Pandemonia, the Sunken Citadel

Fluttershy rushed Iron Cross inside the chapel, dragging his body slowly across the stone floor. She gasped at the red trail of fresh blood that poured from the wound. She began her work by removing his hefty haversack, hearing it rattle as its contents scatter inside. She flipped him belly-side up, taking in a good look at the wound.

The cut ran deep across his left side, breaking through the metal breastplate and reaching past the muscles. Her hands quickly worked through the clasps and straps that held it in place. The loud clang echoed across the deserted chapel, breaking the mute monotony. Fluttershy looked at the wound and then to the soldier’s bag. She dumped the contents, looking desperately for anything that she could use to seal the cut.

To her relief, a large red box rested at the bottom of the bag. She pulled it out and released the clasps. Inside she noticed a variety of syringes, poultices and other medical equipment. Her hands reached one of the thicker syringes and tested it. Its contents was a cool, flesh-colored sludge that felt silky at the touch. The label read: Derma-gel. For medical emergencies only.

She poured a small amount on one of the cuts on her stomach, feeling a surge of adrenaline enter her body as the pain melted away. She sighed and turned back to the body sprawled in front of the altar and sealed his wound. The bleeding stopped immediately, as the beads of crimson disappeared under the flesh-like gel.

She sat on one of the benches and let her fingers cross with one another as her wrists rested on the bench in front of her. She began to think about the fights that she had just survived. She wanted to feel the despair of their impossible escape, the sorrow for the six lives she had taken and even pity for Iron’s situation. She wanted to know that despite everything that she had seen, that she had done, that she was still herself.

But there was none of her usual panic, her common attacks of anxiety were nowhere to be found. Instead all she found was an unfamiliar calm. Her hands reached over to the pistol holstered on her hip. She examined the gun, feeling the cold steel on her palm as she scanned it. There wasn’t much to say about it. It was a weapon, a tool used mostly to end life. And she had seen its efficiency first hand. The images of flying gore and blood flooded her mind, yet she didn’t feel horrified.

The eldritch calm held back her tears as she remembered her life in Ponyville, now a distant dream, and knowing that her family and friends didn’t know that she existed. A hand grabbed her wrist and she instinctively whipped her hand to swat the entity back. Her hand was stung as it collided with flesh, the impact sounding loudly in the vacant hall. She turned to see Iron nursing a cheek, the wound on his stomach now a ghost.

“What the hell?!” he exclaimed, standing up and staring at Fluttershy. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“Sorry.” She squeaked. “I was startled!”

His glare faded as his eyes focused on a horseshoe nailed to a post, letting his hands caress the metal hoof. “Funny that our paths keep taking us to religious sanctuaries.” he mused aloud. “It’s almost  as if Lord Areion was trying to commune with us...” his voice trailed off, letting his hands grip the metal amulet. “Or maybe he’s trying to shelter us from an incoming storm.” his hands trailed back from the altar and he looked at one of the aisles of the chapel. “Have you done any exploring?”

She shook her head. “I really haven’t had the time to, you woke up rather quickly.”

“Then we should take a look around the place. Maybe we can find some info that will tell us what happened to this damned city.” He began walking, both hands on his rifle. “Stay behind me.” he barked. She nodded and reached to her pistol. “Actually, can you give me that?” he said as he extended his right hand. “In these quarters my rifle’s not gonna be of much use.” He rolled his eyes, and she handed over the weapon. “Thank you.”

Behind the chapel they found stairs to two more floors, the first one simply had rows of beds and a kitchen, while the second had several shelves packed to the brim with scrolls and leatherbound books. Fluttershy reached over to a nearby table and grabbed the nearest scroll while Iron rummaged through the chests. The black writing upon the parchment was an artistry too beautiful for this world. So beautiful in fact, that she had trouble reading the intricate handwriting. But eventually she managed to decipher the scripture.

“First of May, year 1527 of our Lord Areoin: I have begun to keep this journal for the sake of my sanity. The streets have turned to crimson rivers as the Followers of Mot have begun to slaughter all those that do not follow their religion. We yet live because of Lord Areion and the efforts of Chaplain Psalm. They came armed with pitchforks and axes, only to die to the reverend’s crozius. Father Silver Chalice and Father Partisan also helped in the defense, although they barely survived the onslaught. We are currently tending to their wounds, although there is little hope to save them.

Second of May, year 1527 of our Lord Areion: Father Silver Chalice perished late at night due to the taint in his wounds. Father Partisan is not well, as the corruption spreads further into him. His body, once strong and joyous, lies diseased and malformed upon the altar. We have prayed, but Lord Areion has not healed him. We have barricaded the gates to the outside, now forced to watch as the Followers of Mot butcher innocents on the streets. They have tried to break our defenses, but Father Cassock has dissuaded them with a few arrows. So far we are safe, and pray that Areion will send his Daughters to save us.

Third of May, year 1527 of our Lord Areion: Hope has not come, and we fear that the Followers have become too large for the guards to handle. Their chants speak of assaulting the Basilica of Discord, claiming that it is their birthright. The Chaplain told us that the Daughters have been notified, but he had yet to receive a response from them. The other monasteries have sent word that they wish to rally for one final assault. Outside I see pyres blazing in the night, their cold light haunts me, I cannot sleep.

Fourth of May, year 1527 of our Lord Areion: Thank the Lord! His Daughters are on their way here, and they will bring the might of the Equestrian Army. The Chaplain has selected me to lead a group to secure an entry point for the army tomorrow. I still cannot sleep, my dreams have been corrupted by the pyres that light the night sky.

Fifth of May, year 1527 of our Lord Areion: The streets have been corrupted beyond recognition. Innocent blood has turned the streets to rivers, as the slaughter of Mot has been made apparent. Out of the six that set out, only Father Gyro and I returned.  We were tirelessly ambushed by monsters around the streets, some were the trained hounds of Mot, others I could only describe as possessed husks of the dead. Chaplain Psalm has decided to move the remaining monks to defend the Basilica, which is still guarded by Discord’s Hunters and the last Custodians. I pray that the Daughters can bring an end to the nightmares, for I have forgotten what it means to dream.

Fluttershy set the roll down and sighed heavily. Her body froze in place as she stared at the pile of rolled parchment before her. A loud cough brought her attention over to the soldier. “Did you find anything useful?” he asked, leaving the rifle next to her. She nodded. “Great!” he grabbed a nearby chair and snatched the parchment from her. His eyes darted across as he devoured the text. The closer she looked, the more she noticed the bags under his eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked him, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. He turned to her and smiled. His right hand clutched a harness holding two sheathed swords. Both had silver grips tied around with leather, but the pommel of the first was shaped like the paws of a silver bear, with five toes held together by a gold-lined bar and the grip was. The other had no pommel save for a thick band at the bottom, while its grip was of black leather.

“Are you alright?” she asked again, tracing a finger over his chin. “Maybe we should rest for a while.” he shook his head.

“We can’t.” he snapped. “Just like the journal says, your don’t dream. All you can see is the burning pyres.” he pinched his nose bridge. “If we want to rest, we have to get out of here.” he walked over to a wardrobe. “Do you happen to know how to use any sort of weapon? Bows, daggers, anything?”

“I used to practice archery in high school.” she sighed.

“Good enough for me.” Iron snapped, pulling out a polished oak bow and a leather quiver. As Fluttershy began to tie the quiver belt she felt something press against her shoulder. “And take this. Just in case something gets too close for comfort.” he handed her a steel dagger, which held no beauty to it save for the tanned leather that covered the grip, and a belted sheath.

Iron began working on securing his swords behind his back. “Let’s go. Hopefully we haven’t lost too much time.” He said, strapping a dagger above the cuff of his right boot. “And if we’re really lucky, then we won’t have to get into another fight.” he rolled his eyes. “You ready?”  Fluttershy nodded nervously on instinct, but she felt like ready was not the word she should use. Anxious was a better word, but she knew that she couldn’t speak.

“Then let’s go through hell.” he said as he opened the doors.