AGC

"A common misconception among ponyfolk is the role of deities in their lives: most believe Celestia and Luna, the sun and moon, to be the driving forces of nature.

In reality, the holy alicorns serve only to drive the cycle of day and night.

Many know of the eldritch Discord, to whom reality and reason twist like leaves in the wind.

But are these deities worth calling deities in their own right, borrowing from the power of something greater?

The Alicorns' domain is a cyclical one: Servator’s domain.

Discord rules over unbridled change; by definition, the dominions of Dator and Saevitor.

All other gods, in short, belong to the Triumvirate." the cloaked stallion explained.

"Without Them, the world  would be an impossible place to live: the sisters' delusion of prosperity through peace and peace through coexistence can hardly withstand scrutiny: overpopulation quickly becomes a problem if nopony ever dies."

Rainbow Dash shuddered. The implications of population control were still fresh in her mind.

For the past few weeks, she'd been studying under the cultists, learning about their mad beliefs. She'd never been a very devout pony, despite having twice met Princess Celest- Meretrix Solis, she corrected herself. The cult had a fetish for assigning Old Equestrian names to things: the old language had a mysterious charm about it, she agreed, but learning a language just to sound fancy was a bit extraneous.

"Thus, all lesser deities," the teacher continued, "owe their power and being to the Triumvirate. They should be grateful for our Lords' great gifts to them, but they instead squander their endowments on politics and petty ceremony!" He coughed these last words as though spitting out soiled hay.

"They frown upon all who waste their precious gifts, who proclaim themselves gods! They ask but fealty -but credit- for that which they have given! These blasphemous zealots deserve no respect! Constantia per Vicem!" he chanted, bringing his sermon to a crescendo.

The scattered audience chanted back in unison: "Vicis per Constantiam."

Through Change, Constance. Through Constance, Change.

Derpy looked at the flyer in her hooves:

Missing, it said.

Earth Mare. Light grey coat. Dark grey mane. Purple eyes. CM Treble Clef. Goes by 'Octavia'.

She frowned. The pianist was always so nice to her.

She pinned the flyer to the town's bulletin board. Beneath it, a dozen other similar posters hung: Tenderheart, Golden Harvest, Cheerilee… she knew these names. This made her sad.

"What's wrong, Derpy?"  a raspy, familiar voice said from behind her.

She turned: this wasn't anypony she recognised. Before her stood an ashen Earth mare with dark pink eyes, a single crimson bolt running the length of her black mane. Her night-blue cloak served to obscure her flank.

"I said," repeated the mysterious mare, having allotted about thirty seconds for the walleyed pegasus to examine her, "'What's wrong, Derpy?'"

"Oh. I'm sad. All of the nice ponies are going away."

"Uh -huh. And where do you think they're going?"

"Ahd'n'uh," she shrugged, "I think they're going missin'. That's what the sign says."

"Oh well. I hope you cheer up, Derpy. Cohnstanteeya pear weekem."

This last phrase escaped simply out of habit: she hadn't done much socialisation outside of the cult. She hung her head and hoped that Derpy hadn't noticed.

Derpy blinked slowly. "Whawassthat?"

"Oh, uh… Gotta run now, cya next weekend!" she spoke, walking away from the mailmare.

"Oh." For a second there, Derpy thought that the black-haired mare had quipped in Old Equestrian. The ancient tongue sounded so graceful to her: mysterious, majestic. She trotted away, singing to herself: "Louse day oh een eggs Chelsea's it enter a box homie neeboos…"

"Here ya go, honey!" said Mrs. Cake, handing an azure unicorn a small sack of coins. The unicorn weighed it in her hoof.

The once great and powerful Trixie sighed wearily: she'd been doing odd jobs and birthday parties for nearly six months, and still had less than half of what she needed to buy a new cart and escape this gods-forsaken backwater. Nopony took her seriously anymore: since being shown up by that librarian goody-goody, that incident with Ursa Minor, that scandal with Whooves; she was becoming more and more a laughing stock than a showpony.

She heard hoofsteps approaching her from behind. Ponies about at this time of night tended to be very interesting folk. She turned and risked a glance: a grey mare with black and red hair, wearing a dark cape similar to Trixie's own, stood behind her. She looked familiar, though Trixie was sure she had never seen this pony before in her life.

The shady mare spoke: "The great and powerful Trixie, huh?"

Her voice was stained with mordant defiance, hostility: this pony meant business.

"Yes, that would be I. And you are…?" she returned, maintaining a semblance of courage.

"Nopony important. What're the bits for?" she asked casually.

"Trixie was doing housework for the Cakes; they've been awfully burdened since their only employee was discovered to have been using their cellar as a butchery…" Trixie trailed off, sure that this stranger didn't want to hear any tidbits of local history. After the murderer's discovery, the shop had been closed down for health —and, to a lesser extent, psychological— reasons.

"I'm sure it’s difficult for them: getting by without their life's work, because some crazy tenant thought it would be interesting to make horse-cakes." the mare spoke, obviously well-versed in local happenings. She chuckled as the last words escaped her mouth.

"Heh… yeah…" laughed Trixie nervously. This pony was crazy. "Well… I gotta go now! Nice talking with you!"

She galloped down a nearby alley, losing sight of the probably-insane mare as quickly as possible.

Dearth sighed. Naturally, her first target just had to be her: the show-off unicorn was as cowardly as ever. She followed her prey calmly down the alley, unafraid of losing her.

A good hunter stalks its target, learns its every move, and waits until the best possible opportunity to strike.

She poked her head around the corner and made brief eye contact with Trixie. The showpony  screamed and ran with renewed vigour.

Rainbow followed, like a turtle to Trixie's hare.

Despite her magical and charismatic prowess, Trixie was far from the brightest tool in the shed. There was only one place she could be going.

The library door burst open.

"Twiiiliiight! Twiiiliiight!" the panicked illusionist begged. The smart unicorn and she were friends, right? She'd help her!

Where was she? She had to be here! Had to!

She searched the building: there was no sign of her anywhere, though her belongings were untouched: an unmade bed, a bed-basket for that runt of hers, some unshelved books…

“HOO.”

Trixie started hard enough for her hat to fall off.

She looked for the source of the noise.

There. An owl stood perched on a bar on the windowsill. Since when did Twilight have—

Wait. She looked deep into the owl's eyes. How can I trust—

“HOO.”

Something snapped inside of the once great and powerful Trixie.

This owl mocks her.

Mocks a legend.

Neighsayers will not be tolerated.

Magic glowed at the tip of her horn: the window, in front of which the pest stood, crumbled into itself, forming a nearly perfect sphere of shattered glass. This she brought down on the heretic with all of her willpower, smashing and lacerating the unsuspecting owl into submission.

She blinked. Why had she…? What had she…?

She collapsed, crying, too afraid of the possibilities to rationalize any further.

"Madness is quite an adventure, isn't it?"

The voice from behind her did not come as a surprise this time. She knew the mare was following her.

"I… what did I just do?"

"In my eyes? You just killed our only witness. To anypony else? You just went completely psycho and pulverised Owloysius with a window."

She regarded the mess on the floor: the pile of crystalline shards served to refract and distort the image of Owloysius' torn and shattered remains into a beautifully macabre kaleidoscope of blood and feathers.

“Not bad. I personally would have gone for the perch; but then again, I’m not the great and powerful Trixie.”

"Who are you?!" Trixie screamed, lashing at the dark mare. This pony followed her across town, and then had the nerve to mock her?!

In a single swift movement, Dearth produced something short and black from under the cloak, and placed it just above Trixie's sternum. The unicorn stopped mid-lunge.

Dearth smirked. "Anypony with a dash of sense could see that I'm nopony to screw with.

"Ponies are born and ponies die everyday. There has to be some way to keep the population in check, right? We don't want too many ponies running around, unable to follow their dreams or make a name for themselves because somepony else got there first. Constantia per Vicem, Vicis per Constantiam."

Something struck a chord within Trixie. It might have been the Old Equestrian: as a magic user,  she'd been taught the language, expected to worship it. It might have been her choice of words: the story of her life, turned into ammunition and unloaded into her already-dying carcass. It might have been the steel-cored obsidian spike being pulled from her throat nicking her carotid.

Rainbow's Dearth wiped her dagger on the pony's hat.

What to do with the body…

The idea hit her like a sphere of broken glass: this would be the greatest prank of all time.

Twilight had had a wonderful time staying at Rarity's for the night: she'd learned so much about dressmaking and motivation. She couldn't wait to get this to Princess Celestia.

Twilight opened the library door and screamed.

Hanging from the ceiling, Owloysius was missing most of his flesh; that which was there was sewn together hastily, leaving large patches through which his viscera were visible and free-hanging. His wings were sewn together in front of him, and his head had been sewn on backwards.

On the balcony above stood a dead pony: suspended by ropelike guts, the great and powerful Trixie stood erect before Twilight’s bed, posed with her arms held high and her head even higher: her spine was jutting from her throat, standing upright, her head still resting atop.

Pieces of flesh of various sizes, colors, and origins were scattered among the shelves. On her bed, a bloodied quill sat next to a rolled and sealed parchment. She didn’t want to open it.

On the wall, written in blood, among other, less legible scrawlings and diagrams:

'ANTIQVVS ORDO SECLORVM'