There once was a mare of beauty unparalleled, belike the greatest beauty known to ponykind. Far and wide, she searched for her love; however, her otherworldly allure inspired in the hearts of stallions and mares alike deep shame in their own appearance, and they would not so much as speak or glance at her, unworthy of her attention as they felt.
It wasn’t long until the beautiful mare grew confused, and her confusion gave way to immeasurable loathing. Loathing for her perceived repulsiveness. And so the mare searched the corners of the Earth, yet what she had in mind was not a soul-mate, but a manner in which to grant herself glamour that would woo any and everyone.
On high in the treacherous mountains of the secluded Helenor Isles, the beautiful mare traversed the long, winding paths and narrowly avoided falling to her doom. At the peak, it was said, rested an olive tree that granted perfection to whomever carried with them one of its ethereal branches.
Salt flew on the wind from the seas, burning her eyes and drying her tongue, yet onward she traipsed. Her muscles ached and spasmed, weary from days without rest, yet onward she traipsed. A rumbling came from her knotted, empty stomach, yet onward she traipsed. Arachnids the size of Timberwolves hissed, insatiable wyrms and wyverns burrowed into the bedrock, trolls and fays and even a flittering moth stood betwixt her and her prize, yet onward she traipsed…
Her travels finally came to an end when she surmounted the inscrutable mountains, and, Glory be! there sat her prize! At the rocky, withered peak sat the lonely olive tree. Only, it had no branches. An oppressive, reverberating rumble resonated rather roughly through the beautiful mare, causing her teeth to chatter uncontrollably.
There! Under the dying tree sits the source of the noise. Can’t you see it? The figure, though diminutive, clad in long, flowing robes, now tattered from what may be years of travel and strife. Yes, him!
“You there,” the beautiful mare called as she approached. “Is this not the olive tree rumored to grant beauty unbound?”
The musician stopped his cacophony. He answered with a shrug, telling the beautiful mare the tree was once a friend, and that he would speak with it at length about wood carvings and kingdoms and myriad other topics when it was more lively. Now, he said, it is dead. And for that he grieved.
“Is there not a method by which the olive tree may be restored to life?” asked the beautiful mare.
The musician answered with a shrug. Perhaps. He stood, blowing the bizarre instrument for three seconds before stopping. When the beautiful mare tried to ask what he had done, he answered with a shrug. Wait. And so she waited. She waited an hour, then a day, then a week, then a fortnight. Finally, there came a thunderous crack, and the sky split in twain. Descending from the heavens, a drake flapped its golden wings, its smooth bill reflecting the sun through the gray, parted clouds.
The musician was scooped up in the maw of the golden drake, and carried off into the distance, leaving the beautiful mare alone with but a single feather as company along with the lonely, dead tree. Lifting the feather, the mare found that it, too, reflected the light of the sun, much like the drake. The light guided her to the peak’s edge, down into the raging seas below, and without thought the mare leapt.
The salt in the air stung her eyes and dried her tongue; her muscles ached; her stomach knotted; arachnids, wyrms, wyverns, trolls, fays, and even a flittering moth watched as the gusts sang and the light, soft and motherly, caressed the beautiful mare, granting her the golden wings of a drake. So she descended, a glimmering beacon of determination, before being swallowed whole by the cold, raging seas.
...
Steadily downward she sank, till all sight was smothered by the abyssal depths. Try as she might, the beautiful mare had lost touch with all of her senses. She wasn’t even sure she was in the physical plane any longer. For the first time since the birth of the world, a mortal experienced oblivion.
Down here all was darkness.
Down here all was silence.
Down here all was alien.
Up became down; left became right. In this weightless, directionless dimension the only constant was that growing feeling of dread from the wrongness of it all that twisted and churned, gnawing and clawing its way up from the pit of the stomach and writhing from within the skull. Nothing of this world was ever meant to plunge into this void, this forgotten, forbidden gash left behind by enigmatic, primordial progenitors.
Something stirred.
Something watched.
He simply watched.
Panic. If the beautiful mare knew nonexistence, by some incomprehensible means she yet knew panic. She had to get out, out, out! She would scream if she had a mouth. Terror washed over her as steadily as the currents, but was replaced with curiosity as a soft glow, nearly suffocated by the darkness, brought her shattered psyche back to the waking world. She drifted, pulled by an unknown, but comforting, force toward her salvation.
If the beautiful mare knew nonexistence, by some incomprehensible means she yet knew rapture. Upon reaching her beacon of hope, an olive branch, everything warped around her, stretching and compressing, spinning round and round. Up became up; left became left; weightlessness gave way to gravity; dread melted to delight; and above all, darkness was burned away by light.
She was alive!
The beautiful mare awoke to find herself at the peak of the mountain, under a blooming olive tree. A branch lay before her, and she excitedly grabbed it. She hopped up and down, tears streaming from her eyes as she hugged the lively olive tree. When her passion subsided, exhaustion stole her strength away, and she slept there for yet another fortnight.
Much had changed, she noted, as she continued her travels. Many kingdoms had risen and fallen during her journey to find the olive tree. And, with her charm in hoof, the beautiful mare had every intention of ruling a nation of her own.
Silence!
Such was the demand of the monarch. The moon clung to the sky, bleeding its caustic essence into the atmosphere. A chill ran through the Epiwak nation, every Zebra within the capital gathering in the large courtyard to listen to Her Majesty’s decree pertaining to the situation.
A young colt in the audience slipped away from his parents, enraptured by a flittering moth. The young colt followed, winding through the crowd of adults so intently focused on the queen before finally weaving his way out of the courtyard and into the quiet streets. The pale moon was so beautiful, but he would have liked for it to go away so that he could again play in the jovial warmth of the sun with his friends. He didn’t see his friends anymore. Maybe they decided they were no longer his friends and blamed him for the lasting cold. Black, while a symbol for power and impregnability, could just as easily be seen as the color of the accursed witch, ever secretive and seen as a bad omen.
The young colt fled a ways away, through the expansive savannah, across the dunes of the Ithrab Desert, and over the fierce rivers of the Ury Forest. He balanced himself on a log to so as to not fall into the waters; his instructors at the meritable School for Gifted Zebra always stressed the importance of never going near moving streams due to rumors of them being linked to certain ‘prodigious happenings’. The River Gods Ki’leh and Rastafar did not take kindly to errant souls disturbing them, but tonight they slumbered. The young colt cut two cragodiles into many cubes and tossed them back into the river to be reborn as more formidable protectors in order to prove his worth in crossing.
After his safe passage, a great snake, large enough to easily swallow him whole, uncoiled itself lazily from a sturdy branch above.
“Greetings, young colt,” it hissed. “It is not often we have visitors.”
The young colt stared at the snake as it loomed over him, unmoving.
“Be you on a journey? Should this be thy goal, what be thine intent?”
“I know not, Servant of the River Gods. My journey began on a whim. For the time, I have no destination.”
“Surely thou tire, young colt. Thine aimlessness, though flummoxing, hath yet to bear thee the fruit of satisfaction. Come, rest within my belly.”
The young colt was about to deny the great snake’s hospitality, only to realize every one of his muscles ached in protest. He would not be able to travel much further in such a state. So, reluctantly he agreed, and the snake, swift as an arrow loosed, gobbled him up before slithering from the waterside.
Two days later, the colt was deposited, fully rested, onto a bank. He thanked the great snake for his kindness in delivering him safely through the waters, offering to craft him a wooden spoon since snakes were known for both their avarice and their near insatiable hunger. There was a reason, after all, they were denied entry into the Realm of the White Grass above. The task took three hours.
“You are well on your way to wyrmhood, Servant of the River Gods,” the young colt said by way of thanks.
The great snake nodded, hissing his farewell as he dove beneath the water. The bastard moon still hung in the sky. A sheen of frost had accumulated over the forest. The colt had never seen such an oddity, and he believed it to be the most unnatural thing he had ever laid eyes on. It was freezing, the light of the moon reflected harshly off of it, and it crunched noisily underhoof.
The young colt marched onward for three days before he became weary with hunger. He stopped in order to sate his empty stomach with berries plucked from a tree ― heating them until they were paste ― and the meat of a wolf-frog, most of which he accidentally burned so that it was a disgusting blend of crunchy and rubbery.
During his period of rest, a queer fellow in long, flowing robes sauntered up to him and sat next to the fire to warm his bones.
“Traveler, have you no manners? Is it not rude to approach a stranger and make yourself comfortable without exchanging proper greetings where you hail from?”
The traveler answered with a shrug. Perhaps. The traveler then wondered allowed whether a colt so young should be out by his lonesome in the middle of so hazardous an environment as a forest.
“Uncouth wretch! I will have your tongue!” The colt scrambled for his spear, only to find it was no longer at his side. “What have you done!?”
The traveler answered with a shrug. Nothing. The traveler stood, having warmed himself enough. It has been a long night, has it not? In the minds of some, perhaps too long. With that, the traveler walked off into the brush.
The traveler’s retreat galvanized the colt into action; he bolted after the mysterious figure, hot on his heels. However, when he burst through the brush he discovered the figure to have vanished. Strange… Shaking, the colt returned to his meager fire to find a small box resting near. Curious, he held it in his hoof, searching for a means of opening it. One side had a keyhole, and when he shook it, the contents within angrily rattled, but there was no key.
The young colt huffed and guided the box into a personal dimension. He sat at his fire, mulling over his experience with the strange traveler before he fell into a deep sleep.
