Tales of the Veiled Ones, by Beloved Craftby I Thought I Was ToastChaptersForeword - Through the VeilThe Library of LiesBlank SlateWhat Madness Sleeps in SanityForeword - Through the VeilIt has been some time since I put quill to parchment, so let us begin with a simple truth. You, my humble readers, know me as Beloved Craft. You have never sought to see beyond my simple pen name – although I received many letters asking as to how many ponies have held it over the last thousand or so years – and I have found a certain serenity in such anonymity. The truth – or one version of it – is you may know me as Lord Third Eye the Fifty-second. I am the former royal bard and rumored oracle to Princess Celestia. Oddly enough, I am also supposedly dead after a body identified as mine turned up in a building that collapsed during the wedding of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza and Shining Armor. They really should have checked that better. Looking under the horn for a third eye would have been a good start. Your fathers – whether they are fans of my work or not – may know me as Lord Third Eye the Fifty-first. And your grandfathers would likewise recognize me as Lord Third Eye the Fiftieth. As you may have caught on by now, the pen name Beloved Craft has been passed through my house since the first generation. Taking the name was mostly done on a whim. I’m certain the original Lord Third Eye never dreamed he would gain any sort of following – however small. The name Beloved Craft was an escape for us. As royal bard it was me and my forerunners job to bring smiles and dance and joy to special occasions. It was not a particularly good outlet for the darker muse within us, however. The nobility tend to lack a taste for the bizarre and sublime unless it came straight from their own backsides. Anything that cannot be illuminated by their rather dim intelligence is seen as a waste of time: There are only so many heartbeats in the heart to push their precious noble blood through their veins I suppose. Perhaps I should refer them to a specialist. Last I asked mine I had a few billion left myself. Of course, the price of knowing is to not know. Any true malpractitioner varies his prices without telling. But that is enough of my petty – if well founded – complaints of the nobles. As Beloved Craft, I was able to cut loose the shadows within my soul. For this I thank you. You see, it is my firm belief that by plumbing the abyss within our minds we can often reach an enlightenment and tranquility beyond what we find in the light of day. Every light – no matter how bright – holds a bottomless kernel of darkness folded within its brilliant depths. To ignore that darkness is to invite disaster – such as when the supposedly omniscient Celestia failed to fully heed my warnings on Nightmare Moon. I hope you enjoy my stories, gentle readers, and that you plunge into the strange and dark. Travel through the not-quite fires of Tartarus and damnation. Emerge from the abyss a better pony than walking in gentle Harmony’s light would ever grant. Never would I wish you to ever truly leave that light, but my stories grant you dark illusions and fancies – gardens in which to grow. I digress, however, for in my current musings I lie to you even as I finally speak the truth. I have written so many stories over the years – this volume may be my final one – and I no longer am sure of what is truth and fiction myself. Some stories were pure fiction. Some stories left me trails of victims to find. And some stories I lived through myself. But of all the strange and fanciful monstrosities I have written of, there is one I know to be true. I am intimately familiar with one of them, because I am one of them. They are not the truest of my stories. Old habits die hard I guess. I am, however, one of what many of you think of as the Veiled Ones. You, my readers, think of me as an unseen weaver of secrets and lies and illusions. I think of myself as a changeling. My name – by the Azure Veil I can’t remember my full name anymore – was Father Arachne I believe. I am one-thousand four-hundred and twenty-three years old, and I am the last of House Arachne. I won’t bore you with the details, and I will let you guess how many Third Eyes there actually were. I felt a confession to be necessary, however, because of a very interesting phenomenon in Ponyville. The Veiled Ones are starting to crawl from the shadows once more. The monsters I’ve been creating stories and rumors of are here, and you’re horribly uninformed on them. They are not actually creatures of vast and unimaginable eldritch power. They may actually be pleasant – if they are not the typical backstabbing lord. And they do actually have everyday interests. I think you already know mine. You’re reading them after all. The Library of LiesMy family found the library on accident – so I desperately hope. We found it in a valley of most peculiar design. It was a single jagged rent in the earth with a narrow bridge clasping to each side with the tenacity of a dying foal. My father deemed that crossing the bridge would amount to an assault on common sense, and a scrying spell was sent into the cloudless sky above to determine a safer route. I couldn’t help but agree with father’s sentiment as our little family of four viewed the chasm from above. Cracked and crumbling the bridge was unsound at best and already collapsing at worst. In hindsight, this was my first clue – though I lacked the insight of my current madness to see it. It was like an eye that had stared into the abyss and back. The bridge was no pupil, but a scar – a scar of self-inflicted blindness meant to hide the shadowy lies within. The ravine was too large for unicorns as noble as we to go around, however, so we decided to teleport down and up each side. It was a point of pride among us that both father and mother could teleport. Our scrying showed no form of life – hostile or otherwise – and there were plenty of ledges to use as stepping stones. Mother swatted father with her tail – her silver tongue claiming his silvering mane could never keep up with her. And father laughed his boisterous laugh – quipping that more silver simply meant he knew more tricks to getting ahead. Thus we began our fall from reality with a foalish race between mother and father teleporting into the depths of insanity. Mother with her power took Quill and rushed quickly ahead with great leaps. Father used me as his navigator, and together we plotted a complex yet efficient chain of shorter jumps. Laughter was had by all, but I suppose if any fault is to be placed in us it is here. The trip down had been more taxing than mother and father had liked. Lost in their little race, they had shown off to one another like the wild days of their youth. And that meant spending a night in the chasm. In the murky depths of the chasm it seemed no true day or night existed. The bridge – that a pony would swear to be naturally hewn up near the top – was somehow perfectly constructed to align with the path of the sun and the moon. With the sun at not an hour past high noon we buried in the dreary hues of an eternal twilight. It was an impossibility of color made into reality that only now occurs to me. Twilight is more than a simple lack of light, after all. It is when the light is truly farthest from us. The sun’s sweet caress must swim through so much more of the empty void between us to grace us with its light. It is that moment of despair between the hope of the sun and sky and the hope of the moon and stars. In twilight we question the coming of another day – like I am now – and that is why it is twilight where ponies are truly lost. It was the second sign I suppose, yet I know not if it was merely illusion or some depraved warping of reality. In this place so many lies crawl through my mind like spiders on a web. I cannot be sure I even saw the twilight, and hope with desperate fervor that I never truly did. It was in seeing this as we finally looked up after our capricious race down that Quill soiled himself like a common mud pony, and asked if we could leave immediately. I agreed with him most heartily in spirit – although I was obliged by the sibling code of honor to poke fun at his expense. It was a facade on my part. My parents wore them too. Good natured jokes and japes held us together like a breaking mirror as we crossed the murky depths. The stone was slick and black and moist. Soft sighs of dark emerald mist escaped the little cavities pockmarking its chill surface. And, as day turned into night, the tiny wisps of mist thickened into an almost choking miasma. Before even the first dots of starlight could grace our presence the sky was gone in the smothering fog. The few gaps to be found showed naught but the endless void between each speck of hope in the sky and to see that sky – however briefly – only brought on more of the dry wine of despair. And – like many a drunk who drowned their sorrows in drink – our own spirits seemed to lift more in our cheery facade. Only Quill could face the truth, and he all but clung to mother as we continued on. Finally, we reached the other side of the ravine and thought ourselves blessed – or so we thought. In the deepest shadows under the bridge there was a structure built into the cliff. It was a small and unassuming thing – yet another lie to add to the list – but it was shelter. We rushed inside, and the frigid ice that coated our hearts melted in the cozy little den. Perhaps that was the third sign. I cannot tell within all the lies. All I have is a nagging suspicion over our quick relief. Relief over our escape was so obvious an answer before, but I wonder over why we did not question the purpose for such a lovely building in such a dreary place. Decadent decorations that even now defy my explanation filled the homey hovel. Beds, lounges, pillows, and chairs littered the room – all were arranged just so around a number of cozy hearths that burned with merry fires. They were verdant flames – clearly enchanted – filled with an excitable warmth the chill stone outside had denied. All thoughts of safety and the dangerous chasm outside fled our heads, however, as we beheld what lay beyond the den. It was a simple trap door that Quill found under his bed. He all but ran from the shelter on seeing it, but we coaxed him to stay. We were foals not to realize what traveling farther down into this madness would lead to. Down we went – through the last shield the earth dared provide us – and we found a sense of sugary wonder for once. Father had once seen the royal archives in ancient Unicornia before the Great Exodus. It was with awe in his voice he said he had never seen so much knowledge before. It was with purpose – and great denial of the chasm outside – we began to study. That small spark of tangy curiosity all unicorns have had turned into a roaring and hungry blaze. We started our research humming merrily next to the cozy warmth of a fireplace. As the night burned away, little Quill drifted to sleep as my parents and I sequestered in our little den. His inquisitive mind would craft wonders in the realm of dreams: Our curious minds sought knowledge in the sea of books. It shames me that Quill was the first to reawaken to the truth – whatever that may mean. As days turned to weeks, his sleep became restless. I would turn from my texts to see him watching the shadows beneath the door to the miasma outside. His ears flicked about in every direction trying to catch a sound none of us could hear, and he jumped at the slightest caress of a dusty old cobweb lining the shelves of the library. In the end, he fell back on his old group of imaginary friends to give him the courage to carry on. He was a little old for such things, but it gave him peace of mind so I held my tongue. Perhaps if I had questioned it he would be here with me now. No matter his own icy fears, he stubbornly insisted on assisting us. Foals that we were, we had him gather the tomes we needed. Exploring the library with his supposed friends gave him an excuse to be happy – something he needed as his restless slumber finally eased. One day we found him to be tarrying on too long. The miasma was rising outside, so mother went to find him in the depths of the library. Her scream will be burned into my mind for the rest of my life – however short it may be. It was shrill and desperate, yet it was cut off with a violent silence. There was no echo traveling the dusty old halls. There was only the disturbing quiet that comes with the precipice of death. It was a void in the music of the universe – where one of its myriad of merry instruments had their strings cut in the prime of its performance. A duet was lost. A tragic solo was born, and my father teleported into the darkness before I could think to follow. I follow his hoofsteps now – traced into the dust in the deepest recesses of the library. My journal floats open at my side. I wish to live, but how can I be sure of such an outcome when I don’t even know my foe. I have decided to write my story as I tread into this abyss – hoping at least my tale will see the light of dawn beyond the wretched twilight of this chasm. There is a strange tranquility to find as my quill scratches the paper. It settles my racing heart and grants caution to every hoofstep. I have no time to read it now or correct mistakes. I’m not even sure it’s writing my story. It could be drawing lewd sketches for all I know. What I know is that the act of writing grants me clarity and reason as it always has. My thoughts churn faster than the speed of light as they burn through my mind – purging the lies even as they rebuild themselves. I can see the one remaining truth to my existence. Everything is a lie. There may be a truth, but I can’t hope to see it now. The things here – and things is all I dare call them – craft the lies in my head. They planted the spiders that spun the deceptions. Their silky webs now lie in ash, but no sign of the truth remains. The start of the lies is lost. The length of my visit is gone. My traveling companions are unclear. I have memories, but cannot trust them for the silken comfort they provide. Thoughts of a family drift through my head, and I question if they are mine. They might simply be more lies. I can hear the things – nevermore than just things – in the shadows now, but I cannot trust what I hear. There is the faint clop of hooves, and there is the muffled padding of paws. Wings buzz and flap. Alien chittering fills the air – their true voices echoing and fracturing through the air. Even that small truth hides them from me in the end. I do not know how many there are or where they hide among the echoes. I catch glimpses of them in my horn’s pallid light, but I do not understand what I see. I see growling timberwolves, roaring manticores, rumbling dragons, and chitinous spiders – all truly monstrous in size. It’s as if the pits of Tartarus themselves have opened into these empty halls, and I run from the beasts whether or not they’re real or simple images conjured to scare. The shadows twist and turn. Walls change before me – almost crashing into me as the labyrinth of the library changes. Some are illusions and lies no doubt, but I cannot risk there being a hidden truth. I need to escape, and so I run. The library tempts me though: I see things I dare not hope to be true. I see my mother with my father’s broken body in her arms, and I see my father with my mother’s broken body in his arms. My heart aches to comfort them – to show the lies our lives have been mired in. But both are lies in their own right. Their eyes were never green. I see Quill surrounded by his imaginary friends – as if they were real all along. It is a deception as clear as day, and yet I yearn to join in their games and play. There is a small oasis of joy amid my ever shifting nightmare. His eyes are green like the others – a sign of all the lies. I run until my bones drag like weights on the ground. I can feel exhaustion claiming me. My eyes refuse to open, but I can hear hollow hoofsteps trotting inevitably towards me. I can see the green light of a horn through closed eyes, and my terror just washes away as mother sings me softly to sleep. It was all just a nightmare. It was all just a dream. The lies were all a lie. Tomorrow was going to be just perfect – the kind of day of which I’ve dreamed since I was small. Tomorrow the five of us would leave for Equestria. And as sweet joyous slumber claims me, I use what little strength I have left to return the book in my grasp to the shelves. Blank SlateForgive the blood and chicken scratch. It’s hard to write in perfect form when I’m coughing up my lungs. My minds as sharp as ever though – another knife of stabbing pain. I don’t have much time remaining, but I finally remember my name. Quail! That’s the name of the bird whose feather is in my mouth. Forgive the blood and quail scratch – not chicken scratch as I thought. The quill is moist and red now like the deepest twilight sky. Specks of cloudy black mar the surface, yet quails are not black. I think my stomach is revolting. Perhaps I missed the lungs Forgive the blood, bile, and quail scratch – not chicken scratch as I thought. I was never sure of what was in those dainty dishes my horned hosts favor so. It tasted ever so sweet going down, yet now appears an inky black – a poison for the soul. I have not much time remaining, but I finally remember my name. This parchment is dated – stained with my soul – but it will have to do. I shudder often at the taste of me that lingers on this quill. But I am of the earth not of the horn. I remember now how my blood and sweat and tears are what really work the land. A little more will not hurt me. I finally remember my name, and I need to write the tale. I was almost passed by in that abandoned quarry. My coat was blackened with dust. I would have been taken for another rock if I hadn’t been all but trampled. The foals were playing hide and seek that day in tempting and forbidden places. Craggy midnight fangs bit into the sky along the cliff’s side. And I recall it as a hole in reality trying to clutch where it couldn’t belong – a parasite of twisted space I’m sure. The stone was black and pockmarked with a strangely lustrous shine. It was filled with a stifling silence that still brings my mind to a graveyard. And when that silence broke, and the ghosts awoke, the land would shake and shudder. It would heave an ominous sigh, and the winds would flow through its hollows and holes like a beast that was close to awakening. The foals and their parents ‒ although I wonder who was who sometimes – did not see the evil of this place. They did not feel the silence of the rock within their very bones. The rock was not a rock. I refuse to think it so. The evil of that place is all I remember of my former life. Even with my name now, it is sad to say I’m left with simple conjecture. I hope I had been happy before that evil claimed me. Regardless, they found me and took me in. They were surprisingly pleasant and tolerant for a family of noble horns. After I woke within the mansion – a scant few miles from the quarry – I found myself regaled with the tales only innocent youths could muster. They spoke of playgrounds and icky bugs and high adventure. It was the normal excitement of youth, describing a place I knew as evil. I knew not how or why I knew. I know not still today. I wonder whether that is good or not, since it spares my mind the pain. However, there is the faintest burning in the recesses of my head. There mental wounds were cauterized, and they caution the need of a warning of which I have none to give. I only have my tale, and it seems to tell the end. It lacks beginning and middle. It has lost the truth I say. Perhaps this is my warning, but I am merely happy to know my name. My hosts – I know you read this – burned with the usual sorts of irrationality found among their kind. Only the judgmental stares were missing. Their heads went beyond the clouds, where pegasai roam, to the airless void of space. They were as kind as I could ask for though, and I fear their curiosity will be their end. They studied the stone for magic, and I know that will not end well. If I escaped, then surely the beast that lurks there now sleeps in hibernation. I fear they might just wake it. That is neither here nor there. This is my tale – not the beasts – and the beast is finally behind me. I hope – or maybe I don’t as the phantom sound of chittering whispers in my ears. Forgive the jagged dash of ink. I had to look for myself. My hosts, however doomed they are, took me in none-the-less. I was as much a curiosity to them as the sinister place they found me. When I was cleaned of the charnel dust that coated me I was found to be naught but grey. My coat was grey. My mane was grey. My eyes were grey. My flank was bare and grey. That was what drew them. I lacked color and life and purpose. I could not remember a thing. They asked if they could call me Blank Slate. I smiled and told them yes. I was not particularly educated before my hosts took me in. I could not remember my life, but facts and misconceptions jumped to my mind with ease. They jumped with so much ease, however, because no clutter filled the vacuum. The first few months were spent on my diction. I was apparently quite vulgar before I was found, and my hosts preferred I be prim and proper with a scholar’s vocabulary. The lessons that followed were many and varied. I fear my tribe may no longer see me as their own. I was truly a blank slate, and I came to relish the learning. My mind may as well be a unicorn’s, but the salt of the earth fills my bones. The lessons continued, and tests came and went. I was poked and prodded for progress, but such tests only happened in stages. Dead end after dead end meant each study bloomed from inspiration anew. I find it ironic death is what it takes to truly get the progress they craved. All those jokes of autopsies rang truer than we thought. The days went by and I was content. I had no purpose other than to find my purpose in my studies and tests. Yet every day at twilight I found myself staring towards the quarry. I could barely see the blackened fangs of that place savaging the sky from my balcony in the breeze. At times my heart would freeze in a flash – no source to the sudden fear. It took me months to see the change since I never used the mirror. I am not vain, and I did not care for balancing my looks. But within the house the silver, glass, and tarnished brass held my reflection still. Whenever I caught it within my eye – whenever I thought I was going to die – that icy dread filled me. Another pony was staring at me. I was sure it was the beast of the quarry, yet it never claimed my life. It simply looked at me and waited. It knew that which it shouldn’t know. Paranoid is the word my hosts began to use when I finally found the beast. They assured me I only saw myself. They described me as I was. I knew that reflection wasn’t me. I couldn’t see myself in the mirror. The beast had taken my purpose and life. It could have taken my reflection as well. I knew without a shadow of doubt that I was seeing the beast. It stalked me unseen from behind, and it knew what it shouldn’t know. I became skittish and jumpy. My eyes may have well been in the back of my head for I spent more time looking backwards than forwards. I snapped at the foals one time – only one time. I avoided them after that. The beast knew I knew and used that against me. Thus it made me do its dirty work without ever lifting a hoof. All it did was watch me and follow when I moved. I tried to protect my precious hosts through my current isolation, but that only made them distraught. Everything I did was to shield them from the beast – He Who Watches and Waits. The moniker burned in my mind as a name for the beast. It was not a true name nor memory, but actions speak louder than words. His actions drove me to my actions. My actions led to my hosts actions. Now they are beating at the door and pleading with me for something, but I dare not heed their calls. For I remember my name now. When the door began to quake in my isolation, I realized I only brought on them the evil of that wretched place. Drunk on the wine of despair, I raised the knife I kept close by to slay the source if not the beast. I was quick but not accurate. I am thankful for that, because now I remember my name. I stared at the wound after leaving my mark, but the blood was a trivial concern. I was bleeding in a different way – a way most strange and peculiar. Color sprang from the wound to fill the grey. It was a lovely toffee brown that I could not help but smile at, and I watched it spread up my coat. That was when my mark appeared. Appeared is perhaps a misnomer, however. Forgive me for that. My vision is swimming. My clarity is fading. The twilight is calling my name. The color bled from my body in at least three ways I could count. The red of twilight mattered naught, but I cared for the grey and the brown. The grey bled from my body, and I wept for that dreadful loss. It was who I was in this noble home, and I mourned for the death of that color. The toffee brown gave me sugary joy. It trickled from my wound to drown the ignorant grey. I knew what I wasn’t supposed to know, and I laughed at the idiot I had been – even as the tears continued. That richest of browns I had seen in the silver and glass and tarnished brass now bled across my body. It chased the grey off of my flank, and I saw the mark that had always been there. I saw a slab of stone – grey and dull as my coat had been. Then I knew my name was Blank Slate. I was a quarry worker I think. The salt of the earth in my bones tells me that, yet no memories come to me. I can live with that – or not I suppose. The earth calls to me, and I yearn for its cradling arms. My only request is to be buried in warm sediment and sentiment as far from that place as possible. Rest easy my friends. You will break down the doors to find a pony at peace once more. And do forgive the blood, bile, and quail scratches. I had no time to clean up. What Madness Sleeps in SanityColor me surprised. It is quite unusual for somepony with the wrinkles of a manatee to enter this humble institution without babbling like a baby. I do so love the smell of mothballs when the source actually realizes its age. I see you wrote that insult word for word in your report – which is most unprofessional. Perhaps you babble like a baby on the inside. No. I am not insinuating anything. I’m not sure I could have been more direct unless I literally called you old. You were, however, only meant to interpret that as an insult to your age and not your weight. Most cows are of perfectly average weight for their species. It is the average after all. We are also talking about manatees – or sea cows – meaning you should probably seek new employ before being fired for tribalism. The diarchy tends to frown on it. Or you could take the risk of taking it to your grave. You are almost there after all. I question why you continue to copy my statements word for word, but I suppose you must have a certain dedication to being stubbornly obtuse. It’s something all bureaucrats have, although you express it in a most unusual way. It’s like you are punishing yourself with monotony rather than punishing me. I suppose it falls on me then to cut down on my usual wit. I wonder if you planned for that. It would be a cunning trick. You are here, after all, for the story of the poor late doctor. It is not often that the patient treats the doctor, but my warden was as much my ward as I was his. For ponies in these times hold a grand delusion of their stature. They believe in life and love and happiness, yet think sanity is the answer. The truth is I am labeled mad, but am happier than the lot. Life is a fragile crumbling thing. We age to dust under an alicorns wing. Love is a petty selfish dream at best. For in finding a partner who makes us happy we deny others that dream. It is naught but a fleeting and fickle illusion – a lie. At most, it lasts as long as life until you’re wrenched away for all eternity. Happiness is a hilarious concept. And I find true joy in the stupidity of the common pony who thinks they understand it. For the world is a strange and maddening place, yet they all try to deny it. The signs are there, but no one sees. They’d rather look away. This is why they panic and flee when the madness comes to knock – be it on door, through village, or on mind. My doctor was a special case – in dire need of treatment. Most ponies share the grand illusion, yet few believe it in their heart of hearts. Almost everypony in this world is delightfully insane until the twilight comes to claim them. They deny it, of course, like the world around them. And they fail to see the good mad and the bad. But batty they are none-the-less. No offense to my thestral cousins. I find the term charmingly simple, and it makes an excellent distinction for those claimed by the more mild of the madnesses. Thus most of the world is batty. There are a few lunatics in-between. The mad ponies come out in the dead of night. And there they study the occult and taboo until they rise to the rank of insanity. There the hierarchy ends – or rather it shifts through various hues of reality. Each pony who survives the trials to go beyond that title of great rarity usually sees the utter pointlessness of having a majority. We all have different systems, ranks, and ways of classification. I personally find myself to be of the Ehh class. My nemeses are those of Meh – though only half return the hate. I’m also neutral towards the Strudels, but they are far too cheery for me, and they leave me feeling half-baked. Forgive me though. I’m rambling for you’re here about the doctor. I was the only one with him in his office when he snapped, you know. The hospital blames it on me, but they are denying the clear cut truth. It is the truth I always warned them of whenever I dared to try. The doctor is one of the poor few ponies in this world whom I’ve found is special enough to be sane. He was an earth pony as you know. It’s a miracle to find one in the medical field ‒ especially that of the mind. That may be changing soon, however. I hear his progress inspires the youth. There are at least three colleges already in his name at the paltry age of forty-nine, and he has many a paper to his name. I wonder if you see the problem yet. You probably think he was over-stressed, but it was not such a pitiful problem. Doctor Studious Mind had a wonderful laugh. He was actually happy compared to the batty beasts of his fellow ponies – shambling about as you do. I could relate to him like no other pony I’ve found. For you see, those of the Ehh are solitary folk: We are content, but awkward around each other. We are unlike those cursed Meh who wish nothing but to share their pain. The good doctor was truly sane, however. He was neither of the Meh or Ehh. Nor was he like you and the other bats. Thus I could relate to his contentedness – though his was charmingly simple where mine is twistedly complex. Our sessions were casual, and I like to feel we were friends. He would give me dull little stories of his loving wife and children – pure fairy tale he actually believed. In return, I would bedazzle him with stories of the wonders of reality – censored for his sake. It was nice. I should never have thought it so, but it was really and truly nice. And I would never have tried to interfere in the order of things – unless I had dire need to. For the truly sane of this world hold a special purpose. As mad as the world may truly be we are shielded from the worst. You batty commoners – be it mud pony, feather brain, stick head, or more – wrap yourselves in that grand delusion of sanity to shield yourselves. You hide from the little bits of madness leaking through onto this miserable hunk of rock. Every hour of twilight the world sees brings us closer to the end. The realm beyond sneaks past our beloved sun as it makes way for the moon and fellow stars. It is such an arrogant guardian ‒ the sun I mean, not the moon – to think it can guard us all on its lonesome. The power it holds is enough to be sure, but its fatigue makes it much less watchful as day slips into night. The moon at least has the stars. Alas, I wander in my musings once again. Though my mind is happy to wander; Let me return to the point. The sane of this world are the pillars. They are the lynchpin of our reality. Normalcy exists because of them – in their blissfully innocent stupidity. If I had dared to bring my madness to the doctor before, the world would be one step closer to crumbling. And that is something both of us do not want: I think we can agree, although I find your humoring nods annoying. At least be truthful if you don’t believe, for my tale is for those who will see it and believe – not for you and your red tape. Again I wander, however. That’s been happening more and more since the doctor went. I think I may truly lose myself soon. I didn’t realize how much he meant. The doctor was sane, and I left it so – although as I said I indulged. There came a day, however when I had to break that role. The doctor gave me a tale that shook my very soul. It was no different from the last, and yet I saw the signs. The Veiled Ones – cunning and sly ‒ had filled his life in with a lie. The wife was gone. I knew not where or how or if she was alive. Their methods tend to vary, so I bothered not to dwell on it. It is completely pointless to try. The point is that the Other side now had a foothold in the doctor’s life. I gave out warnings, but he didn’t listen. The half-lies I told to censor the truth worked against me then it seemed. I lament that if I hadn't indulged before he would have heeded me. For voices in the head and simple homicidal urges are all more accepted forms of insanity compared to the horrible truth. But my warnings went unheeded until he shambled into to work one day – a drained and horrible mess. Once more I gave my warning, and it seemed fortune smiled for once for he finally believed me. I thought it a great blessing – until the letter opener opened much much more than letters. The interference of us both ‒ the Veiled One to kill and myself to save – had eroded the pillar to dust. Thus when he finally heeded me, he was naught but a simple bat that could not stand the awful glaring of twilight. And it pushed him over the edge. I admit, I find it confusing that the Veiled Ones would take that risk. As powerful as they are in this world, they are a smaller threat at best. They would be smashed by the tide of uncaring evil to come if the world were to break. And they are lucky enough to be unbeholden to the truly ancient beasts that cannot find – and thus tear at ‒ the Azure Veil of this world. That is their reason for being here after all. They are but pitiful maggots to be seasoning for the bigger beasts that roam the Twilight Void. Here they can thrive and gestate in this world’s stew of sanity. They take the place of something normal in a place they don’t belong. Fully glutted from their victim’s love – and other fickle illusory feelings ‒ they go through wretched metamorphosis into some sham of a greater madness. They are lies from their very birth, and until they reach the very end. And in that awful metamorphosis ‒ amidst a cocoon of space and time and the very Veil itself – they ascend to join the madness beyond our world. But they are still a mere mirage of whatever form they take. Our world – and similar pockets of sanity where madness slumbers with peaceful dreams – protects them and their young. It is anathema for them or fellow refugees of the Other, along with those few ponies on my path, to erode the pillars that hide them. We have little problems with the rest of you urchins, and the servants of the Truly Ancient hold no reservations whatsoever – should they sneak within the Veil. But that is neither here nor there for a bureaucrat who believes me simply batty. Perhaps the poor gluttonous Veiled One didn’t know its vast mistake. If it didn’t, I wager it will know it soon – in an intimate and painful fashion. A pillar breaking is simply front page news for the mundane world you live in. Pillars tend to be quite famous though. They don’t need to put much effort into maintaining their little shield like you do. Thus they normally have more drive. But those of us who have lives of the Other persuasion feel the cracking of reality within our very bones. And we know the truth immediately – the second blood is spilt. For the final fall of a pillar is a horrendously wonderful occasion for those on the Other side. In those few not-seconds that follow in the near collapse of all normality the Twilight Void reaches back to leave its mark. Always is there too much blood the shade of sunset red. Regardless, you’ve done an admirable job of humoring me – far too admirable in fact. If I didn’t know far far better, I’d think you’d come to lock me up – not that I’m not already. Before you go though I’d like just one more sniff of the outside world. I really hope you don’t mind. It’s a lovely perfume you carry on you. There’s just a hint of it from the missus. I can barely find it now in the stink of your sweat and your discomfort. That particular brand of mothballs and old lady is a really welcome event. Do say hello to the Queen for me. No, I don’t mean the Princess, foal. I meant the Queen. That is assuming your ‘wife’ still uses that title. I see you added the air quotes. That really is a bad sign. I guess you’re too far gone to save. She normally doesn’t use brute force like that. I wonder if she’s slipping or just that desperate for the truth. You’re still sitting there and writing everything I say I see. I guess you need permission. You are completely free to leave now. The twilight calls my name, and I’d like to actually grieve for my friend before I join him. As a word of warning, however, I wouldn’t bother to ask why this file disappears from your office on the morrow. And stop pestering me on how I know your wife’s nickname in bed. Honestly, I know that is probably the last piece of normalcy your pitiful mind is clinging to at the moment, but a batty old stick head like you wouldn’t really care much for the truth. Oh my, I think I went too far. I figured she picked somepony built of stronger stuff. She knows how I get sometimes. Perhaps I should call the nurse now. Yes, calling the nurse seems proper. You’re babbling like a baby. I really must give you credit though for continuing to write.
Foreword - Through the VeilIt has been some time since I put quill to parchment, so let us begin with a simple truth. You, my humble readers, know me as Beloved Craft. You have never sought to see beyond my simple pen name – although I received many letters asking as to how many ponies have held it over the last thousand or so years – and I have found a certain serenity in such anonymity. The truth – or one version of it – is you may know me as Lord Third Eye the Fifty-second. I am the former royal bard and rumored oracle to Princess Celestia. Oddly enough, I am also supposedly dead after a body identified as mine turned up in a building that collapsed during the wedding of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza and Shining Armor. They really should have checked that better. Looking under the horn for a third eye would have been a good start. Your fathers – whether they are fans of my work or not – may know me as Lord Third Eye the Fifty-first. And your grandfathers would likewise recognize me as Lord Third Eye the Fiftieth. As you may have caught on by now, the pen name Beloved Craft has been passed through my house since the first generation. Taking the name was mostly done on a whim. I’m certain the original Lord Third Eye never dreamed he would gain any sort of following – however small. The name Beloved Craft was an escape for us. As royal bard it was me and my forerunners job to bring smiles and dance and joy to special occasions. It was not a particularly good outlet for the darker muse within us, however. The nobility tend to lack a taste for the bizarre and sublime unless it came straight from their own backsides. Anything that cannot be illuminated by their rather dim intelligence is seen as a waste of time: There are only so many heartbeats in the heart to push their precious noble blood through their veins I suppose. Perhaps I should refer them to a specialist. Last I asked mine I had a few billion left myself. Of course, the price of knowing is to not know. Any true malpractitioner varies his prices without telling. But that is enough of my petty – if well founded – complaints of the nobles. As Beloved Craft, I was able to cut loose the shadows within my soul. For this I thank you. You see, it is my firm belief that by plumbing the abyss within our minds we can often reach an enlightenment and tranquility beyond what we find in the light of day. Every light – no matter how bright – holds a bottomless kernel of darkness folded within its brilliant depths. To ignore that darkness is to invite disaster – such as when the supposedly omniscient Celestia failed to fully heed my warnings on Nightmare Moon. I hope you enjoy my stories, gentle readers, and that you plunge into the strange and dark. Travel through the not-quite fires of Tartarus and damnation. Emerge from the abyss a better pony than walking in gentle Harmony’s light would ever grant. Never would I wish you to ever truly leave that light, but my stories grant you dark illusions and fancies – gardens in which to grow. I digress, however, for in my current musings I lie to you even as I finally speak the truth. I have written so many stories over the years – this volume may be my final one – and I no longer am sure of what is truth and fiction myself. Some stories were pure fiction. Some stories left me trails of victims to find. And some stories I lived through myself. But of all the strange and fanciful monstrosities I have written of, there is one I know to be true. I am intimately familiar with one of them, because I am one of them. They are not the truest of my stories. Old habits die hard I guess. I am, however, one of what many of you think of as the Veiled Ones. You, my readers, think of me as an unseen weaver of secrets and lies and illusions. I think of myself as a changeling. My name – by the Azure Veil I can’t remember my full name anymore – was Father Arachne I believe. I am one-thousand four-hundred and twenty-three years old, and I am the last of House Arachne. I won’t bore you with the details, and I will let you guess how many Third Eyes there actually were. I felt a confession to be necessary, however, because of a very interesting phenomenon in Ponyville. The Veiled Ones are starting to crawl from the shadows once more. The monsters I’ve been creating stories and rumors of are here, and you’re horribly uninformed on them. They are not actually creatures of vast and unimaginable eldritch power. They may actually be pleasant – if they are not the typical backstabbing lord. And they do actually have everyday interests. I think you already know mine. You’re reading them after all.
The Library of LiesMy family found the library on accident – so I desperately hope. We found it in a valley of most peculiar design. It was a single jagged rent in the earth with a narrow bridge clasping to each side with the tenacity of a dying foal. My father deemed that crossing the bridge would amount to an assault on common sense, and a scrying spell was sent into the cloudless sky above to determine a safer route. I couldn’t help but agree with father’s sentiment as our little family of four viewed the chasm from above. Cracked and crumbling the bridge was unsound at best and already collapsing at worst. In hindsight, this was my first clue – though I lacked the insight of my current madness to see it. It was like an eye that had stared into the abyss and back. The bridge was no pupil, but a scar – a scar of self-inflicted blindness meant to hide the shadowy lies within. The ravine was too large for unicorns as noble as we to go around, however, so we decided to teleport down and up each side. It was a point of pride among us that both father and mother could teleport. Our scrying showed no form of life – hostile or otherwise – and there were plenty of ledges to use as stepping stones. Mother swatted father with her tail – her silver tongue claiming his silvering mane could never keep up with her. And father laughed his boisterous laugh – quipping that more silver simply meant he knew more tricks to getting ahead. Thus we began our fall from reality with a foalish race between mother and father teleporting into the depths of insanity. Mother with her power took Quill and rushed quickly ahead with great leaps. Father used me as his navigator, and together we plotted a complex yet efficient chain of shorter jumps. Laughter was had by all, but I suppose if any fault is to be placed in us it is here. The trip down had been more taxing than mother and father had liked. Lost in their little race, they had shown off to one another like the wild days of their youth. And that meant spending a night in the chasm. In the murky depths of the chasm it seemed no true day or night existed. The bridge – that a pony would swear to be naturally hewn up near the top – was somehow perfectly constructed to align with the path of the sun and the moon. With the sun at not an hour past high noon we buried in the dreary hues of an eternal twilight. It was an impossibility of color made into reality that only now occurs to me. Twilight is more than a simple lack of light, after all. It is when the light is truly farthest from us. The sun’s sweet caress must swim through so much more of the empty void between us to grace us with its light. It is that moment of despair between the hope of the sun and sky and the hope of the moon and stars. In twilight we question the coming of another day – like I am now – and that is why it is twilight where ponies are truly lost. It was the second sign I suppose, yet I know not if it was merely illusion or some depraved warping of reality. In this place so many lies crawl through my mind like spiders on a web. I cannot be sure I even saw the twilight, and hope with desperate fervor that I never truly did. It was in seeing this as we finally looked up after our capricious race down that Quill soiled himself like a common mud pony, and asked if we could leave immediately. I agreed with him most heartily in spirit – although I was obliged by the sibling code of honor to poke fun at his expense. It was a facade on my part. My parents wore them too. Good natured jokes and japes held us together like a breaking mirror as we crossed the murky depths. The stone was slick and black and moist. Soft sighs of dark emerald mist escaped the little cavities pockmarking its chill surface. And, as day turned into night, the tiny wisps of mist thickened into an almost choking miasma. Before even the first dots of starlight could grace our presence the sky was gone in the smothering fog. The few gaps to be found showed naught but the endless void between each speck of hope in the sky and to see that sky – however briefly – only brought on more of the dry wine of despair. And – like many a drunk who drowned their sorrows in drink – our own spirits seemed to lift more in our cheery facade. Only Quill could face the truth, and he all but clung to mother as we continued on. Finally, we reached the other side of the ravine and thought ourselves blessed – or so we thought. In the deepest shadows under the bridge there was a structure built into the cliff. It was a small and unassuming thing – yet another lie to add to the list – but it was shelter. We rushed inside, and the frigid ice that coated our hearts melted in the cozy little den. Perhaps that was the third sign. I cannot tell within all the lies. All I have is a nagging suspicion over our quick relief. Relief over our escape was so obvious an answer before, but I wonder over why we did not question the purpose for such a lovely building in such a dreary place. Decadent decorations that even now defy my explanation filled the homey hovel. Beds, lounges, pillows, and chairs littered the room – all were arranged just so around a number of cozy hearths that burned with merry fires. They were verdant flames – clearly enchanted – filled with an excitable warmth the chill stone outside had denied. All thoughts of safety and the dangerous chasm outside fled our heads, however, as we beheld what lay beyond the den. It was a simple trap door that Quill found under his bed. He all but ran from the shelter on seeing it, but we coaxed him to stay. We were foals not to realize what traveling farther down into this madness would lead to. Down we went – through the last shield the earth dared provide us – and we found a sense of sugary wonder for once. Father had once seen the royal archives in ancient Unicornia before the Great Exodus. It was with awe in his voice he said he had never seen so much knowledge before. It was with purpose – and great denial of the chasm outside – we began to study. That small spark of tangy curiosity all unicorns have had turned into a roaring and hungry blaze. We started our research humming merrily next to the cozy warmth of a fireplace. As the night burned away, little Quill drifted to sleep as my parents and I sequestered in our little den. His inquisitive mind would craft wonders in the realm of dreams: Our curious minds sought knowledge in the sea of books. It shames me that Quill was the first to reawaken to the truth – whatever that may mean. As days turned to weeks, his sleep became restless. I would turn from my texts to see him watching the shadows beneath the door to the miasma outside. His ears flicked about in every direction trying to catch a sound none of us could hear, and he jumped at the slightest caress of a dusty old cobweb lining the shelves of the library. In the end, he fell back on his old group of imaginary friends to give him the courage to carry on. He was a little old for such things, but it gave him peace of mind so I held my tongue. Perhaps if I had questioned it he would be here with me now. No matter his own icy fears, he stubbornly insisted on assisting us. Foals that we were, we had him gather the tomes we needed. Exploring the library with his supposed friends gave him an excuse to be happy – something he needed as his restless slumber finally eased. One day we found him to be tarrying on too long. The miasma was rising outside, so mother went to find him in the depths of the library. Her scream will be burned into my mind for the rest of my life – however short it may be. It was shrill and desperate, yet it was cut off with a violent silence. There was no echo traveling the dusty old halls. There was only the disturbing quiet that comes with the precipice of death. It was a void in the music of the universe – where one of its myriad of merry instruments had their strings cut in the prime of its performance. A duet was lost. A tragic solo was born, and my father teleported into the darkness before I could think to follow. I follow his hoofsteps now – traced into the dust in the deepest recesses of the library. My journal floats open at my side. I wish to live, but how can I be sure of such an outcome when I don’t even know my foe. I have decided to write my story as I tread into this abyss – hoping at least my tale will see the light of dawn beyond the wretched twilight of this chasm. There is a strange tranquility to find as my quill scratches the paper. It settles my racing heart and grants caution to every hoofstep. I have no time to read it now or correct mistakes. I’m not even sure it’s writing my story. It could be drawing lewd sketches for all I know. What I know is that the act of writing grants me clarity and reason as it always has. My thoughts churn faster than the speed of light as they burn through my mind – purging the lies even as they rebuild themselves. I can see the one remaining truth to my existence. Everything is a lie. There may be a truth, but I can’t hope to see it now. The things here – and things is all I dare call them – craft the lies in my head. They planted the spiders that spun the deceptions. Their silky webs now lie in ash, but no sign of the truth remains. The start of the lies is lost. The length of my visit is gone. My traveling companions are unclear. I have memories, but cannot trust them for the silken comfort they provide. Thoughts of a family drift through my head, and I question if they are mine. They might simply be more lies. I can hear the things – nevermore than just things – in the shadows now, but I cannot trust what I hear. There is the faint clop of hooves, and there is the muffled padding of paws. Wings buzz and flap. Alien chittering fills the air – their true voices echoing and fracturing through the air. Even that small truth hides them from me in the end. I do not know how many there are or where they hide among the echoes. I catch glimpses of them in my horn’s pallid light, but I do not understand what I see. I see growling timberwolves, roaring manticores, rumbling dragons, and chitinous spiders – all truly monstrous in size. It’s as if the pits of Tartarus themselves have opened into these empty halls, and I run from the beasts whether or not they’re real or simple images conjured to scare. The shadows twist and turn. Walls change before me – almost crashing into me as the labyrinth of the library changes. Some are illusions and lies no doubt, but I cannot risk there being a hidden truth. I need to escape, and so I run. The library tempts me though: I see things I dare not hope to be true. I see my mother with my father’s broken body in her arms, and I see my father with my mother’s broken body in his arms. My heart aches to comfort them – to show the lies our lives have been mired in. But both are lies in their own right. Their eyes were never green. I see Quill surrounded by his imaginary friends – as if they were real all along. It is a deception as clear as day, and yet I yearn to join in their games and play. There is a small oasis of joy amid my ever shifting nightmare. His eyes are green like the others – a sign of all the lies. I run until my bones drag like weights on the ground. I can feel exhaustion claiming me. My eyes refuse to open, but I can hear hollow hoofsteps trotting inevitably towards me. I can see the green light of a horn through closed eyes, and my terror just washes away as mother sings me softly to sleep. It was all just a nightmare. It was all just a dream. The lies were all a lie. Tomorrow was going to be just perfect – the kind of day of which I’ve dreamed since I was small. Tomorrow the five of us would leave for Equestria. And as sweet joyous slumber claims me, I use what little strength I have left to return the book in my grasp to the shelves.
Blank SlateForgive the blood and chicken scratch. It’s hard to write in perfect form when I’m coughing up my lungs. My minds as sharp as ever though – another knife of stabbing pain. I don’t have much time remaining, but I finally remember my name. Quail! That’s the name of the bird whose feather is in my mouth. Forgive the blood and quail scratch – not chicken scratch as I thought. The quill is moist and red now like the deepest twilight sky. Specks of cloudy black mar the surface, yet quails are not black. I think my stomach is revolting. Perhaps I missed the lungs Forgive the blood, bile, and quail scratch – not chicken scratch as I thought. I was never sure of what was in those dainty dishes my horned hosts favor so. It tasted ever so sweet going down, yet now appears an inky black – a poison for the soul. I have not much time remaining, but I finally remember my name. This parchment is dated – stained with my soul – but it will have to do. I shudder often at the taste of me that lingers on this quill. But I am of the earth not of the horn. I remember now how my blood and sweat and tears are what really work the land. A little more will not hurt me. I finally remember my name, and I need to write the tale. I was almost passed by in that abandoned quarry. My coat was blackened with dust. I would have been taken for another rock if I hadn’t been all but trampled. The foals were playing hide and seek that day in tempting and forbidden places. Craggy midnight fangs bit into the sky along the cliff’s side. And I recall it as a hole in reality trying to clutch where it couldn’t belong – a parasite of twisted space I’m sure. The stone was black and pockmarked with a strangely lustrous shine. It was filled with a stifling silence that still brings my mind to a graveyard. And when that silence broke, and the ghosts awoke, the land would shake and shudder. It would heave an ominous sigh, and the winds would flow through its hollows and holes like a beast that was close to awakening. The foals and their parents ‒ although I wonder who was who sometimes – did not see the evil of this place. They did not feel the silence of the rock within their very bones. The rock was not a rock. I refuse to think it so. The evil of that place is all I remember of my former life. Even with my name now, it is sad to say I’m left with simple conjecture. I hope I had been happy before that evil claimed me. Regardless, they found me and took me in. They were surprisingly pleasant and tolerant for a family of noble horns. After I woke within the mansion – a scant few miles from the quarry – I found myself regaled with the tales only innocent youths could muster. They spoke of playgrounds and icky bugs and high adventure. It was the normal excitement of youth, describing a place I knew as evil. I knew not how or why I knew. I know not still today. I wonder whether that is good or not, since it spares my mind the pain. However, there is the faintest burning in the recesses of my head. There mental wounds were cauterized, and they caution the need of a warning of which I have none to give. I only have my tale, and it seems to tell the end. It lacks beginning and middle. It has lost the truth I say. Perhaps this is my warning, but I am merely happy to know my name. My hosts – I know you read this – burned with the usual sorts of irrationality found among their kind. Only the judgmental stares were missing. Their heads went beyond the clouds, where pegasai roam, to the airless void of space. They were as kind as I could ask for though, and I fear their curiosity will be their end. They studied the stone for magic, and I know that will not end well. If I escaped, then surely the beast that lurks there now sleeps in hibernation. I fear they might just wake it. That is neither here nor there. This is my tale – not the beasts – and the beast is finally behind me. I hope – or maybe I don’t as the phantom sound of chittering whispers in my ears. Forgive the jagged dash of ink. I had to look for myself. My hosts, however doomed they are, took me in none-the-less. I was as much a curiosity to them as the sinister place they found me. When I was cleaned of the charnel dust that coated me I was found to be naught but grey. My coat was grey. My mane was grey. My eyes were grey. My flank was bare and grey. That was what drew them. I lacked color and life and purpose. I could not remember a thing. They asked if they could call me Blank Slate. I smiled and told them yes. I was not particularly educated before my hosts took me in. I could not remember my life, but facts and misconceptions jumped to my mind with ease. They jumped with so much ease, however, because no clutter filled the vacuum. The first few months were spent on my diction. I was apparently quite vulgar before I was found, and my hosts preferred I be prim and proper with a scholar’s vocabulary. The lessons that followed were many and varied. I fear my tribe may no longer see me as their own. I was truly a blank slate, and I came to relish the learning. My mind may as well be a unicorn’s, but the salt of the earth fills my bones. The lessons continued, and tests came and went. I was poked and prodded for progress, but such tests only happened in stages. Dead end after dead end meant each study bloomed from inspiration anew. I find it ironic death is what it takes to truly get the progress they craved. All those jokes of autopsies rang truer than we thought. The days went by and I was content. I had no purpose other than to find my purpose in my studies and tests. Yet every day at twilight I found myself staring towards the quarry. I could barely see the blackened fangs of that place savaging the sky from my balcony in the breeze. At times my heart would freeze in a flash – no source to the sudden fear. It took me months to see the change since I never used the mirror. I am not vain, and I did not care for balancing my looks. But within the house the silver, glass, and tarnished brass held my reflection still. Whenever I caught it within my eye – whenever I thought I was going to die – that icy dread filled me. Another pony was staring at me. I was sure it was the beast of the quarry, yet it never claimed my life. It simply looked at me and waited. It knew that which it shouldn’t know. Paranoid is the word my hosts began to use when I finally found the beast. They assured me I only saw myself. They described me as I was. I knew that reflection wasn’t me. I couldn’t see myself in the mirror. The beast had taken my purpose and life. It could have taken my reflection as well. I knew without a shadow of doubt that I was seeing the beast. It stalked me unseen from behind, and it knew what it shouldn’t know. I became skittish and jumpy. My eyes may have well been in the back of my head for I spent more time looking backwards than forwards. I snapped at the foals one time – only one time. I avoided them after that. The beast knew I knew and used that against me. Thus it made me do its dirty work without ever lifting a hoof. All it did was watch me and follow when I moved. I tried to protect my precious hosts through my current isolation, but that only made them distraught. Everything I did was to shield them from the beast – He Who Watches and Waits. The moniker burned in my mind as a name for the beast. It was not a true name nor memory, but actions speak louder than words. His actions drove me to my actions. My actions led to my hosts actions. Now they are beating at the door and pleading with me for something, but I dare not heed their calls. For I remember my name now. When the door began to quake in my isolation, I realized I only brought on them the evil of that wretched place. Drunk on the wine of despair, I raised the knife I kept close by to slay the source if not the beast. I was quick but not accurate. I am thankful for that, because now I remember my name. I stared at the wound after leaving my mark, but the blood was a trivial concern. I was bleeding in a different way – a way most strange and peculiar. Color sprang from the wound to fill the grey. It was a lovely toffee brown that I could not help but smile at, and I watched it spread up my coat. That was when my mark appeared. Appeared is perhaps a misnomer, however. Forgive me for that. My vision is swimming. My clarity is fading. The twilight is calling my name. The color bled from my body in at least three ways I could count. The red of twilight mattered naught, but I cared for the grey and the brown. The grey bled from my body, and I wept for that dreadful loss. It was who I was in this noble home, and I mourned for the death of that color. The toffee brown gave me sugary joy. It trickled from my wound to drown the ignorant grey. I knew what I wasn’t supposed to know, and I laughed at the idiot I had been – even as the tears continued. That richest of browns I had seen in the silver and glass and tarnished brass now bled across my body. It chased the grey off of my flank, and I saw the mark that had always been there. I saw a slab of stone – grey and dull as my coat had been. Then I knew my name was Blank Slate. I was a quarry worker I think. The salt of the earth in my bones tells me that, yet no memories come to me. I can live with that – or not I suppose. The earth calls to me, and I yearn for its cradling arms. My only request is to be buried in warm sediment and sentiment as far from that place as possible. Rest easy my friends. You will break down the doors to find a pony at peace once more. And do forgive the blood, bile, and quail scratches. I had no time to clean up.
What Madness Sleeps in SanityColor me surprised. It is quite unusual for somepony with the wrinkles of a manatee to enter this humble institution without babbling like a baby. I do so love the smell of mothballs when the source actually realizes its age. I see you wrote that insult word for word in your report – which is most unprofessional. Perhaps you babble like a baby on the inside. No. I am not insinuating anything. I’m not sure I could have been more direct unless I literally called you old. You were, however, only meant to interpret that as an insult to your age and not your weight. Most cows are of perfectly average weight for their species. It is the average after all. We are also talking about manatees – or sea cows – meaning you should probably seek new employ before being fired for tribalism. The diarchy tends to frown on it. Or you could take the risk of taking it to your grave. You are almost there after all. I question why you continue to copy my statements word for word, but I suppose you must have a certain dedication to being stubbornly obtuse. It’s something all bureaucrats have, although you express it in a most unusual way. It’s like you are punishing yourself with monotony rather than punishing me. I suppose it falls on me then to cut down on my usual wit. I wonder if you planned for that. It would be a cunning trick. You are here, after all, for the story of the poor late doctor. It is not often that the patient treats the doctor, but my warden was as much my ward as I was his. For ponies in these times hold a grand delusion of their stature. They believe in life and love and happiness, yet think sanity is the answer. The truth is I am labeled mad, but am happier than the lot. Life is a fragile crumbling thing. We age to dust under an alicorns wing. Love is a petty selfish dream at best. For in finding a partner who makes us happy we deny others that dream. It is naught but a fleeting and fickle illusion – a lie. At most, it lasts as long as life until you’re wrenched away for all eternity. Happiness is a hilarious concept. And I find true joy in the stupidity of the common pony who thinks they understand it. For the world is a strange and maddening place, yet they all try to deny it. The signs are there, but no one sees. They’d rather look away. This is why they panic and flee when the madness comes to knock – be it on door, through village, or on mind. My doctor was a special case – in dire need of treatment. Most ponies share the grand illusion, yet few believe it in their heart of hearts. Almost everypony in this world is delightfully insane until the twilight comes to claim them. They deny it, of course, like the world around them. And they fail to see the good mad and the bad. But batty they are none-the-less. No offense to my thestral cousins. I find the term charmingly simple, and it makes an excellent distinction for those claimed by the more mild of the madnesses. Thus most of the world is batty. There are a few lunatics in-between. The mad ponies come out in the dead of night. And there they study the occult and taboo until they rise to the rank of insanity. There the hierarchy ends – or rather it shifts through various hues of reality. Each pony who survives the trials to go beyond that title of great rarity usually sees the utter pointlessness of having a majority. We all have different systems, ranks, and ways of classification. I personally find myself to be of the Ehh class. My nemeses are those of Meh – though only half return the hate. I’m also neutral towards the Strudels, but they are far too cheery for me, and they leave me feeling half-baked. Forgive me though. I’m rambling for you’re here about the doctor. I was the only one with him in his office when he snapped, you know. The hospital blames it on me, but they are denying the clear cut truth. It is the truth I always warned them of whenever I dared to try. The doctor is one of the poor few ponies in this world whom I’ve found is special enough to be sane. He was an earth pony as you know. It’s a miracle to find one in the medical field ‒ especially that of the mind. That may be changing soon, however. I hear his progress inspires the youth. There are at least three colleges already in his name at the paltry age of forty-nine, and he has many a paper to his name. I wonder if you see the problem yet. You probably think he was over-stressed, but it was not such a pitiful problem. Doctor Studious Mind had a wonderful laugh. He was actually happy compared to the batty beasts of his fellow ponies – shambling about as you do. I could relate to him like no other pony I’ve found. For you see, those of the Ehh are solitary folk: We are content, but awkward around each other. We are unlike those cursed Meh who wish nothing but to share their pain. The good doctor was truly sane, however. He was neither of the Meh or Ehh. Nor was he like you and the other bats. Thus I could relate to his contentedness – though his was charmingly simple where mine is twistedly complex. Our sessions were casual, and I like to feel we were friends. He would give me dull little stories of his loving wife and children – pure fairy tale he actually believed. In return, I would bedazzle him with stories of the wonders of reality – censored for his sake. It was nice. I should never have thought it so, but it was really and truly nice. And I would never have tried to interfere in the order of things – unless I had dire need to. For the truly sane of this world hold a special purpose. As mad as the world may truly be we are shielded from the worst. You batty commoners – be it mud pony, feather brain, stick head, or more – wrap yourselves in that grand delusion of sanity to shield yourselves. You hide from the little bits of madness leaking through onto this miserable hunk of rock. Every hour of twilight the world sees brings us closer to the end. The realm beyond sneaks past our beloved sun as it makes way for the moon and fellow stars. It is such an arrogant guardian ‒ the sun I mean, not the moon – to think it can guard us all on its lonesome. The power it holds is enough to be sure, but its fatigue makes it much less watchful as day slips into night. The moon at least has the stars. Alas, I wander in my musings once again. Though my mind is happy to wander; Let me return to the point. The sane of this world are the pillars. They are the lynchpin of our reality. Normalcy exists because of them – in their blissfully innocent stupidity. If I had dared to bring my madness to the doctor before, the world would be one step closer to crumbling. And that is something both of us do not want: I think we can agree, although I find your humoring nods annoying. At least be truthful if you don’t believe, for my tale is for those who will see it and believe – not for you and your red tape. Again I wander, however. That’s been happening more and more since the doctor went. I think I may truly lose myself soon. I didn’t realize how much he meant. The doctor was sane, and I left it so – although as I said I indulged. There came a day, however when I had to break that role. The doctor gave me a tale that shook my very soul. It was no different from the last, and yet I saw the signs. The Veiled Ones – cunning and sly ‒ had filled his life in with a lie. The wife was gone. I knew not where or how or if she was alive. Their methods tend to vary, so I bothered not to dwell on it. It is completely pointless to try. The point is that the Other side now had a foothold in the doctor’s life. I gave out warnings, but he didn’t listen. The half-lies I told to censor the truth worked against me then it seemed. I lament that if I hadn't indulged before he would have heeded me. For voices in the head and simple homicidal urges are all more accepted forms of insanity compared to the horrible truth. But my warnings went unheeded until he shambled into to work one day – a drained and horrible mess. Once more I gave my warning, and it seemed fortune smiled for once for he finally believed me. I thought it a great blessing – until the letter opener opened much much more than letters. The interference of us both ‒ the Veiled One to kill and myself to save – had eroded the pillar to dust. Thus when he finally heeded me, he was naught but a simple bat that could not stand the awful glaring of twilight. And it pushed him over the edge. I admit, I find it confusing that the Veiled Ones would take that risk. As powerful as they are in this world, they are a smaller threat at best. They would be smashed by the tide of uncaring evil to come if the world were to break. And they are lucky enough to be unbeholden to the truly ancient beasts that cannot find – and thus tear at ‒ the Azure Veil of this world. That is their reason for being here after all. They are but pitiful maggots to be seasoning for the bigger beasts that roam the Twilight Void. Here they can thrive and gestate in this world’s stew of sanity. They take the place of something normal in a place they don’t belong. Fully glutted from their victim’s love – and other fickle illusory feelings ‒ they go through wretched metamorphosis into some sham of a greater madness. They are lies from their very birth, and until they reach the very end. And in that awful metamorphosis ‒ amidst a cocoon of space and time and the very Veil itself – they ascend to join the madness beyond our world. But they are still a mere mirage of whatever form they take. Our world – and similar pockets of sanity where madness slumbers with peaceful dreams – protects them and their young. It is anathema for them or fellow refugees of the Other, along with those few ponies on my path, to erode the pillars that hide them. We have little problems with the rest of you urchins, and the servants of the Truly Ancient hold no reservations whatsoever – should they sneak within the Veil. But that is neither here nor there for a bureaucrat who believes me simply batty. Perhaps the poor gluttonous Veiled One didn’t know its vast mistake. If it didn’t, I wager it will know it soon – in an intimate and painful fashion. A pillar breaking is simply front page news for the mundane world you live in. Pillars tend to be quite famous though. They don’t need to put much effort into maintaining their little shield like you do. Thus they normally have more drive. But those of us who have lives of the Other persuasion feel the cracking of reality within our very bones. And we know the truth immediately – the second blood is spilt. For the final fall of a pillar is a horrendously wonderful occasion for those on the Other side. In those few not-seconds that follow in the near collapse of all normality the Twilight Void reaches back to leave its mark. Always is there too much blood the shade of sunset red. Regardless, you’ve done an admirable job of humoring me – far too admirable in fact. If I didn’t know far far better, I’d think you’d come to lock me up – not that I’m not already. Before you go though I’d like just one more sniff of the outside world. I really hope you don’t mind. It’s a lovely perfume you carry on you. There’s just a hint of it from the missus. I can barely find it now in the stink of your sweat and your discomfort. That particular brand of mothballs and old lady is a really welcome event. Do say hello to the Queen for me. No, I don’t mean the Princess, foal. I meant the Queen. That is assuming your ‘wife’ still uses that title. I see you added the air quotes. That really is a bad sign. I guess you’re too far gone to save. She normally doesn’t use brute force like that. I wonder if she’s slipping or just that desperate for the truth. You’re still sitting there and writing everything I say I see. I guess you need permission. You are completely free to leave now. The twilight calls my name, and I’d like to actually grieve for my friend before I join him. As a word of warning, however, I wouldn’t bother to ask why this file disappears from your office on the morrow. And stop pestering me on how I know your wife’s nickname in bed. Honestly, I know that is probably the last piece of normalcy your pitiful mind is clinging to at the moment, but a batty old stick head like you wouldn’t really care much for the truth. Oh my, I think I went too far. I figured she picked somepony built of stronger stuff. She knows how I get sometimes. Perhaps I should call the nurse now. Yes, calling the nurse seems proper. You’re babbling like a baby. I really must give you credit though for continuing to write.
