Dear reader.
I, August Tome, write this text as an exorcism both of my soul and the soul of all of pony kind, for whether we know it or not all our hearts are tainted and all our hooves are steeped in sin and sinew. I know not what will become of me. I may rot in a Canterlot dungeon, I may be burned by Celestia herself, my body may be claimed by the beasts which have already stolen my soul and perhaps my sanity, I may descend into an artificial madness born of hallucinogens and drink in order to stave off the much colder, more terrible insanity that untermperd reality may thrust upon me. I may end my life by my own hoof, or I may die of old age surrounded by those I hold dear. No matter what my fate however, it has no bearing on the veracity of this tale.
This is a story truer than any I have ever written. Those familiar with me and my work my recall my learned thesis on the descendancy of the royal family, my account of the fall of our beloved princess Luna and her transition into Nightmare Moon, or my comprehensive study of the relationship between pony and griffon. I am an historian by profession, but this tale cannot be properly represented in a history book. Perhaps, one day, the greater truth may be confined to the stuffy pages of a text book in the same way I once abbreviated the founding of Canterlot for fillies and foals attending school. But knowing what I now know I do not believe the true majesty and horror of what has occurred will ever be done justice through the written word, or indeed through any medium other than the one through which I experienced it.
I scarcely know how to proceed. I sit here, in the small room I have rented in the equally small town of Ponyville. The rough wooden boards under hoof creak almost as much as my sanity does. The heavy wallpaper, which would have been velvety to the touch when new, is now damp and sodden, pealing gently away at the edges. The whole room is heavy with the smell of dank rot and the ceiling hangs low, if I gaze upon it for long enough it starts to swell and fall like the rib cage of a great panting beast. Not so long ago I had found this room quaint, and charming, I remember thinking that. But now, looking about me I see only a claustrophobic, decaying room custom made to agitate my every fear into frenzied life.
By far the worst feature however, are the curtains. Day or night I must have my curtains closed, now I live purely by the light of my dim and sputtering candle. I cannot bear to stare out across the world, for fear of what I might see, or what might be gazing back. The thin curtains only barely keep out the light during the heat of day, every passing thing casts a shadow through the threadbare cloth. These shades are twisted by the world around them, and perhaps my mind, into disturbing and grotesque shapes. Some shapes serve to stir memories that I would sooner lie forgotten, but most provoke a fear in me that seems so primitive and ancient as one might believe it no longer existed in today’s civilized pony.
But though I must now have my meals left outside of my door by the kindly old pony who owns this building and who lives in blissful ignorance, and though I fear I may never be able to leave this room again, such a cloistered life is infinitely preferable to even drawing back the blinds. I would rather live in fear of every trick of the light than look upon what I know lies in plain view of my room, the Everfree Forest.
That wretched place, devoid of pony guidance since the dawn of our history. Even writing its name causes my unicorn magic to falter and my quill to shake. It turns my stomach to even know such a place is so close but I cannot yet muster the strength to leave this room, and so flight is quite impossible. That place is the cause of my current distress and strangely enough the reason why I had visited the small town of Ponyville in the first place. As I have already explained I am an historian, unravelling the secrets and mysteries of our past is my trade. I have often done this safe in the warm confines of a library or in those of my office in the royal city of Canterlot which sits in one of the towers perched perilously on the overhang of that magical city. On those occasions where my studies demand archaeological digs I rarely attended the sites myself. Instead I would commission the dig and entrust the running of it to one of my assistants or understudies whilst I would reserve my efforts for the more cerebral task of analysing the artefacts and findings as they were sent to me.
However, the Everfree Forest expedition was always going to be a different animal. Its sheer distance from the refined air of Canterlot meant that long distance coordination would have been difficult even under ideal circumstances and in those twisted woods the circumstances are never ideal. Also disappointingly few ponies stepped forward to take part in my little venture, though in hindsight they were the wise ones. I had thought the tales of the Everfree Forest to be exaggerated, wild animals a plenty to be sure but nothing more sinister than that. This opinion however, turned out to be sadly misguided and the truth was infinitely worse than the most chilling tale of that dark place ever whispered in the streets of Canterlot. So, with so few ponies I was forced to lead the expedition personally, in order to ensure everything was done correctly and that my workers would not flee.
As much as I disliked the idea of having to set hoof in that filthy and wild place the objective of my dig excited both me and my imagination. The Everfree Forest has forever been a mystery. No one quite knows why it has remained wild when all around it has been tamed, or those few who did know had either long since died or remained eternally silent. Even the ponies of Ponyville, who live with the looming threat of that place every day, have no idea how it came to be or why it stays like that, they only know to fear it. My plan was to march the team through the woods and to the old Royal Palace, in the ruins of which Nightmare Moon had made her last defiant stand. We would then attempt to salvage any historical records left there, wall carvings, tapestries and the like to see if some form of a history could be put together. We would also dig around the ancient ruins to see if the palace had a town around it, just as Canterlot does today. If we could find such ruins perhaps they might hold some clue as to the why of the Everfree Forest.
With this objective in mind our small band had gathered in Ponyville. In addition to myself there were a number of other ponies. Drill Bit was an old colleague of mine, and though he lacked the academic mind necessary for the study of history this deficiency was more than made up for by his natural understanding of all things mechanical. He had often worked on my digs before, supervising the tools and machinery. He was a distinctive earth pony, his granite grey body and his snow white mane made him stand out, even from a distance. His cutie mark, as is so often the case that it would give a pony cause to believe in a deterministic universe, aptly matched his name. He also possessed a sallow look, inflicted upon him by long years of hard work, for much of which he had only himself to blame. The man worked hard to invent new and brilliant machines in the work yards of Canterlot, almost all of which went unappreciated. The magic of unicorns, such as I, has been his greatest misfortune. Every device he crafts, with a skill and ingenuity that baffles and perplexes me, is almost instantly made redundant or inefficient by a unicorn discovering a spell to perform the same task. Had Drill Bit dwelt in any place other than the Royal City of Canterlot he may well have prospered, but there his creativity is almost instantaneously crushed, along with his spirit. This had resulted in him becoming something of a melancholy fellow, a portion too attached to his whisky flask for comfort. But he always preformed his tasks and at a reasonable price which were my only concerns.
Another frequent co-worker of mine was also present, the unicorn Dusty Parchment. She was an understudy of mine and had worked alongside me for several years. I would have sent her to lead this expedition alone and saved me the trouble of having to come to this primitive place. However, both selfish needs and selfless concern prevented me from doing so. I could not properly preform my tasks and duties without the aid of Dusty. Not only is she a talented historian and gifted thinker in her own right, but she has been an invaluable assistant and secretary in my service. I have come to rely on her utterly, her skill and dedication have allowed me to free myself from the more mundane tasks of day to day life, and reserve my mind for the pursuit of my studies. If I were to send her away my work would suffer tremendously, I doubt I could even properly catalogue the finds sent back to me from the excavation. But I also wished to spare her the distress of entering the Everfree Forest without me. Even when I believed that place to be simple wild land I wished to shield her from its rigours. She was still a Canterlot pony and whilst she was a dedicated academic, rather than any upper class socialite who does nothing but leech off of the society they squat atop of, she was still somewhat refined and most certainly sheltered. I was loath to cast her into the wider world without some familiar constant to cling to. As such I endeavoured to keep her at my side at all times, both for my good and for hers.
She was a plain creature, her charm was in her intellect not her appearance, poise or speech. Her body was the shade of mustard and her mane was a flecked grey, giving her the appearance of a mare much father advanced in years than Dusty actually was. Her brown eyes were framed with a pair of stern spectacles which granted her a look of intensity which accurately portrayed the sharpness of her intellect but which suggested a sharpness of character that was not befitting of the mare.
There was also a pegasus pony amongst our crew, a mare named Quick Wing, whom I had hired as a local guide. Whilst she was no expert on the Everfree Forest, no one I could contact was, she still possessed formidable local knowledge and gave me assurances that she would be able to scout ahead and find the best routes to the long deserted royal palace. Whilst I doubted the veracity of this claim I could find no other local pony willing to strike out into that twisted landscape of roots and shrubs and so was forced to accept her services. She was an interesting mare, with eyes and wits as fast as her flight speed. However, she was a tad unrefined in her attitudes. Then again, what could you expect from a self styled explorer? Though again I doubted the truth of her tales she claimed to have explored far off jungles, high mountains, remote deserts and blasted tundra, when a mare is exposed to those conditions one can hardly be surprised when she loses some of the common graces and mores.
Her body was the colour of rust and her mane was black as pitch. Her emerald eyes lent her something of an exotic look and the wry smile, which seemed engraved on her face, conveyed a sense of knowing and slightly cruel humour. Her cutie mark, a single silver wing swept back as if by great speed, was entirely concealed by her practical and durable clothing. The colour of stone her clothing was littered with pockets, in which lay an array of no doubt essential tools.
I had also hired as much extra labour as I could obtain, though as I have already explained volunteers were sadly lacking. I could barely manage to raise a further two dozen ponies to aid me in my endeavours. My pleas in the name of history fell on deaf ears, at the time I despaired at their lack of curiosity and appreciation for the advancement of knowledge, now I simply envy them.
Despite the slight sense of unease, and the great sense of distaste, that I felt as I made the final preparations to venture out into the Everfree Forest I was still in high spirits. I have always found the study of our past to be an engaging and entertaining way to spend a life and this contentedness turns to joy and even elation when I am not simply reinterpreting established facts but when the venture promises fresh and genuine discovery. As such a strange smile graced my face when I held my final conference with Drill Bit, Quick Wing and Dusty before setting out into the foreboding trees. We checked our inventory, loaded the wagons, called the roll and set off towards that dark, foreboding mess of trees which seemed to glow for me with the prospect of discovery.
Several of the good ponies of Ponyville turned out to see us leave. But they did not crowd up to us, to bid us good bye and good luck with warm smiles and kind words as you might have expected. Instead they stood some distance off and bid us farewell only with brief, worried glances and a cold silence which seemed to quiet even the birds in the air and the wind in the trees. A silence which was only broken by the loud, clear ringing of the Ponyville Tower bell which far from lifting the mood served only to accentuate the quiet. So, with only cold silence behind us we ventured into the Everfree Forest to uncover the secrets of history.
Things That Don’t Go Bump In The Night
The unsettling nature of the Everfree Forest is readily apparent to all who venture inside. I would describe it as unnatural but upon pausing to think I remember that it is likely the most natural place in the world, left free to the untamed forces of the wild and devoid of the gentle hoof of pony kind. It was, and I fear shall forever remain, a dark and twisted place. The canopy over head is so thick it blocks out the light, rendering day and night the same. Illumination is only provided by tiny shafts of light that occasionally pierce the trees but fall so feebly to the ground they could just as easily be from the pale moon as the golden sun. This sparse and stuttering illumination is occasionally supplemented by the bio luminance of some fungi and plants whose gentle glow would go unnoticed in the open but which was vital in this dark and damned place.
The plants to seemed torn and bent. The gnarled bark of the ominously off colour trees appeared to twist into grotesque parodies of faces whilst their roots snaked through the earth and occasionally erupted upwards like tendrils ready to tear a man down into the abyss. Every plant added to the oppressive atmosphere. All vegetation appeared unusually large, thick and feverish, while curious mounds and hummocks in the weedy, sodden earth reminded me of snakes and dead things skulls swelled to gigantic proportions.
Every colour the eye could see was so subtly different in shade to the tone one could have expected in the wider would as to render it impossible to ever be truly comfortable in that place, every sound more haunting, every sight more chilling. But the smell was beyond all things. On the surface it might have been pleasant, many of the plants here gave of a smell so sweet it could be confused for airborne sugar. But it was so intense, so oppressive that the otherwise pleasurable sensation became more like drowning in thick treacle which clogged up your throat and clawed at your lungs. But even that overpowering odour could not disguise the stink which lay beneath every fragrance in this place of grotesque life and abundant death, the stench of decay. For everything that lived in this place something else rotted. Together they combined to form an aroma worse than any sewer, more dreadful than almost anything my fevered imagination could conjure up. Even now I struggle to recall it and my magic falters at the memory, both from the smell it self and the memories that shall forever be associated with it. It was though a thousand desiccated corpses had been entombed in a dank, disease ridden swamp and then left to fester for generations.
Despite all this however, we made good time. Quick Wing proved to be an able guide despite my reservations. She would penetrate the canopy using her strong wings and take a bearing towards our destination, the ancient ruins in the heart of this cursed place, which were invisible to us but the remains of ruined towers were just visible from the air. She would then return and give us our directions, a process she would repeat whenever an obstacle forced us to change course and as a matter of routine every hour or so just to make sure we did not stray too far from the optimal path. The lack of good tracks and the sodden ground under hoof delayed us somewhat but the earth ponies I had hired as physical labour proved strong and with a remarkable ability to withstand fatigue.
Even Drill Bit’s machines had their part to play. Were it not for him the dense foliage would surely have blocked our path, the ancient pathways had gone forgotten an untended for so long that they were near impossible to identify, let alone to traverse on mass and with heavy wagons. However, he had created an ingenious machine to solve this very problem, the mechanics of which I shall never understand, needless to say it was so alien to me as to be indistinguishable from magic. This particular machine spanned two wagons. One had a large brass vat mounted on it which he referred to as the boiler. This was connected by pipes, which would occasionally sputter, twitch and hiss, to another wagon on which were mounted three devices. The first two of these were huge mental arms, each with a reach as long as a house. They seemed like skeletons of polished brass, with thick cables, hydraulic pistons and a mass of tubes acting as the blood vessels, muscles and tendons. One arm terminated in a claw more savage that that of any bird, the other ended in a large circular saw which would scream into life with a shill cry akin to a banshee. These tools were used to cut down trees and remove them, and many other obstacles, from our path. The third tool was mounted on a poll which protruded horizontally from the front of the waggon and past the earth ponies who pulled it. Here a number of smaller circular blades twirled and sliced, only a few inches off of the ground. According to both Drill Bit and Quick Wing even ankle high foliage can slow good ponies down by a surprising amount and this was designed to make the journey slightly easier under hoof, though it could do nothing about the mud.
From my position in the middle of the convoy I remember spying Drill Bit perched atop the front most wagon, working the controls for his machine. Every now and again he seemed to talk to it, as though he expected it to understand him. Alarmingly however, the machine sometimes seemed to do just that. He would whisper to it occasionally and every now and again it would recover from whatever problem was ailing it. Yet more concerning however, was the fact he would occasionally mumble to it whilst it was in full working order, gently stroking its surface with one hoof and occasionally using the other to take a swig from his infinitely deep hip flask that he kept secreted on his person. I made a note to ask him about the wisdom of such practice latter on but, for now, was content to let him be.
I had neither the inclination nor the talent to help in the brute labour of pulling the wagons and clearing the path. So instead I simply walked along, trying to keep my hooves out of the mud as best I could. All of a sudden I heard a familiar voice behind me. It was Dusty’s, a voice so full of youthful curiosity, bright hope and wonderment even in this place. The conversation might seem inconsequential now but I remember it vividly. It revealed something of her, the way we were, the way she was. I would sooner forget it but I find myself unable to do so and I would be a monster if I could. Besides, it would be an injustice to that sweetest and most trusting of mares to omit this conversation from our tale.
“Tell me August, what do you think we are going to find?” She enquired.
“The why of this place, or at least an answer to some part of that question.” I replied. “Why was the palace abandoned, why did this forest grow and why does it do so unchecked and unaided?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No that is not what I mean at all. I know what questions you are trying to answer. But what do you think the answer will be?”
I must confess, I had never been a man who let my imagination run wild, certainly I did not engage in wild speculation. I had insight, not vision. I had searched through every record of the period I could find which promised to have even the most tangential relevance to this venture and I had drawn a blank at every turn. Even the date at which this place was abandoned seemed vague. The only thing I could say with any certainty is that the royal family had once lived here in some form.
“I don’t know Dusty. I honestly have no idea what awaits us other than rubble.” The answer seemed to disappoint her slightly and understandably so. I too was somewhat disappointed with my reply. When I commissioned an expedition I generally had some idea of what was going to happen. I had a hypothesis in mind and was actively trying to prove or disprove it. There was always an element of the unknown in any dig, the random factor of discovery, but for once I was entirely blind.
She however, was not content to live in such darkness and clawed desperately towards some kind of a light. “I know what I would like it to be. I think this place could be something of a gift, a present to us all.” I remember thinking, even then, that her idea sounded more than a little ludicrous. My disbelief must have manifested itself upon my face because she launched immediately into an explanation. “This was a royal seat, we both know that. Royal magic wove into this place over time. But our rulers are not only powerful, they are wise. Celestia and her family have come dangerously close to defeat before now. Perhaps they have always been aware of their vulnerabilities and knew that one day they may be bested. A world without their existence would fall apart, who knows what would happen to the sun and the moon, to the very fabric of magic itself. From there the knock on effects could be catastrophic, weather control would become near impossible, our farming system would collapse, the unicorns may be stripped of their power, law, order, society itself would crumble.”
Her tone was rising as she spoke, clearly she was becoming engrossed in her own prophetic visions of doom. But she calmed herself at last before continuing. “But this place, this place might survive. A whole eco system we could learn to work with, we could live here, eat its food and build shelters. It may even grow with no organised eco system to hold it back. This place could be an insurance policy for pony kind taken out by our wise princesses.” I was still pondering her thesis, which no longer sounded as ridiculous as it had mere seconds ago, when she pre-emptively answered the next question to enter my mind. “I am not entirely sure why the forest had to be here but perhaps it is in some way tied to the old palace. Perhaps only a place throbbing with royal magic could give this place the kick start it needed to grow, shelter it from the more organised eco system for a while. Though this place is long past needing that kind of help now…perhaps. I barely have the magic to lift a stack of papers and my knowledge of magical theory is non-existent. I am now engaging in wild speculation.”
I silently contemplated her theory for a while, there were a lot of holes in it. Then again I had no theory at all. But it was not so much the fact that she had come up with this theory that occupied my mind, it was the nature of her hypothesis. In this dark place, that bred fear in the mind of every pony to some degree, in this place she saw a benevolent gift left behind to sustain us in our darkest hour. I must confess I wondered how she could come up with such an idea when she laid eyes upon this wretched hive of twisted roots and ominous shadows, was she seeing the same things I saw?
“But what of the beasts?” I asked. “They are of no use to us and they are much more than is necessary to keep the environment in check.”
“I am not saying it’s perfect but our magic and our machines,” she said gesturing towards the mechanical monstrosity Drill Bit was controlling, “should see us through. Particularly our machines if magic does indeed fail. As for the safety of this venture well. I trust you.”
I wish she had never said that.
The rest of the day passed without incident, progress was good and when we struck camp for the night Quick Wing said that the ruined palace was only one more day’s hard trek away. Aside from the chirping and grumbling of the animals deep in the forest the night too was quiet, a fact which concerned us all when we awoke from our slumber. We had not been entirely naïve about this forest. Though I rejected the idea that there was a mystical form of evil here, some deep malevolence that seemed to seep into the ground itself and breed twisted monstrosities amongst the trees, I did fully accept that there were aggressive beasts here seen nowhere else in all of Equestria. As such I had ordered guard’s posted during the night and Quick Wing was swift to support me in this when the ponies protested at the extra work. Whilst they may not have listened to me on such matters the simpler ponies were more than willing to follow Quick Wing who they instinctively respected, seeing her as a bold pony of the world, not some cloistered academic such as I.
But despite our caution something had happened in the night. It came to light during our breakfast. I was eating a meal of simple grass, just as the labour did, when I heard a great and disturbing cry come from the front of our column. It sounded like a pony in pain, certainly in great distress and with our hearts in our throats we surged to the sound of the noise as one beast to see what had occurred.
We had been expecting to find the tatter remains of a guard, his limbs torn and his insides strewn upon the ground though much fewer in their number than nature had ever intended, the rest presumably residing in the stomach of a nearby beast. What we found however, was much less bloody though much more chilling. We found Drill Bit fussing over his machine, gibbering like a fool and clearly in great distress. The cause of his upset was obvious, his machine had been savaged in the night. The boiler had been torn open by some great claw and water pooled on the ground around it like blood. Both of the strange mechanical arms also lay ripped and rendered. Their close resemblance in design and structure to their more organic equivalents made the sight if anything more disturbing than seeing their gory counterparts. The black oil ran as readily as red ichor, seeping gently into the ground and contaminating it by its very presence. The broken metal was as jagged as any broken bone and occasionally a pipe or cable would twitch like the excited limb of a recent corpse as the pressures of trapped gas and liquid were sporadically released and sent the nearby metal and rubber a tremble.
As terrible as the sight was, made more terrible for being so close and yet so subtly different to the natural way of things what really gave me, and all of us, true concern were the implications of this scene. This severing of metal and smashing of machines had occurred in silence, without a single guard being alarmed. Moreover whatever creature did this could not have been motivated by hunger or any other primitive concern. It had destroyed something it could not eat but had left ripe and ready meals untouched, could this point at some form of intelligence? I did not allow my mind to run rampant at this thought, it would have been no more than wild conjecture and fantasy which could serve only to agitate and fright. Instead I occupied my mind with more mundane but no less pressing concerns. Without the machine we could no longer press through the denser foliage, at least not at any great speed and I still wished to reach the palace with all haste. Despite this recent event my curiosity was still high and our food was limited. Every day we delayed was another day we could not spend in the ruins, unearthing the truth, before our base needs forced us to returns for sustenance.
Admitting though that I had little idea how to proceed I sought out Quick Wing, she of all of us would know what to do next. I found her hovering round the ruined machine with everyone else but whilst most people skittered around pointlessly and Drill Bit seemed on the edge of tears she was moving with calm purpose. More specifically she was staring intently at the ground where the beast had presumably stood. As I drew near she waved me away stating levelly.
“Careful. I don’t want you interfering with the tracks.” Glancing around I saw no obvious tracks, no scuffs, no footprints, no clue of any kind but clearly Quick Wing saw more than I could. Gesturing idly to the boiler she commented. “Not many animals would have had the strength to do that, plus look at the claw marks. Four claws, hand the size of a pony. Not much that would make that mark even in these woods. Then the tracks.” Again she made a vague gesture, this time towards the ground. “This creature has four legs ending in paws but they are barely here, even for a cat this is faint. This beast must be as big as a house but it weighs almost nothing. Plus look at this.” She bent down to investigate the mud even more closely. “The prints are wet, wetter than you would expect like it walked through a stream or puddle. But it’s cold, very cold and look!” Again she gestured to the tracks and I leaned in for a closer inspection, more out politeness than anything else as I had yet to make out even the most elementary prints. “Tiny pieces of frost, on the edge of melting!” She exclaimed. “I have no idea what creature made this, nothing I have even encountered or even heard of makes a trail like this. But whatever it was it went that way!” She gestured with purpose towards the shrubs.
I stared in the direction she indicated. With the eye of faith you could just about see a trail of broken bushes and disturbed earth. But what to do about it, should anything be done? Whilst I was pondering these questions Quick Wing, ever the mare of action, had already decided upon a daring and bold plan. Gently flying over to Drill Bit she settled down next to the man who was both upset and angry in equal measure.
“Hey, Bit.” She said with surprising sensitivity in her voice. “How long do you think it will take you to get this machine fixed?” His reply was melancholy, but not surprisingly so. I had seen him go from bad to worse over the years. He had once been something of a bright soul, so full of energy and ideas not unlike dear Dusty. But by the events of this tale he had been turned into a broken man, he hardly put up a fight anymore. Oh he got angry but he never did anything with it, well nothing except get drunk. But that was not my problem, he always got the job done when I asked him. This was the first time his weakness had ever threatened my venture but I lacked the spine to challenge him over this issue.
“Fix it? Fix it? Don’t make me laugh. This thing is trash…might as well just abandon it here….abandon the whole venture if you ask me.” He sounded as bad as he looked, and he looked as devoid of life and joy as a long dead corpse. He made a move for his whisky but Quick Wing swiftly took it out of his reach.
“You can fix it and you will fix it!” She ordered, her tone leaving no room for debate. “Don’t tell me that Drill Bit, the famous mechanic and inventor is going to be dissuaded by a few repairs!” Drill Bit opened his mouth to protest but Quick Wing gave him no such opportunity. “The beast stole nothing, all the metal and piping is still here, put it back together! I know you brought spare parts, spare sheets of metal and extra hydraulic fluid. As for water for the boiler I can find us a river and fill that baby right back up. You built this machine to beat the forest. Don’t tell me you are going to give up when the forest bites back! No! What are you going to do? You are going to bite back harder do you hear me?” Her tone rose as she spoke, clearly she had either delivered motivational talks before or she had a stunning aptitude for the task. Drill bit mumbled something by way of response but Quick Wing was having none of it.
“Do you hear me?” She barked, more an order than a question now. Drill Bit stirred slightly, clambering to his hooves and making an ineffectual swipe at his drink again before finally righting himself and standing on all fours. Again Quick Wing bellowed. “Do you hear me you fat, drunken, pathetic excuse for a colt?” I thought Drill Bit was going to attack her right there and then! I might have done were I in possession of any strength. But unlike me Drill Bit was a formidable pony, I had seen him preform quite remarkable feats of strength and endurance. But rather than fight back he suddenly went ridged as a poll and replied clear and loud.
“I hear you!” He cried. “I hear you!” He repeated without prompting. After that surprising scene he set to work, yelling at various ponies to bring him certain tools and supplies whilst bellowing at others to get their incompetent hooves out of his way. I had not seen him act like that for years. He had always had a short fuse with unskilled labour but now his anger was mixed with real zeal, a fire, a desire to get the job done. It was as if Quick Wing had brought the pony of a decade ago back from the dead.
I was going to quiz Quick Wing on how she managed to bring about that remarkable feat but she flew right past me gently before hovering over one of the carts which contained some of her supplies and rummaged through its contents. To my surprise and mild horror she eventually pulled out a harpoon gun and brandished it triumphantly, a worrying smile on her face and the glint of a predator in her eye.
She returned to her searching long enough to draw out a few extra harpoons as well as a large knife which was so substantial it could almost be called a sword. She already wore one such weapon at her side whilst the spare she tossed towards me, thankfully in its sheath. With my lack of dexterity I would almost undoubtedly have lost a hoof had the blade spun naked towards me.
I was surprised by this gesture and looked at her curiously. She must have picked up on this and said by way of explanation.
“We owe it to Bit to keep the machines safe from further attacks and the best way to do that is kill whatever manner of beast is responsible. If you don’t think you owe anything to Bit then do it for your expedition. Without his machines we will be delayed by several days. Besides you are supposed to be the leader of this sorry group, put yourself in the front! Expose yourself to danger. The common ponies will not respect you so long as you cower away and only give orders.”
Quick Wing was a force of nature in herself, I could not say no. Besides, if any pony was capable of keeping me safe in this place it was her. If I followed her I might win some much needed respect. So I picked up the blade and followed her into the dark mess of brambles, thorns, poisonous plants and venomous animals. A place which hid an animal as big as a house and as silent as a mouse. My heart beat so hard, so loud I could hear it. But Quick Wing, Quick Wing was smiling.
