The Old World: Shadows

Grey River trotted on under the wet pine forest. Through the branches and pine needles he could see the clouds in the sky were black with thunder, and heavy rain fell in torrents around him. The tall earth pony, grey of fur and blue of eye and mane, plodded down the road through the downfall, shrouded under a woolen green cloak. On and on he went, for miles along the muddy dirt road, inching ever closer to his destination.

He looked skyward, grimacing in the darkness. It was late afternoon, he guessed, and he had been traveling for a few days now. It’s been a while since I left Ironshod. I must’ve passed the border by now. I should be close. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked, and a tree just down the road from Grey River fell with a mighty crash, its branches violently splintering off.

He instinctively started, but calmed down once he realized the tree didn’t fall anywhere near him. He stepped over the fallen pine and continued on his way, down the forest trail. The rain only grew heavier as he went on, and it was starting to soak through his cloak and seep into his fur. He shivered. Would be damn useful to have a unicorn along, maybe start a fire in this storm. He checked his weapons. The long retracted blade was strapped to his right foreleg, and a retractable heavy shield was on his left. Ugh. I’ll have to make sure these don’t rust.

Eventually, as Grey River trotted on through the woods, the forest began to thin. Unfortunately, fewer trees meant sparser canopy, and the rain fell even heavier than before. However, by now the pony was constantly shivering, his teeth were chattering, and he was through and through miserable. We could’ve sent a damn unicorn. As he was complaining to himself on how cold it was, the road winded its way through the thinning forest and into the plains. Here there was no barrier between Grey River and the wet sky save a soggy cloak. At this point, however, River didn’t even notice. The cold was complete; all he felt was the rain hitting his back a little harder.

On he walked, and as the sky began to darken for the evening, he reached the foothills of the mountains. It was here he hiked through the rain and countryside to reach. They towered high above in the darkened, thundering sky, looming over him with an almost malicious countenance, as if daring him to attempt the climb. His stomach grumbled loudly at him. After looking around for enemies and predators, he left the road to his immediate right and lowered his head. Grazing on the long, wet grass, he warily stretched out his senses to try to detect any potential threats. There were none. Having somewhat satisfied his stomach, Grey River got back on the road and continued through the hills.

About an hour passed, and the torrential rain gave way to snow. He was a fair distance up the mountain, though his goal wasn’t within reach. The road grew steeper, and sometimes his weary hooves slipped on the icy stone path, which was little more than a goat trail. The light continued to fail the further he ascended, until he could barely see four feet in front of him. The howling winds prevented any kind of firelight, so Grey River slowed down considerably, carefully checking where he put his hooves again and again. With a sheer drop off to one side, a fall here would be deadly. Finally, he came across a shallow cave. Now shivering violently, he made for the shelter, and once inside he shed his cloak, frozen stiff from the cold mountain air. Underneath, his boiled leather travel armor had soaked up a little rain as well, though not nearly as much as the cloak. The cold is more deadly to me right now than the threat of battle, he reasoned, as he removed the armor. He spaced out his barding, collar, vest and pauldrons on the floor, giving them plenty of air to dry. He then dumped his saddle bags and brought out his tinderbox, but he stowed it again when he realized there was no firewood nearby.

Instead, he pulled out a very small steel flask, containing about an ounce of liquid. He bit off the cork, and downed the potion eagerly. Slowly, the thin, fiery drink slid down his gullet, and from his stomach heat slowly radiated outward. It reinvigorated him, eventually warming his whole body, expelling the ice from his fur. He stoppered the empty flask, and placed it back inside his saddlebags. Already, the concoction’s warmth was starting to wear off. Glancing at his cloak, lying rigid where he left it, he decided he didn’t have the resources to thaw and dry it, and wearing a frozen cloak would only suck out the heat more. He looked outside, and saw the darkness pervading the air. Exhausted from his long journey and his hike through the mountains, as well as because of the rapidly approaching night, Grey River picked up his saddlebags in his mouth. Stumbling over his own hooves, he carried it further in the cave, and he laid it down where he would be resting his head. Light fading fast, he opened his bags and extracted his blanket. He laid it down on the stone floor, to make sure the icy rock wouldn’t absorb as much heat from his body as he slept. Before collapsing on his mat, he pondered the safety of his rest. Judging on the severity of the storm outside, I’d say I’m safe enough. He lay down on his blanket, and rested his head on his saddlebags. He felt the displacement effect his head had on all his various tools, flasks, and rations. It wasn’t by any means a down pillow, but it would do. He curled up to conserve body heat and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the moaning winds in the craggy mountain range just outside.

When Grey River woke up, it was still dark outside, still storming. The winds had subsided somewhat, however, and the darkness was less absolute than it was the previous night. He yawned, and then he rose from his bedroll. Grey River folded his blanket back up, and stashed it in his saddlebags. As he did so, he rummaged around and pulled out a cram. The loaf of compacted, hard bread had hay, oats, and nuts baked into it, and though it was definitely a rough-country meal, and far from the taste of fresh fruit and vegetables, he still thought it was delicious.

Upon finishing his meal, he donned his armor, now semidry, and his saddlebags, and he left his cave, heading back to the stony paths outside. It was definitely brighter out, though grey clouds still obscured the sky and hid the sun’s warm rays from the frozen rock. The storm had subsided, though white, powdery snow covered the landscape. The sight of it took Grey River’s breath away. It was beautiful, despite the overcast weather. Shaking his head to clear it, he carried on his way up the slopes of the mountain.

The snowfall had stopped sometime in the night, but the wind was just as cutting as it was yesterday, especially minus the cloak. Grey River was back to shivering. His armor was only slightly damp, and thanks to his fur it didn’t affect him. At least I’m dry. According to Council intelligence, the entrance to the target ruin was further up, towards the peak of the second-tallest mountain in the range. He shrugged, and hiked on, trying to ignore the cold, biting wind.

Eventually, just as Grey River was about to reach the summit of the mountain, the path split in front of him; on his right side the way lead up, a cliff-side road leading up and over the mountain, down to the other side. On his left, an unmarked, faint goat trail partially concealed by a gnarled bush, led down into a small valley deep in the heart of the mountain. Grey River smiled. At last. He pushed the bush aside and carefully went down the treacherous, rocky slope. The way was downhill for a fair amount of time, winding its way through narrow fissures and steep, dry streambeds, and after about half an hour it leveled out. The barren mountain rock gave way to sparse undergrowth and sad-looking pine trees, all bearing the white coat of snow. Though the trail disappeared a fair ways back, the trees and valley provided a semblance of protection from the heavy winds, for which Grey River was deeply thankful.

Finally, Grey River’s journey ended. He came across a stone statue, resembling a creature out of myth. An armored being standing on two legs stared grimly down the road Grey River just came by. A forerunner. It held what once was a magnificent stone greatsword, the kind of weapon minotaurs tended to wield, but age broke the blade and cracked the hands holding it. Through all the erosion and ruin, Grey River could just make out that a weatherworn tree motif was engraved on the hilt of the sword. The whole statue was in disrepair, covered in moss and lichen and riddled with deep, long cracks. The facial features and the body detail had been greatly diminished by the slow passage of time, but it was clearly depicting a forerunner warrior. Though the Council knew of the place, River felt that he was the first pony to see it in a very long time.

Standing just behind the old statue was a huge stone door. Runes from a long-forgotten language were engraved on the doorframe, and moss covered most of the door itself. Grey River reached for his saddlebags, and after rifling around in it he took out a small key. This was a massive pain to get. I hope this works. The key, made of adamant, had been broken into five parts and scattered across the continent, and it had been the work of Grey River and other Council members to collect them and reforge the key. Though they had the best locksmith on the job, he could still see the scarred weld-marks where the smith fused it back together. Grey River swept the moss away, revealing a worn hole, no larger than a wine-bottle’s cork. He bit his tongue, and carefully inserted the key in the hole. He turned it.

At first, nothing happened. Fighting the small sense of doubt growing in his stomach, he tried turning the key back the other way. Once Grey River turned the key a second time, he heard the ratcheting of machinery, the crushing sound of stone grinding along stone, as ancient gears spun. At this, he retreated a few steps from the door, and saw that it was shaking violently. As the gears reached their loudest, the door slowly began to rise, until it disappeared in the doorway above it. The whirring and grinding of the stone gears ceased, and silence fell upon the valley once more.

Cautiously, Grey River approached the open gateway. He peered inside. It was very dark, but as sunlight from the outside flooded in, he could see the entry chamber. He stepped through the open doorway, and into the ancient complex. He felt through his saddle bags once more, and pulled out his oil lantern. It was very small, so it would fit in his bags, but it would do the job. He lit it with his flint and steel, and attached it to his saddlebag strap, freeing his hooves for walking and fighting.

He walked down the hallway, full of cobwebs and silence. As he looked around, the yellow light from his lantern flame illuminated the halls. It flared out from the entryway, and it tapered towards the back to another door. He noticed that the walls were covered with intricate carvings. Ah! It’s the Hall of Stories. He frowned. It’s unusual for those to be the entrance of a forerunner ruin. He stopped to look at one. A great battle was engraved on the wall. Small figures fought each other with swords, shields, spears, maces, axes and the like, and many of them looked like the forerunner statue outside, although some had minute differences. An army of ponies fought alongside them as well, using the familiar hoofblades, battle-magic and wingblades. The combined pony-forerunner army was fighting other bipedal creatures, uglier and more grotesque than the comparatively elegant forerunners. They were taller than the forerunners, and had tails, long spines sticking out of their arms, not dissimilar to hoofblades, and they had wicked sharp teeth. These monstrosities seemed to be pouring out of a large fissure in the earth, accompanied by what looked like giant flaming dogs, huge horned beasts, and misshapen flying creatures that ran amok through the battlefield, ravaging all they came across. Must be the Great Dark. He examined the battle itself more closely. It was chaos: any sign of formation or strategy was abandoned or destroyed, and the carving depicted a throng of fighting warriors, of mixed race and allegiance. A small squad of unicorns and forerunners was bombarding the field with great and terrible spells, and Grey River saw that they ripped through many foes, large and small. One of the horned beasts had been ripped open by a spell cooperatively cast by a few of the mages. Pegasi dotted the sky, and they fought against the disfigured flying things. The whole battle seemed to be a losing one, as the ponies and forerunners were outnumbered by at least three to one. He looked the carving up and down, in awe that such a calamity happened. Reluctantly, he tore his attention from it and continued on his way.

He was immediately hooked by another illustration in the stone walls. This one focused on a group of earth ponies and forerunners fighting in a defensive circle around a few unicorns. All the unicorns were casting a spell, sending one conjoined beam of energy towards the great rift in the earth, from whence what must’ve been the demons of myth poured out. They closed in on all directions, and met their dooms at the blades of the pony and forerunner circle. On this up-close scene, Grey River could make out that on all the ponies and forerunners, there was a leafless tree emblazoned on their chests. There were much fewer pegasi in the sky in this scene, and the mangled, demented flyers were starting to dive-bomb the ponies and forerunners on the ground.

Moving on, Grey River looked at the next carving. The groundside battle still raged on in earnest, but the skies were won. He gasped, as he realized that dragons had come to fight. The surviving pegasi were all celebrating as the great dragons, each of them easily the size of an inn, bathed the flying demons in fire. A few of them attacked the huge horned beasts, ripping at them with their massive mouths. Burning husks fell to the earth in droves, and the forces on the ground rallied to their new airborne allies. The demons looked to be waning, and some were actively retreating back through the rift.

The next carving showed an earth pony holding a dying forerunner. Forerunners and ponies stood around them, solemnly looking on, openly weeping, or looking shell-shocked. The attention to detail was exquisite. Each ring in their mail was evident, and they all interconnected accurately. He could see the sweat, dirt, and blood on their faces, and the stains on their clothes. The fissure was much narrower in this picture, and bodies of the slain, be they ponies, forerunners, or the mangled monsters in the previous carving, lay strewn about, bloody and hacked to pieces. After moving on, he glanced to a different carving.

This one wasn’t a battle, but showed some forerunners and ponies standing in a circle around an anvil. His lamp bathed the carving in a soft, flickering yellow light, revealing that in the anvil’s center was a key, and one shorter, bearded forerunner was swinging a hammer towards it. He reached for his bags, brought the key out, and examined it. He held it up to the carving. Aside from the slight scarring from the reforging process, it appeared to be the same key. Grey River smiled, and put it back in his saddle bags.

He approached the door on the far side of the hall. Made of cast iron, it sported a leafless tree emblem identical to the ones in the wall carvings. Grey River reached for the door ring, and pulled. After overcoming a little bit of resistance, the door slowly started to move. The hinges, after enduring ages of rust, screeched all the way, and flakes of rust cascaded down to the floor. As soon as the door cracked open, he heard the rushing sound of a subterranean river, and the air felt slightly cooler. The hall hit a T-junction. To Grey River’s left, there was about twenty feet of hallway until another iron door. To his right, the hall stretched on into darkness. He decided to check the door out first. He walked down the hall, noticing that the walls here were rough-hewn, and not smooth like the previous room was. He approached the door.

Suddenly, his front hoof plunged through the floor. No, the floor fell from beneath him! He yelped, surprised. Instinctively he pushed hard on his other foreleg, rearing up on his hind legs. The ground beneath his forelegs and in front of him crumbled away. With a deep rumble, the flagstones fell into blackness. Grey River toppled backwards, heart racing. The stones splashed into water below. “What the hell?!” he exclaimed. He cautiously rose to his hooves, and inspected the damage. The gaping pit stretched widthwise from wall to wall, so shimmying would be impossible. Lengthwise, it was way too far to attempt a jump, even with a running start. He peered over the new hole in the floor. It was too dark to see anything, but he felt the spray of water on his face and heard the river below.

He shook himself off from the near encounter. He took a deep, shaky breath, adrenalin still coursing through is veins, and turned around. A few steps past the entrance to the Hall of Stories, his lantern’s flickering light revealed another fork in the road. This time, one way was blocked off by an iron portcullis, so Grey River headed to his right. There was a light at the end of this tunnel. Once he got through, he entered a circular room, with a pillar of white light pouring in from an airshaft leading to the outside world. The light rested on a lever in the exact center of the room. He drew closer, entering the light. The lever was ornately carved, with runes and symbols from the ancient language of the forerunners etched on its surface. He paused to look around the room. In the otherwise bare chamber were four large statues, one in each corner. Forerunner in appearance, they wore the same apparel as in the carvings in the Hall of Stories, a tunic over mail emblazoned with a leafless tree. However, there was one unsettling difference. Each of their mouths were open very wide, even grotesquely so, and each of them held the same stance; slightly leaning towards the center of the room, with their arms by their sides.

Unnerved and curious, Grey River left the center of the room and made for one of the statues. Upon closer examination, aided by his lantern’s light, he could see the details carved on the face. The being had very small, beady eyes, similar to a minotaur’s in proportion to his head. Why’s his mouth so big? Grey River peered into it. The lantern’s light glinted off something metal. He unhooked it from his saddlebags, and held it up to the mouth to get a better look. “Clever,” he said, whistling. A large, metal bolt was positioned in the statue’s mouth, undoubtedly as part of a heavy crossbow trap. He looked to where the statue was facing, and smirked. This statue’s mouth, as well as the others’, was aimed directly at the lever in the middle of the room. He didn’t’ realize at first due to the dark of the room compared with the blindingly bright light cascading from the surface of the mountain. His smile faded. How do I open the portcullis?

He decided that the device he needed must be in this room, since the trap was here and there was nowhere else for him to go. After a brief period of searching, looking at all the walls and behind all the statues, Grey River found a second lever. This one, a smaller contraption, was tucked in behind the protruding ridge surrounding the door, so put that one entering the chamber had no chance of seeing it outright. After a quick look around to make sure there were no obvious traps, he pulled the lever down. After a brief pause, he heard the now familiar sound of ratcheting stone and metal gears screeching down the hall. He left the room, and headed for the hallway blocked by the portcullis.

As he’d expected, the portcullis was being raised up into the ceiling above. Allowing himself a slight grin, Grey River proceeded down the newly opened hall. He didn’t go far by the time he entered another chamber, about as large as the Hall of Stories. The high, vaulted ceiling accommodated five larger-than-life statues. He recognized the room as the ruin’s Hall of Memory, a chamber believed to be dedicated to ancient forerunner heroes. Three of them were forerunners, and two were earth ponies. Similar to the previous statues, despite the size difference, they all wore the same armor, and bore the same symbol: the leafless tree. Each had a sword that they held point down, with two hands. The ponies just stood at attention. To his immediate right, the river had broken through the stone walls and was rushing through one side of the room, an icy torrent. The closest statue had fallen in, one of the forerunners, and lay face-first in the freezing water. He saw ripples and wakes all around it as the water surrounded the stone figure. The rest of the room showed signs of water damage, and because of this the other statues had eroded somewhat, lessening the contrast between their features.

To his left was the least damaged portion of the room, and it held another door. He approached it, the now familiar tree motif staring back at him. On either side were vertical rows of black holes, presumably another arrow trap. On each side of the door there were two buttons. On his left were a lightning bolt and a howling wolf. On his right were a flaming brand and a sword. Grey River sat down, and gave it a good think. Hmm. One false move and I could be dead. He eyed the buttons again. What did the mission brief say about this again? He tried to remember. He was told a lot about what to expect on the way to the ruin, and its location, but nothing about what to expect on the inside. He gave another look at the buttons. Well, I’ve seen a lot of swords on the statues and carvings. He got up, and tentatively gave the sword button a push. The piece of stone depressed into the wall, and Grey River backed up immediately afterwards. Nothing happened.

He sighed with relief, heart pounding. No arrows flew, but the door hadn’t budged either. He furrowed his brow, and looked the remaining buttons; a lightning bolt, a howling wolf, and a flaming brand. He remembered what the carvings in the Hall of Stories told, about the Great Dark and the scourge of demons being purged from the land. . .

Yes! That’s it, a flaming brand! You can purge with fire! He pressed the flaming brand button in. Upon doing so, he heard the twang of bowstrings let loose, and two arrows flew out to meet him. One soared right over his head, prompting him to duck, covering his head with his hooves. The other arrow flew right into his left foreleg, defending his head. The projectile, dulled with years of being exposed to the water vapors in the room, did not pierce all the way through to his head. Pain lanced up Grey River’s body, and his foreleg burned with agony. “aaaAAAAOOw! Fuck!” Grey River rolled onto his back, clutching his foreleg and cursing.

After a short period of prone profanity, the pony got back up. Gingerly, he shed his saddlebags again. With his right hoof, he rummaged around for his first aid kit. Upon getting it out, he took a few breaths, and attempted to pull the arrow from his leg. It didn’t budge, and the pain intensified sharply. “Shit!” he exclaimed. Damn flared arrowheads! He cursed again, then grabbed the back of the bolt. He counted to three, and pushed hard. The arrow went much deeper, and thankfully missed the bone upon passing through. He screamed in torment, as the wickedly shaped arrowhead emerged from the other side of his foreleg. He immediately bit into it, and yanked it out. Groaning through is teeth, he spat it out on the stone floor. Upon his dislodging the arrow, the wound began bleeding profusely. He quickly grabbed a bandage from his first aid kit, and wrapped it around his leg a few times. He tucked the free end under the bandage, and, standing up, he tested his weight on the hoof. He winced in pain, but it would have to do. Red slowly seeped into the bandage, but it stopped any more bleeding. He donned his saddlebags again, and favoring his left foreleg, he limped back over to the door. “Ok, not the fire then,” he said aloud, foreleg throbbing. He looked back and forth between the wolf button and the lightning button. “Fuck this,” he groaned, and he pressed the lightning one. Instead of the sound of crossbows firing lethal bolts at him, the sound of screeching rusty hinges echoed around the room as the door opened inwards. Stunned at his luck, Grey River allowed himself a brief smile before heading into the next chamber.

This room was much smaller than the Hall of Memory, and its main feature was the large spiral staircase, made of chiseled stone, leading down to a lower level of the ruin. He carefully descended the stairs, testing each one before putting his full weight on it. When he finally limped down to the bottom, he came across another black iron door. He reached out to pull it open, but it wouldn’t budge. He checked to make sure the door was one you pulled; the hinges were on his side, it wasn’t a ‘push’ door. He frowned. Is it locked? He didn’t find a keyhole. It’s probably just stuck. He grabbed it, and pulled, much harder this time. The door moved a little, and through the crack he saw very thick, white strands of . . . something. He yanked on the door some more, and he saw more of the strands, sticky strings attached to the door and the walls beyond. His face fell. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He recognized them as spiderwebs. Monstrous Spiders were known to sometimes inhabit the mountains, and he just stumbled on one’s lair. “We’ll see how you like some of this!” he said, grinning as he unhooked the lantern from his harness. He raised the glass sheath, and touched the flame to the web. Immediately, it caught fire, and it quickly spread throughout all the webs. Watching it burn was immensely satisfying, and he hoped that the beast would be killed in the process. Content with his accomplishment, he proceeded through the hallway. There was another T junction waiting for him. However, one side had caved in, making his next course of action simple. He walked down the stone hall, going through the next elbow passage and turning to his right.

He came to another chamber. Grey River saw many things: he saw that the way forward was almost fully blocked by a cave-in, though he could move one of the rocks, probably. He saw that the room had many tunnels dug into the walls, up high and down low, leading off to unknown, deep, dark lairs and dungeons. He saw the spider webs in the corners of the room and all over the walls. He saw the disturbingly pony-shaped bundles of web in the far corner of the room, stacked on top of each other. Most importantly, however, he saw the webs’ producer right in front of him.

Eight black eyes stared back at him. The beast was huge; its brown, hairy body was the size of a barrel and its legs were as long as a minotaur was tall. It clicked its huge mandibles at him, and charged. Fear swept through Grey River, though he banished the thought and rose to combat stance, shedding his saddlebags and unsheathing his hoofblade and shield. No sooner had he done so when the spider leapt at him. He rose his shield, and bashed the creature away. Though heavy, it was much lighter than he thought it would be. It landed on its side, but it was quickly on its feet, as it had eight of them. It charged again, screeching at him. Grey River’s ears splayed back, and he charged off to meet it.

He rose his shield and slashed at one of the beast’s long, spindly legs. His blow connected, severing it. The spider hissed in pain and anger, and it lashed out at him with another leg. The blow sent Grey River careening backwards, and losing his balance, he fell. The spider was quickly on top of him, and tried to snap at him with its huge fangs. Grey River placed his shield in-between him and the monstrous spider, but it pressed down on him hard. The weight of the force on his already injured leg proved too much for him, and his foreleg gave out. The beast smashed his shield down on Grey River’s chest, but it still proved to be an effective barrier against the spider’s bite. With the beast’s head so close, Grey River yelled and plunged his hoofblade into its eyes. Brown liquid sprayed out in his face and open mouth, leaving a foul taste. The spider hissed again, and jumped back, its front two legs pawing at its eye wound.

Grey River hastily scrambled to his feet, preparing for another bout with the monster. However, the spider seemed to have enough of this unwelcome guest, and it crawled into one of the various holes in the wall. Still alert, Grey River headed towards the landslide. As he did so, movement in the corner caught his eye. One of the bundles of web was moving, and attempting to flap a wing. He cocked his head, and sheathed his weapons. Dropping to all fours, he limped over to the web sac. When he drew close, he could hear the muffled cries coming from the snared pegasus.

Without wasting anymore time, Grey River pried the web off the pony’s head. This revealed an orange face and bits of blue mane sticking out. The pony, a mare, gasped for breath, and coughed a few times. She opened her green eyes, and continued panting for breath. “You came just in time,” she said. She struggled a bit more. “D’you mind getting me free?”

Grey River pulled apart more and more webs. When her forehooves were loose, she began helping him. After some time, a lot of broken webs littered the ground, and the pegasus was free. Some residual web was left in her fur and wings, but it wasn’t enough to restrain her any longer. She ruffled her wings, and stretched them. “Ugh. I’ve been kept like that for way too long. Two days? Three? I can’t remember.”

“I didn’t expect to see a mare down here,” Grey River replied. “What were you doing?”

“I’m a courier, for the Skyhold Kingdom, and I had a mission to deliver a message to an important noble here in Cyandor. On the return journey, I stopped to rest in the clouds above these mountains.” She picked at the webs on her forelegs. “The storms began that night, and I was blown from my cloud. I sought shelter in a cave in the mountains, and I flew right into a web.” She made a face. “When that spider came out, I thought it was all over. Thanks again for freeing me.”

“You’re welcome. Anyway, I’m Grey River,” he said, outstretching a hoof.

She reached out her own to bump his. “Deft Wind.” She smiled hopefully. “You wouldn’t have any food to spare, do you? I can’t remember when I last ate.”

Grey River nodded, and passed her a cram from his saddlebags. “So, Deft Wind, I’m on an errand here, and so far I’ve encountered some troubles. Since I got you out of that mess,” he said, pointing to the other web-enclosed victims behind her, “how about you help me out?” He gestured towards her hoofblades and wingblades. “You look like you can fight well enough.”

As she swallowed the rest of her cram, her cheery countenance fell a little. “Well, I was kind of hoping to get out of here and report back home,” she said, rubbing her hoof uncomfortably, “but I guess I do owe you a debt of gratitude.” She thought about it for a moment, and sighed. “I’ll help you,” she said.

“Great. Here, let me get this rock out of the way,” he said. The two ponies walked over to the landslide blocking the path. Grey River placed his hind legs on it. He pushed hard, wincing at the pressure on his wounded foreleg. The rock rolled away, revealing the passageway beyond. Deft Wind looked impressed.

“You know, I always forget to appreciate just how strong earth ponies can get,” she remarked, nodding thoughtfully.

“I try my best,” Grey River said, a glint in his eye. He jerked his head towards the hallway. “Let’s go.”

Grey River limped on, with Deft Wind right behind him. The two ponies rounded the bend, and saw a long chamber open up in front of him. Ten black iron sarcophagi lined the walls, standing upright against them. Embedded on each one was a leafless tree. Grey River turned his head slightly back. “Be careful. Forerunner ruins tend to have wights guarding them. This is probably where they sleep,” he whispered, gesturing in front of him.

Deft Wind gasped. “This is a forerunner ruin?!” she whispered back, incredulous. “I thought they were just a myth!”

Grey River shook his head, smiling. “They’re not. They’re real, and we’re in one of their tombs.” He glanced across the chamber. “Wights usually rest just before some treasure or artifact. What I’m after is likely through those doors,” he pointed at the other end of the chamber.

“What are you after?” Deft Wind asked.

Grey River grimaced. “It’s a secret mission, sorry. I can’t say exactly what it is, but its powerful, and some powerful friends of mine need it.” Well, I didn’t lie.

She nodded. “I understand. What’s our plan of attack?” she whispered.

Grey River looked at the chamber before them. There were at most ten enemies. While he wasn’t a bad fighter, even he had his limits, and ten approached it closely. He smirked. But I’m not alone. He turned back to face Deft Wind. “We’ll be able to handle it. Let's go!” He said, and he rose to combat stance. He unsheathed his weapons, and advanced into the chamber.

Once he stepped hoof over the threshold, all the sarcophagi opened at once. The heavy iron doors fell to the floor with a cacophony of metal striking against stone, and the sound echoed throughout the entire complex. They were of mixed race: seven were forerunners, and three were earth ponies. The pony wights all unsheathed ancient, rusty hoofblades, which due to the moving parts all broke almost immediately. The forerunners, on the other hoof, drew longswords, battleaxes, and one drew a mace. These did not break. They advanced on Grey River, each of them equipped with very rusty mail and tattered white tunics, emblazoned with the remnants of a leafless tree motif. “They may be dead, but they die all the same!” he yelled.

Deft Wind rose to her combat stance, wings flared out. She unsheathed her hoofblades and wingblades, and with her four weapons she charged in right after Grey River, ears flat and eyes wide.

The wights rasped at them in their ancient, indecipherable language, and the one nearest to Grey River swung its sword at him. He rose his own hoofblade to parry the blow, and stepped forward, executing a quick shield bash to the undead. Unfazed, it swung again, this time in a strong overhand swing, its milky white, unsettling eyes staring right at him. Grey River used his shield to block the slash, and he countered low with his own cut. His hoofblade connected with his foe’s leg, sending the undead to its knees. Without hesitation, Grey River stabbed the wight in the chest, and placed a hoof beside his blade, pushing hard. The wight tumbled to the ground, its eyes losing their eerie glow. He turned to face another wight, coming up from behind the first one.

Deft Wind spun as if a whirlwind of steel. Four blades slashed at two forerunner wights, rending their ancient, desiccated flesh and breaking through their old, brittle bones. With a savage yell, she leapt, using her wings for extra distance, and stabbed a pony wight with all four blades on the way back down. The thing had no chance; it crumpled under her weight and her swords. Immediately, she tucked and rolled, slashing the hooves out from beneath another pony undead.

Grey River attacked another forerunner wight, leading in with an overhoof slash. The undead raised its axe in time to block the blow, which cut deep in the axe’s haft. The wight kicked Grey River down, and swung its axe in a fast, brutal overhand swing. Grey River rolled to the side at the last second, the axe blade missing his back by mere inches. It instead embedded itself deep between the flagstones, and the wight tugged stupidly at the weapon, all the while staring at Grey River. He rose to his feet, and in a rising underhoof slash, he cut both the forerunner’s arms off. The thing simply advanced again, snapping its jaws beneath its helmet, trying to bite him, arm stumps outstretched. Disgusted, he cut the thing’s head off, and the dead body slumped to the ground.

Deft Wind thrust with both her hoofblades at the last pony wight, but was deflected by its rusted shield. The undead moaned at her in its old, forgotten language, and it stepped forward, bringing its hoof down in a savage punch to Wind’s head. Stunned, she fell to the ground, and the wight descended on her, shield raised and ready to crush her neck. Her eyes widened, and with a yelp she wildly thrust her blades up at the thing again. Unprotected, both passed through its chest cavity, and its white eyes dimmed for the last time. It slumped on top of her, the weight of its embalmed body and its ancient armor pinning her to the ground.

The remaining two wights engaged Grey River. One swung its mace in a sidearm swing, while the other tried thrusting with its sword. He parried the sword thrust, and deflected the mace with a strategic shield bash. The mace-wielding wight was caught off balance by the force of its own swing, and it stumbled sideways. Grey River, with a loud cry, brought his shield down hard on the undead’s leg, shattering it. The thing toppled to the ground, groaning and growling at him, trying to swing its mace. The other wight, undisturbed by its comrade’s misfortune, attacked again, taking advantage of Grey River’s distraction by swinging its sword in an underhanded strike, attempting to knock him down. Grey River dodged left, the sword missing him by a hair’s breadth. Immediately, Grey River launched himself at the last enemy, plunging his blade into its chest again and again as he tackled it to the ground.

Deft Wind finally managed to push the undead pony corpse off her, and she got to her hooves. She saw Grey River savagely finishing off a wight, and she saw the sheer anger in his eyes. She’d seen bloodlust on the field of battle before, but nothing so . . . extensive, as this. She was taken aback, and a slight frown adorned her face.

Grey River got up from what used to be a wight, panting, He glanced back at the undead with a broken leg, flailing around on the floor, unable to move. He deliberately strode towards it, and he swept the mace out of its reach. He sheathed his hoofblade, and stepped on the thing’s head. It crunched satisfyingly underhoof, and the ancient and rotted brain matter splattered all over his hoof and the ground.
Deft Wind managed to regain her composure as Grey River looked up at her, face grim. “You fought well,” she said, masking her concern for his ferocity.

Grey River gave a wry smile. “You’re not so bad yourself, for a courier.”

She snorted. “Anyway, lets get what you came for. I’m tired of stumbling around in the dark, and I’d like to leave as soon as possible."

Grey River nodded. “Of course,” he said. He stepped over the corpses and headed for the door. On it were large runes, written in the ancient forerunner language, intricate and indecipherable. As he was about to push the stone door open, the runes shifted, and visibly moved to change shape before their eyes.

“What’s going on?” Deft Wind asked, slightly concerned.

The runes eventually stopped shifting, leaving two words etched into the stone like they’d always been there. It was in the common tongue, and it read:

TURN BACK

Grey River paused. “What. . .” he said, pondering the message. He frowned. I didn’t come all this way for nothing. I have to go on.

“Should we leave?” Deft Wind asked, hopeful.

Grey River shook his head, huffed, and pushed the door open. The stone door opened inward loudly, on well-rusted hinges. The room beyond was massive. Grey River went through the doorway, and stared at his surroundings. Large flagstones lined the floor, and the chamber they stood in had a high, vaulted ceiling. It was hexagonal in shape, and the walls were smoothly carved stone. The roof formed an intricate dome, covered with ancient but mundane runes. In the middle of the large, mostly empty room was a dais, with stairs forming a small stone hill in the middle. He made for the stairs. Before stepping on the dais, he noticed there were six braziers embedded in the floor all around it, each one cold and dark, unused for millennia.

As he stepped up onto the dais, all the braziers suddenly roared to life. Grey River started, and stared at the new flames. They seemed completely natural, and crackled cheerfully at him. The light they gave off revealed that the stairs he stood on were engraved with countless runes, each one shifting to form the same cryptic message as before:

TURN BACK. TURN BACK. TURN BACK.

“I’ll just wait here by the door,” Deft Wind called, nervous.

“Sure, just stay there,” Grey River muttered, his full attention elsewhere. Unnerved, he shook his head. He determinedly strode up the stairs, focusing intently on the top. When he reached the final stair, he saw his prize. He grinned. In the middle of the landing, a stone pedestal lay, containing a sword. Grey River approached it, eyes wide. The black blade reflected his face back to him. The sword was a forerunner design, more fit for a griffin or minotaur to use. “The Fang of Demorgor. It’s said to form to the wielder. . .” He reached his hoof out, and touched the pommel.

Immediately, the firelight shifted from a soft yellow glow to a glaring blood red, and intensified, illuminating the entire chamber. The pommel suddenly ejected a spike, impaling Grey River’s hoof. He cried out in shock and pain, and blood seeped out of his wound. The blade greedily drank it up, and began to glow red itself. Dark energy whirled around it, and Grey River’s foreleg, with increasing speed. He was openly screaming now. The agony was like nothing he had ever experienced before, sharp and dull and spreading at the same time, and all the while growing more intense.

Deft Wind rushed to his side and called his name, asking if he was alright, but the sound echoed strangely in his ears. He simply writhed on the floor and waited for it to stop.

Slowly, the dark energy started to progress up his foreleg. There was a ripping sound, and Grey River’s hoofblade was torn off, and thrown across the chamber. The mangled weapon clattered to the cold flagstones below, straps torn and blade bent, useless.
Grey River fell to the ground, and squirmed in agony. He screamed and screamed, and the pain only got worse and worse, slowly increasing to an unbearable extreme. The black energy whirled around faster and faster, and moved up his leg agonizingly slowly.

Finally, the pain abruptly stopped. The red fires in the brazier turned back to normal, and the whirling magic ceased. Grey River stopped writhing in pain, and just lay there on the dais, panting. He sat up, and brought his right foreleg to rub against his head. When he opened his eyes, they grew very wide.

On his foreleg was a new hoofblade. Its blade was completely black, as were its straps, resembling a dark, exotic hide. He gave it a closer look. The weapon seemed to be made of obsidian, glassy smooth and wickedly sharp, but as he unsheathed it, he felt the blade’s steel-like flexibility. “Beautiful,” he said. He looked up. The pedestal was empty. “Is the legend true . . . ?” He murmured, running his injured hoof along the blade.

“What legend?” Deft Wind asked, confused. “What’s going on here? What’s the Fang of Demorgor?”

Grey River looked at Deft Wind, a fierce glint in his eye. “Only one way to find out,” he said. Without another second’s hesitation, he plunged the Fang deep into Deft Wind’s neck. Surprise and fear lit up her face, and she struggled against Grey River, choking on her own blood. He rose to bipedal stance, and held her up off the ground. Blood spurted and seeped out of her neck, and the Fang seemed to drink it all up. Magic, in the form of red tendrils of energy, began to flow from the wound in her neck, traveling along the blade and filling up Grey River. He felt new power, new strength, and new life enter through him, while Deft Wind slipped further into death’s embrace. Grey River’s leg started to heal, as red energy swirled around it. With a flick of his hoof, Deft Wind’s corpse fell to the ground with an audible thud, but the blade was clean as ever. He glanced at Deft Winds’ body. It was very wrinkled, sucked dry of blood. His gaze drifted back over his new weapon.

“So the legend is true. . .”