̀t ̵f͘o̴ŕ al͜l b̛ei͜n̸g̸s͠ ̸to ac̶kn͠o̕w͝le҉d͞ge i͏t.̕ ͝W҉o͟rs͟hip̕ ͏w̶ou͘ld̡ b҉e̢ p̛r̛efe̢rab̡lȩ, ̀b͡ut ͢íͬ̐̄ͯț̨̝̳ͦ̾̆ wóul̵d rel̀u̴c͘t̸a̧ǹtly͝ ͏s͠e̸t̕tl̡e̴ ̀for m̶eŕe̢ ac̢cep͞ta̛n̵ce ̀o͢f i̟̠̼̗̼̣̖͐̿͋͋̌͛͠t͎̼̦̪͙̕s̩̖ ̸ex́i͜st͏en̸ce̴ if́ ńèed ͟b̵e͡. ̴T͟h̕e t͜i̧m̡e͞ h҉a͏d ҉c͠o͞m͟e for̀ ́íͬ̐̄ͯț̨̝̳ͦ̾̆ t́ǫ ̵sum͟mon the ͏náti͞ve f͝a͠una int̀o i̟̠̼̗̼̣̖͐̿͋͋̌͛͠t͎̼̦̪͙̕s̩̖ ͟em͏b̛rac͡e. W̸ith ҉gr̷e͠at͘ s͏ole̴mn̴ity͞ and ̧pu̸rp̨o͜se, íͬ̐̄ͯț̨̝̳ͦ̾̆ ̡ṕlu͞c̵k̨ed͞ t̡he̷ ços̡mi͢c̶ ha͢rp̛strings of ̀t̨ḩe ̵mi͡n͏d̕, ̷an̶d ̡t̸hr͘ǫugho͢ut̨ ͞E͏qu͞est̵ria͞,́ a sin̛g̵le͝ ̡th͝ou͟g̢ht͠ l͠o̷omȩd l̷ar҉g̸e͡ i͢n͞ th̨e̢ ̸m̛in̷ds͜ ̶of a̴l͢l̛:

C͚̮̭̺̩͌͋̋̄͗̌̍̾̍ơ̱̤̙̪ͨ͐́͢͝m̧̖̲̖͉̬͍̍͒e̢̹̲̭͕̟͍̓.̜̗͙̞̭̒ͫ̇̀́

A monolith of direction groped the hearts of the Crystal Empire:

C͐̓ͣ̈̇̒͗o̹̗̩ͧ̐̆̌͆͌̚͝m̘͇̯͑͑ͫͯͫ͜ė̪͍͚̜̻̫ͪ̓̆.

A clarion call to be followed permeated the brains of Manehattan:

C̩̘̽ͨͩͣo̴͖͎̮̗͉͐́͊̆̈̚m̱̜̳͎̖̔̀̈́ͅe̾ͥ̋̿ͣ̅̋͏̻͍̼̘̮̦.

A herald of executive decision echoed within the bodies of Cloudsdale:

C̰̦͞o̢̯̹͔͇̗̭͍̅m̸̹̥ę͈̖ͪͬͯ͗.

Through out the land, the ponies and other creatures heard as one the singular directive issued to them:

C̶͓̫̲̜͖̹̻̫̉̈́͘o̧͙̗͋͆ͤͤ̐̈̚͞m̢̟̬̜ͦ̾̏͜e̯̯̫̣̬̳͋͊̋̽ͯ͂̆̆͟͞ͅͅ.̜̗͙̞̭̒ͫ̇̀́.

And so they came, all of them. Ten million sapient creatures, and another hundred million sentient ones, all heeded ṱ͕̫͔ͯ̓ͦ̕h̸̬̞̩͕̻̘̪̓̆̍͑ͯͨ̽ë́̐ͩ̈́ ̠̞̝̺ͦͦ͋̔̚̚͝ͅc͓̮̰͕ͪ̓̚͟ä́ͯ̅̎̓ͤ̊l̡͙̼̰̖l̘̣͌̊̅̎͢ ͓ͬ̓̾o̲͆̉̉ͨ̐f͙̪̳̫͈͔ ̶ͭͭ̊Z̷̧͍̱̤̃̆̑͢a̵̼̝̥̲̣͚̫̯̓ͭ͋l̗͈̣̼̘͇̹͇ͮͮͦ̏ͨͫ̋͟͡g̡̪̹̖̙̰͕̣̉͌͒̏̐ͥ̍͐ǫ̥̰͓̲̲̦̩ͬ̾̉ͬ̓̎́͐. As one, they left their homes and and shelters to march toward ḭ̴tͨs̰ͣ͗͑͂͐́ ̡̯̹̜presence. Those of higher sense packed essentials; most didn't.

These creatures, pony and griffon, rabbit and fox, ant and butterfly, as one streamed from all corners of the continent. With steady determination, they flowed inward, their movement tracing the outline of some mad god's bath tub drain. They treked, day after day, stopping only to rest a few hours when their bodies would trek no more.

Many did not wake. Many died in this journey to the desert. First came those which died of thirst, for though there were sources of water along the way, many were not of the presence of mind to drink. Soon others dropped from exhaustion, their bodies simply giving up. The smaller animals never had a chance in this regard. They were simply trod over if they sat in the way.

The carniores had the feast of a lifetime as they made there way with more pacive brethren toward their destination. They ate with gusto and aplomb, and it served as a reminder for the lesser things still alive to keep moving, always moving. Ponies nervously shared rank with tigers and timberwolves, ferrets growled at mongeese, and breezies nervously eyed eagles. The world's greatest menagerie was playing out as a cir̕cus ͞of͝ ̨abs̶urd̷ ͟ţr͞a̶ge̷dy.̕

Within a week, what was left of the Equestrian fauna had all gathered 'round ̼̫̜͔̥̐ťͭͩ͋̋҉̼̱ḩ̪̩͓̩͚̀̾̀̾ͪả̙̳̳̬ͯ̆͒͋ͮͣ̀t̴̤̭̠̬ ̗̲̞͜t̖̗̼͕̲͓̱͊́̐̋̕h̷̫̰̟̳͕̘̟ͭͬî̱͈̬̖̥͇̰ͧͨ̅̅͌͑n͔͈͙̬g̖̭͓̫͘, shaping into a ring a mile in radius. Quivering flesh surroundedț̖̩̙̲̬͉̒̃͞ḧ̨́̽ͣe̞ͪͬͅ ̼̣̜̞̱̼͍ͮͧͫò̰t̞͖̱͎͖̽͗̐͌͗ͬ̕h͔̠ͩ̄ͤ͝ȩ̘̻̊ͬͨͪ̌r͚̫͎͈̺̫͖̂ͩ̎w̵̪̩̅͐̄o̸̳͕͛̀̾r̮̯̘̿l̒͋͆̑͋ͫ̆͝d̼ͬl̟͓̹̂́ͅy̞̺͚̔̿̐͠ ҉͚̼̖̞̩̲̲b̧̰̯̲̳̼̳̭e̥̒́̍͌͛̆̄i̩͎ͪͯ͐n͕̱̳͚̤͡ͅg̙̮͞, an audience of countless species. All looked forward, into iͦ̀t̹̦̠̫̿ͯͅs͇̱̙͕̮̒ͤ̇͂͌̓͡ ̥̖͚̘͎̗͎̮̏̓͆ͧ̅u͏n̶k҉n͘o҉wa͡b͏le͟ ̀p̸r̴e͏s̷enc͝e̷, alert, yet not daring to approach within 30 paces. They only breathed, lest they utter a sacreligious sound in front of t̵h҉ei͠r̴ ̨mas̢te̛r҉. Until one did.

A purple mare, laden with wings, crown, and horn, trotted forward several paces. She bowed, then bravely spoke. "O͘h g͜re͢at ́an̶d҉ ̵mi҉g̛h͢ty,͟ ̷ưn̨k͏n̵ow͡a̸bl̕e͏ ̴Z̮̤̭̬̠̦͉̞̒̔̀͘a̘͕̦̭ͮ͗̔̓l͍̯̲̗̝̱ͧͧͮ̽̌̾̕͘͞ģ̨̘̻̇͐ͤ͋̊̍̕o̴̝̙̭ͩ̽̓̀ͦ͢, ͝ỳou ̢bádę ̷us͢ ćo̷me͏, ͘a͏nd we ̕cáme̢.͠ ͟Whát̀ the̴n d̡o y̵ȩ se̷ęk f͏or t͏h͟e̶ę, ̷you҉r a̴l͟ien chi̢ĺdrȩn͟?̶"͏

Zalgo smiled in some far off world where its mouth resided, and spoke a new message into the minds of its followers.

H͈͍ͦͤͫȩ̤̣̙̮̖̐͋̓ḻ̝̻͍ͭ̑ͮͣ͗̄l͙͖̹̏ͪ̅͌̆͊͟o̙̥̯̘̔ͬͨ͐͆͢,̷̞̰̻̪̖̹̍ͧ ̧̩̒́̿e̍̀v̛͚̠̮̣͇̉͗̄̆ͣe͍̥̤̣̖͕ŗ̩͈̟̦̺͕ͥ͋ͦ͋y͉̩̭̩̪̠̠ͩ̾̓͘p̬̲͎̟̜̂ͭͤ͗o̮͔͓̯̮̅̍̏ͣ̂̾͞n̼͎̩͙͍ͮ́͛͝y̺͚̮̟̺̖̟ͥ̀̅̽̈̈!̧̭̑̓̄ͨͣ̿ ̬̣͍͖̐͑I̳̪̻̎̑̓͑͆̚ ͎͙̆ͪͥ̓͒ͧͦa͑͂̐̓ͤ̂͐m̻͖̖̟̬͇ͤͬ ̻̞͖ͣ̍̉̃͂͐w̛̱̞͓̌̉͌ͤ͌ͩͯi͕̺̦͕̘̰͙t̗̬̠̼͉̯̻̎̊͑͛̃ͣh̤ͬ͢ ̰̣͕̼ͥ̅͌ͬ̈́̉̿C̨̳̗͙̤̝͑ͦ̓͆̆a̪͗̏ͅp̫ͦͨ̄̏ͦ̓̊i̦͈͓ͯͭ̔ͬ̈ͣ̔t̃͆̅̿̅͏̤̣̩a̺͖̼͜l̲̗̻ ̠̻͔̔F̡̺͔͖̯̹͉ͥǔ̦͎̲̼̪ͪ̓͛ͭ̐̍n͈̲̗͚̣̩̮͗ͧ̉d̠̲̆̅̍i͈̻̱ͤ̆̎͜ͅn̮̺̮g̵̯͕̮͈͙̎̆͐̄̐,̲̝̯͇ͥͥͨ͑ͮ͗̓͟ ̮͎͇̐̅ä͇̥͈̗̪́ͣ͛̈̇̅́n̶̠͈̥̥͖̔͂̓ͨͫd̳͓̙̘̺̈̊͑ ͓̳͉̟́I̱̖͚̖̠̎̂̇͆ͨ͛͑'̺͖͎̜ͥ͊͗ͅd͈̽ ̢̺̬ͮ͂̿l̘̯̈́̐͆̾̊͂͒i̧̗͔̹̅͆́k̪̼ͬͬͣ͡ẽ̛͉ͬ͋ ̵̘̰̙ͤt̢͉̭̺̩̳̹o͙͔̪̟͈̘̒̈ ̦̟̳͗̆̒ͬ́̈́̌t̟̣̮͖̮̍̕e͖̻̳͇͛̏ͨ͋͗̈́l̶̝̊ͨͮ̿l͌̔ͬ̿ ͅy̫̘̻̌ͯ͛̈́͆̂ͅo̻̮̬̐̉̊̌̚̚ṷ͈͓̟̅ͬ ͓̑a͖͋̓ͯ̉̍͒̀b̹̄̎͘ő̜͍̣͖̐͝ư͔̓̅ͧṯ͈̻͇̭͕̎̑ ̼̘͔̥̽ͧo͕ͥ̏̌ͬ͛̑͘u̘̰͓̯̥̹͎̿r̩̲̬͍̆͑̀̊ͯͭ ḁ̱͖̦̊͊̈̊͢t͕̣̞́̌̌ͬ͋ͭt̥̤ͦ̍̂̾ͪ͑r̵̠̖̘̃̔a̴̲͕̙̤ͣ͒̋͐ͥ͛c͈͙͙̼͋̃͒̔̋͞t̼̯̱ͣ̿̑ͫ́̅͠î̛͈͉͉̥͎̤̈́͑ͅṽ̜̀ͅe̬͍͈̺ ̲̪̯͗̉ͪͩ͋̇̚͘t͖͚̮̂̍̌ͣ̏̔̚h̭̮̭̞̠̥ͥ̃̐ͫ̈́̓̂ì̵̱̝̗̰͍͑̂̾r̴̼̾t͖ͨͥy̸̭̻͚͗͐̌̋́̎͐ ̙̠̆mͧ̾͊̾̉̓ͫi͑ͪ҉͍͎̳͔̙l̮͔̠̞̲̣̏ͅl̛ͨ̀̉ȉ̵̲͎̝͚͐̊̅̌̄ȯ̱̯͎͛n̦̣͍̟̩͋̅͊͗͊ ͕͉̣̠̹ͣy͛̋̊̀҉͙͈̪ẹ̭̞̃̀̽ͤa̸͙̞̱ͥ̑̍̓r̢̩͕̠̓̄ͅ ̡̠͚̮ͦ̈́̍ṁ̇ͥ̈́҉̰̳̤̰̟̝̩o̹͎̱͈̱͈̫̿r̟̹̝̠͂͜t̲͍͚̳̺͆͊́̆͂ͭͪä͓͖̖̱̝̘̙́͊̋g̛̟͓̝͍̃ͣ̒̒͊͒e̵̹͓͓s̜͉̫͚͍̱̜̉̃ͮ͐̚ ̤͚̽w̳̱̓̽̃̃e͓̯̰̬͇̺̬ ͍̲͇͓̺̞̥͋̂ͣͭ̂̃̚ḁ̵̠͈͚̑͂r̦̹̹̜͉̜̭̉ͭ̇̒e͚͓ͣ͂̽ͦͭͫ ̵̪̠́c̷ͪ̓̉̃u̥̳̭r͗ͣ̕r̮̤͌e̳͍͊̎̚n͓̦͑͜tͣ̂ͪ̆̌҉̠̘̮̣̦l̲̳͎̫͋́͆͂ͬ͡ỵ̷͔̻̤̭̭̃̚ ͓̫̫͖̼͕̀ͅo̢̫̮̞̮͖̍ͫͥ̒̆̒ͣͅf͎̳̱̱̳̲͚͛f̧̩̭̥̹̬ͧ͋ȇ͑ͫ͂̏ͭr̯͑̄̀ïͮ̌͘n͙̦̐͋͂ͩͨ̽g̹̩͖͈̠ ̣̬̫̒w̴̭͓̣̖̦̐̉i͉͖͇̼̟͓̐̂̆̓t͞h̥̮̳̪͖ͨͨͫ̾ͥ ͕͙ͫ̉ͯ͘lͬ̆ͭ̀̈́͐̽̀ͅo͇͚̦̖͕͌̿̊ͨ͊̉́ͅẃ̢͕̐͌̈̊ͅ ͇̹ͫ̄ͨc̯ê̟̟̖̥̣̍͊̒́̓͜n̵̥̲̻̓t̾͑̍̈́̆ͩ҉e͙̠̋̉ͧn̝̦̺̫̙̥͎̉̍̐̎n͓̫͖͚͎̮̔͊̐̚͠ī͇̰a͉̯͓ͥ̽́̊ͯḽ̴͓̣̌̏͋l͙̺̲͔͎̟͒ͨ̎̚y͍̭͇͚̙̲͈͊̔͗̽ ̻͉͛̀̇i̷n̨͚͚͔̭̰̒ͣ̎ẗ̵̝͍̞̻͈̱͚́̆̿͗ͥͯè̡̞̫̹̞̬͎̼̆ͨ̓r̥͕ͬͅė̟̅s͕̙̣̠̖̘͓ͦ͌̌̇̔̋t̥̚͟ ̺̹͉̻̿͢r̶̰͉̻a͍̮͎̺̬̗͑͋t̠͎̖̠̩ͨe̐ͭ̊ͨ͘s!̩͈̾ͦ ̠̯̣͉̠͌͂̕T̢͓̭̱͉̝͒̆̍̂̿͌h̻ͬͦ̾͢i̒̆̉̓̽ͭs̛͉͖ ̟̜͇̒̿̓̚ͅe̮̫̮̪̼̾̃ͥ̏̅̚x̣̮͍̻̖ͯͬ̍c̘̗̮̱̿̓̍͘i̷̟̬̣͍̞̣ͫ͐̐̚t̖͉͈̔͛̓̓̀ͅi̎̂̅̈́̚ņ̲̘̟͓̈ͪ̇͒̉̇ͅg̪̤͔͈͉̖̃̏̎̓ͪ̌ͅ ̢̣͚̪͆̄̈ͩ̿̽́ǫ̦͍̿f̲̫̖͈̌̽ͤ͒͂f̹͉͍̹͚͈́ͦ̅͌̌̿̿e̾̽͌ͨ̚ṟ͕͇̭͍́̀ ̡̒i̻̦͓̹͐́͐͑̉̚̚͘s̨̖̲͉̦̝̜̐-͋ͧ͏̜-̾͛ͧ̚͠ ̮̆̃̑ͩ͗̽ ̛̠̈ͧ̽̂ͯͭ̚

A thaumic blade of insight, purple and virtuous in nature, sliced through the material and spiritual worlds as one, severing the mental link i͖̬͖̫͇̅̒ͮ͗̒͘t̝̮̭͒̃̉͆ had established with all things living. Twilight Sparkel groaned and powered up her Royal Canterlock Voice. "Go home, everypony, there's nothing to see here!". She grumbled an afterthought to herself: "Faust above, I hate telepathic marketers."

~Fin.~