The Testimony of Inkmane, Unicorn Pony
So!
As instructed by Princess Twilight Sparkle herself (!), I am setting down the recent events in which I figure and must accept some measure of responsibility for.
My name is Inkmane, a name I curse as a cruel jest of fate. It is true that as a youth I enjoyed a thick, midnight black head of hair; hair to revel in, hair to turn the head of every filly. But now I am a grown stallion, in the prime of my life, and yet my mane grows thinner day by day. Every time I shower, I find a few more strands circling the drain. Every time I look in the mirror, the spectre of encroaching baldness stares back. Me! A unicorn scarce thirty years of age! What foul spirit have I angered to be burdened with such a destiny? I reject it! I refuse!
I have tried tonics, I have tried pills. I have spread rancid-smelling ointments and worn poultices the composition of which I feared to inquire. Nothing has had the slightest effect.
Of course I have turned to magic.
I have gone to famed consulting physicians and obscure backwoods healers of dubious repute. I have traveled from corner to corner of Equestria, and always it is “Oooh, hair magic can be problematic,” and “Oh dear, what you ask is difficult...”
I know the difficulties! I am the son of renowned scholar Inky Hoof. I feel confident in saying I am a tolerably skilled seeker of knowledge myself. I know hair magic is immeasurably complex. Any spell must take into account a whole panoply of variables involving follicle structure, keratin composition, color, body and bounce, balancing each element against the others in a web of factors that seem to defy the logic of traditional spellcraft. If even a single element is slightly out of place, the whole spell goes drastically wrong. It's nothing like a simple mustache spell, focused on a single small patch above the subject's lip. There are records of ponies who undertook the study of hair magic only to end in madness, their minds broken by effort.
But are we not ponies? Do we not seek out fresh truths in defiance of such dangers? Our princesses rule the sun and the moon. Shall we honor such achievement by quaking in our horseshoes and hiding away from secret knowledges? I say neigh! A scholar must schol!
And so I became aware that there existed a certain work, a tome most dire, charting the unspeakable secrets of hair magic, cast in ink centuries ago in all their terrible glory.
Yes. I speak of the dreaded Neck-curl Maneicon.
What's more, my source had informed me a copy existed not in some remote crypt or exotic land, but here in Equestria, kept under lock and key in the library of Miskoltonic University.
No sooner had I heard the news than I took a train to Hockham, Maresachusetts and the stately, elm-shrouded grounds of that noted institution of higher learning. Luck was with me, for though I arrived late in the afternoon, I still managed to reach the library just as it was closing and, in a further stroke of luck, encountered the chief librarian.
His name was Archive Stacks and he was a brown stallion dressed in a prim green vest. He had a thick white mop of mane, and I fear he took an instant disliking to me the moment he saw me. Perhaps something in my youthful clear eyes, thirsting for knowledge, reminded him of his own advancing years and his lack of grand achievements. Who can fathom the mind of sour old jades like him? Nevertheless on learning I was the son of Inky Hoof he lost some of his standoffishness, and when I suggested we dine together in a local tavern he agreed readily enough. It seemed Inky Hoof was an old acquaintance of his. This fell in well enough with my own plans, as I meant to bring the old coot around to giving me access to the Neck-curl Maneicon.
He led the way to an establishment in an ancient district of Hockham. The sun was setting, and the high peaked roofs of the buildings left the cobbled streets in murky shadow. Few ponies were about, and the air was still. An atmosphere of oppression permeated the neighborhood.
The tavern itself was funereal. A few ponies sat hunched at the bar, nursing drinks and their own thoughts. A trio sat in a booth to the rear, whispering some urgent conversation and glancing furtively toward us.
“What's up, Sourdough?” Archive called to the bartender as he guided me to a table in a shadowy nook near the front. Sourdough was a gruff, bearded fellow who returned the salutation with a short nod and a grunt.
I took a seat, still gazing around the cavernous bar. The ceiling was high, lost in the shadows. Empty tables occupied the floor. I expressed my surprise, and said “I'd expect more ponies here, this being a university town.”
My voice came out a trifle louder than I intended, and a bulge-eyed yokel at the bar gave a start and turned toward us. “You should see the place on bocce night,” he said with a grin, and then turned back to take a sip from his drink.
Sourdough's voice growled from just behind my shoulder. “Students tend to stay on the other side of the river.” He slapped a menu onto the table and I nearly jumped, but he paid no heed to my startlement and glanced at Archive. “The usual?”
Archive nodded, and added “bring some for the kid as well.”
Sourdough grabbed up the menu again before I could even take a look. A spark of outrage kindled in my breast, and I hastened to interrupt his retreat. “Actually, I'd like a hayburger,” I said.
He paused, and then chuckled. “Kid, this ain't that kind of establishment,” he said, and swept his way back to the bar.
I bridled at his dismissive attitude. I was no kid, though as I looked around, I realized I was nonetheless the youngest patron of the place.
Archive turned to me before I could make further observations, and began to question me about my father. It turned out the two of them had known one another in university days, and soon his initial coolness toward me faded in the recounting of various misadventures they had endured together. I scarcely noticed when a bottle of wine appeared at the table, and before long a warm conviviality embraced us.
Still, I did not forget my purpose, and made sure to sip my drink sparingly while insuring Archive's glass was constantly refilled. When the food arrived he already seemed half tipsy. I made sure to order up another bottle.
The food itself was a house specialty, and I should be ever so happy to never cross its path again. It was some form of salty green glop, flavored with obscure foreign spices. Archive watched me intently as I chewed. “It's the seaweed special,” he said. “Sourdough gets it shipped in from Bitsmouth weekly.”
“It's quite... memorable,” I said as I choked down a mouthful.
He grinned. “You can't get it anywhere but here,” he said, with a wise nod. “Well, except in Bitsmouth.”
I managed to endure the remainder of the meal, to his apparent approval. He let me draw him onward in conversation, telling me of his career at the university, and the library system. I plied him with glass after glass of wine, and was well-satisfied to note his speech beginning to slur.
The light that passed through the smoky windows of the tavern transformed from the rose glow of twilight into a murky gray, and finally reached the flat darkness of night. Hours had passed, and most of the handful of patrons had departed, though a few new ones had wandered in. At some point, Archive's good cheer had begun to fade, so that now his gaze settled upon me with a piercing intensity.
He leaned forward across the table. “Hey kid,” he said, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, “I know what you're about.”
I froze. My efforts had been singularly focused on getting him drunk enough to reveal how I might sneak into the library and get my hooves on the jealously guarded Neck-curl Maneicon. But now it seemed even this far into his cups he would not let his guard down.
Furtively he reached into his vest and drew forth a silver key. A hideous grin crossed his face. “This is what you're after, ain't it?” He chortled. “Your mane's looking a little thin. Seen better days looks like. Would look nicer with some neck-curls, eh?”
I ground my teeth.
“You want the Mad Arabian's book,” he continued in a gruff whisper, leering at me.
I revised my opinion then—he was letting his guard down after all, and doing his best to torment me in the process. But at least my efforts to pry information from him with a healthy hoof-up from Princess Alcohol were bearing fruit. I topped off his glass of wine.
He grabbed it and swigged it down, seemingly unaware of what he was doing. I could see him sway in his seat a bit as his bloodshot eyes glared at me. “Won' help ya,” he slurred. “Them spell's will turn on ya, mark my words.”
“I know a thing or two about magic,” I replied. No earth pony librarian with only second-hand knowledge of the subject was going to school me!
He cackled in response. “Bet that's what the Mad Arabian—Ab... Abdul Al-Hoofzred—told hisself. And how did he end up?”
“I'm sure I have no idea,” I sniffed. It was the book I was after. The author had lived and died centuries ago; what possible interest could I have in his biography?
Archive snorted. He quaffed another mouthful of wine and then whispered, his voice slurred almost into an unrecognizable mumble. “In th' streets of Mareakesh, in broad daylight... his mane and tail were de... devoured... by invisible monsters! Af... after that nopony ever hears of Abdul Al-Hoofzred again....”
His voice trailed off, and he slumped forward until his head rested against the table. A moment later I heard a soft snore emerge from his throat.
Jackpot! My plan had (naturally) gone off without a problem. I eased around the table and leaned him back in his chair. Glancing furtively around the establishment to make sure nopony was paying attention, I located the key in his vest and smoothly extracted it from his possession.
My business here finished, I settled accounts with Sourdough, the barkeep. Archive had managed to drink a distinct hole in my wallet, but I mollified myself with the knowledge that the investment had paid off well in the form of his silver key.
“He drunk himself silly?” Sourdough said, nodding toward Archive.
“Ah, yes, I'm afraid my friend has overindulged. I'll get him home, don't worry.”
“Just leave him here. This isn't the first time.”
I made my thanks, truly grateful that I wouldn't have to haul the insensible pony out of the place in a charade of comradeship, and dump him in some alley at first opportunity. I beat a hasty exit and steered my steps toward the Miskoltonic University Library, scarcely able to hold back from running.
The library building, like most of the university, was an old, ornately decorated Gothic monstrosity, well past its prime. Unfortunately, the silver key did not afford me entrance to the building itself, so I was forced to make due with a few tricks and spells I had accumulated over a wide-ranging, adventurous life.
In short, I jimmied a window.
This was complicated by the necessity of evading a security spell (admittedly a bit of a talent of mine) and doing so quietly enough to escape the notice of a party of students halfway across the Quad who seemed to be having some sort of moon-viewing party. Happily the Princess of Alcohol still seemed to be smiling upon me, as they were all half-snockered and took no notice of me climbing into the library.
Once inside, I prowled through the stacks, seeking the Rare Books room. The smell of old books filled the place, and dust motes shone in the air where shafts of moonlight filtered through the high windows. I made my way down a floor, into the basement, and nearly came to grief right there.
In the darkness, I thought to magic some light from my horn to see the way. But luckily for me, before I could activate the spell, I saw a faint tracery of light far down a row of bookcases. I moved away, silently feeling my way along the shelves until I found a break between rows. There I crouched, peering around the edge to see who else was down here.
It was a guard. The university had actually hired guards for the library! I suppose I should not have been surprised, given the nature of some of the arcane texts the library held. Still, it was a most unwelcome complication to my mission. He made his way down the aisle, his own horn casting a shaft of light before him. I cringed back, sliding into the next row of shelves as quietly as possible, and prayed.
At the intersection he paused, and then turned away, starting away from me down the stacks. I breathed a sigh of relief, and then followed. I stepped as lightly as a butterfly, making no sound and relying on his own light to show me the way. He made a few more turns, leading the way through the mazelike corridors of books, until he reached an open space with a large table. Here he paused and yawned, and I felt a moment of fear that he might turn back and patrol the way he had come. But instead he moved on into a new section of stacks.
I did not follow, for I had reached my goal. Opposite the table was a heavy door bearing a sign with the words “Rare Books—Authorized Personnel Only” emblazoned upon it.
I made my way to the door, a rising excitement in me. Soon I might find an answer to my troubles, soon a once-again thick and flowing mane might grace my brow! I crouched by the lock and fumbled for the silver key... and felt it slip from my hooves!
It struck the floor with a ringing clatter. I froze, holding my breath. Perhaps the sound had been swallowed by the shelves of books...?
But no. “What was that?” I heard the guard say from deep within the stacks. There was the sound of hooves clacking against the floor, quickly moving closer. I grabbed up the key and slid it into the lock by feel. It turned—mercifully with barely a sound—and I opened the door, snatched back the key, and slipped into the Rare Book Room in a rush. I eased the door shut silently and leaned against it, holding my breath and listening for any disturbance from outside.
The door was heavy, and only by pressing my ear tight to it could I make out the faint shuffling of the guard outside, followed at length by something I could not make out beyond the fact that it was said in an irritated tone of voice. There was no attempt to try the door, so I felt certain I had not been seen entering. After that, all grew silent.
I took a few minutes to calm my nerves. Then I cast a light spell and took a good look at my surroundings.
The Rare Book Room seemed as much a workshop as a library. A pitted old table occupied a portion of the room, and a tall mirror, doubtless of some historical interest, was set in one corner. Naturally the walls were lined with bookcases, and a glass display was set at the far end. I glanced in the mirror and winced. My combover of the top of my mane to fill out my thinning forelock looked less convincing every time I stared at it. But soon! Soon all would change!
I scanned through the shelves. Handcrafted books of art and rare works of geography and history filled the space. One case held nothing but tomes of arcane lore. I recognized a volume of the Pnykotic Manuscripts, as well as an all-but-unobtainable copy of Unaussprechlichen Kolten.
But I knew my ultimate goal must lie in the glass case. I walked to it with my heart in throat, terrified I would not find what I sought.
But I did. There it was. The cover depicted a monstrous skull, long ropes of hair hanging from it. The case was locked, but the silver key opened it as easily as it had opened the door to the room. As I lifted the lid, I could almost feel a wave of ominous energy stir the roots of my mane hairs. With a feeling of reverence, I raised the book and carried it to the table. The covers felt like silken hair against my hooves.
It was real. I was holding it.
The Neck-curl Maneicon.
I began to page through it. It was written in a flowing, alien script, but I found it legible nonetheless. Herein were the secrets of hair magic, the treacherous complexities and mind-searing truths. “That is not bald which may eternal shine/And with strange aeons, even bare pates may to hair incline.” Each page exposed new revelations, and tonsorial sorceries undreamed of by mere pony minds. Hair was not merely the natural decor of a pony's body, it was a fundamental element of the universe, part of the very structure of reality!
But I had not time to wallow in such scholarly revelations. I had at most a few hours to find the particular form of magic my own dismal situation called for. So I raced through the pages, desperately searching, deliberately numbing myself to the terrifying truths set down within.
And in due course I found it. The sorcery that would restore my thick mane, aye, and more! The invocation of an Elder Power seemed but a small thing in order to reclaim my birthright of lush hair. Without a second thought I composed my mind and began to articulate the spell.
I focused magic through my horn, channeling it in the complex patterns the spell demanded. I balanced the delicate shifting energies and called on the Powers the Neck-curl Maneicon described. “Iä P'ompa'do'u'r! Iä Jheri-K'ourle!” I cried.
And something answered. From places between, places of Chaos and Madness, something answered my call.
I felt it in my scalp. A hot, sickly energy rushed through me, and then I could sense it, the prickling, itching feeling as new follicles grew, fresh hair for my mane sprouting at preternatural speed. Joy surged in my heart. I rushed to the mirror and stared.
Already my mane had thickened. No more the thin straw strands, no more comb-over! Lush mane spilled down my neck. True, the color was strange—an eye-watering shade that could not be described, but scraped against the grain of the mind the moment one tried to hold on to it. But oh, my mane! It was a rich cascade down my neck! I shouted in ecstasy.
Someone began pounding on the door of the Rare Books Room. I paid no heed. Under my scalp, the roots of my new mane writhed like worms, massaging at my very skull. The hair grew longer, and longer still. I would not have my old hair, no, I would have hair of a thickness to rival any pony! I would be a wonder! A marvel! The envy of all! My mane was already falling past my knees, quivering and twitching with its own life.
“Iä B'ffa'n't! Iä Fla-'ttopp!”
The roots drilled at my skull, reached for my brain. The pounding on the door increased. The mane spread across the floor and twisted itself into thick tentacles.
Something happened in my head, and I became one with the mane. A glorious nightmare vision of the cosmos unfolded in my brain, and I understood so much, so many things that cannot even be articulated in pony language. My tentacles of mane grew, as was proper, and raised my pony body from the floor, the better to act.
When the door to the room burst open, not one but two guards rushed in. Their faces screwed up into a rictus of horror as they saw me, but why should they have been upset by such magnificence? My mane was to die for!
The thick tentacles reached out and caught them up. They struggled, but by now my mane was large enough to gather them up. A few tentacles reached out and brushed at their heads, knotting up into their own forelocks and reaching. They fought back and screamed for a moment, and then a sudden rush of thoughts and emotions erupted through me and Oh god there's a monster in Rare Books I knew I heard something earlier is that a pony inside it oh no it's got me no no nononoCelestiapleasesaveme oh wow, I understand so much more now.
My mane had expanded my mind, adding their minds to it, and now the cosmos unfolded to me like a flower opening wide. The shape of this petty world, the mechanics of the sun and moon, and the dimensions we never realized were wrapped around us governing the workings of magic.
My mane was wonderful.
I surged into the library basement, mane growing larger by the minute. I rushed up to the first floor. I had to be free of the shackles of this building; my mane was meant to flow free and unfettered in the wind! All of Equestria would admire me!
I burst through the back doors of the library. I suppose by this point with my mane and the two guards I was nearly the size of a small house. All the better to show off my lovely locks of hair. The party in the Quad looked at the ruckus and started screaming for some reason.
“DO YOU LIKE MY MANE?” I asked in three voices.
Up above, I could see the Milky Mane, that pale band of light that crosses the heavens. I knew then what it was, a magnificent mane like me, a mane that crossed light years and devoured whole worlds to add to its glory. This world too I would devour, and join with the Milky Mane. “IÄ M'ULLETT! IÄ B-RHA'ID!” I shrieked in ecstasy.
The party of students began to run. This would not do. They needed to admire my fine mane, and join it. I barrelled across the ground, catching them up with ease, my tentacles of hair growing greater with each moment. They too struggled, but again once my fine hairs reached their skulls and added them to me, they ceased to struggle and instead only enhanced my grand self.
But as they became one with me, the confusing rush of their minds joining with me left me reeling. This was different from the two guards. Their voices babbled in my head, something about a friendship problem they'd had and Princess Twilight (herself!) coming to solve it, and drinking themselves silly now in celebration.
These ponies were drunk.
And not just drunk, but trashed as only college students can get trashed.
And my mane was not reacting well to Princess Alcohol.
My tentacles slapped at the ground and tripped over each other, and as I tried to move across the Quad, I could only reel and lurch in alcoholic discombobulation.
So then, it was maybe a minute later when Princess Twilight (herself!) showed up, streaking across the sky like a purple meteor. Or is that meteorite? My mane made it clear to me that all motion was merely an illusion caused by my limited three-dimensional perspective, but at that moment we rolled into a gardener's shed and crushed it.
“Stop whatever it is you're doing and let them go!” Princess Twilight (herself!) shouted.
Since at the moment more than half of my pony bodies were upside-down in the nest of coiling mane-tentacles, she looked kind of funny hanging in the sky like that. I started giggling from a dozen throats. “I'm sooooo drunk,” I said, and then “DO YOU LIKE MY MANE?”
She paused, hovering above me as she took in the situation. Then she filled her lungs, and shouted back “NO!”
You must understand, this was an extremely offensive thing to say. My mane was amazing, and everypony in the land could not help but envy it. How dare she deny it?
My mane lashed out at her, but in my state of inebriation, I fear it was not very accurate. She dodged with greater ease than I want to admit, frowned thoughtfully, and then...
I can scarcely say it.
And then she did the most horrible thing. Truly the worst. With her magic, she fashioned a giant pair of scissors.
My mane whipped at her, and she cut off my tentacles! When the hair fell to the ground, it lost its wonderful, indescribable color, and sort of bubbled for a moment before evaporating. It was frankly traumatizing.
I was mad now, but still too drunk to fight well. Nevertheless I contended against her with ferocity, whipping my mane in extravagant attacks that sent the princess fluttering wildly about. But if I hit her at all, it was only the most brushing of contact, and with a dreadful snip-snip, I would find myself with that much less mane. Fueled by alcoholic bravado, I grasped the blades of her scissors directly with my mane, intending to pry them apart through raw strength. The horrifying failure of the effort need not be detailed, though the blood-chilling memory of seeing a haystack-sized swath of mane flump to the ground will linger in my nightmares for a long time. The truth is, the entire business devolved into crude and unfair bullying on her part. When she clipped one of the guards free from me, he dropped to the ground, gave his head a rough shake, and hightailed it out of there, screaming bloody murder at me all the way, the ingrate!
And I swiftly saw her aim in this tactic, for every time she managed to clip a pony free, I felt my grand cosmic perspective diminish. Where I had once understood the beings that wait in dimensions perpendicular to ours as if they were my very siblings, now I knew only a vague and apprehensive awareness that they existed at some angle I could no longer explain even to myself. My mane struggled to change tactics, inscribing runes of binding against her with it's very substance, but alas, in my state of inebriation I could not form them properly. Before long, as my mind failed, I could not even understand the eldritch nature of such runes.
And still she clipped away, reducing me with each wicked snip. Princess Twilight Sparkle is without doubt the most relentless and heartless alicorn of all. At the end I was no match for her, and at last I stood helpless, panting and shuddering on the gouged earth of the Quad.
So. Here we are, with me in a cell writing down my version of events at the command of Princess Twilight (herself!) because apparently it is I who happens to be a Very Bad pony.
When I reach up to scratch my forehead, my scalp is smooth.
The back of my neck is cold. I can't feel a single strand of mane laying along my neck.
Somepony bring me a mirror.
Somepony bring me a mirror!
