The Noiseless

by Kalashnikitty

Rating: teen
Tags: Violence, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Death, Original Character, Suicide / Self Harm, Horror
Length: 2152

Some things are better left unseen. Unheard. Unknown.

Ancient etchings reveal that far more sinister creatures reside here in Equestria and that sometimes, things are better left undisturbed, unquestioned, and unseen.

Slightly HEAVILY inspired by Lovecraftian horror.

Published 2020-11-16 06:00:01 UTC
Last updated 2020-11-16 06:00:01 UTC

Sonitus in Absentia

The harsh whistle of the kettle broke the young stallion from his trance, causing him to blink his momentary stupor away. Standing from where he rested his comfortable bulk, he stretched his aching limbs, then made his way to the shrill teapot, his hooves echoing on the hardwood floor. Taking the handle of the pot, he carefully lifted it off the flame of the stove, setting it onto the hard stone countertop. Steam rose in wanton curls, the cast iron keeping the water within hot. Rearing and placing his hooves on the counter allowed the pony to open a high cabinet, retrieving the glass jar of tea from its dusty abode of the topmost shelf. Taking it in his mouth, he leaned his neck down to place it next to the pot, before removing a mug from the shelf below. Closing the cabinet with a hoof, the stallion returned to all fours, the loud clack made by the cabinet door reverberating throughout the otherwise silent house. Opening the top of the pot, he measured out several spoonfuls of the tea into the water, the dried leaves softening and swirling in the dark liquid. The pleasant aroma of black tea arose from the pot, carried by the steam. The kitchen light provided dim illumination, casting rays of warm light onto the countertop, stove, and sink, and washing dimly out to the table set closer to the center of the room. The window above the sink depicted the inky blackness of the night, and outside, all was calm.

The fence quartering off his property extended roughly 100 yards towards the forest, but the woods were unseen, as the dark clouds above prevented Luna's night from reaching the ponies below. Despite the best efforts of the weather team, the clouds remained, casting the small town into deep shadow. A few valiant street lamps held out against the blackness, but the majority of the town was pitch black.

Another interesting effect of the dark clouds plaguing the town was the lack of noise; most sounds were muffled to levels similar to those heard on a snowy day. A sense of unease was also present, softly reaching down and caressing the deepest, most primal levels of pony physiology, and, some might say, tugging on the roots of fear itself. All felt it, but life continued on as normalcy was maintained.

The young stallion making tea had been out in the forest for the past several weeks, deep into the heart of the wood, visiting a deer tribe that had made a very peculiar, and downright unsettling, discovery. An old parchment, buried deep within a cave frequently ventured into, as the small stream that once flowed mighty from the mouth, could now only be reached via journey within. On one such trip, a young doe had been navigating down the rocky slopes of one of the inclines just past the entrance, when she came upon an undocumented fork in the path, one continuing down the slope, the other turning into a small passage leading seemingly into nothingness, from which a slight breeze could be felt. Choosing to forgo her quest for water in favor of adventure, the doe chose the darker path. She soon became acutely aware of small scratches at the walls of the surprisingly clear-cut cave. growing in frequency and variation as she continued downwards. They were like nothing the doe had ever seen prior, curves and lines in a hellish pattern that was unforgiving and painful to read, yet flowing and structured, albeit roughly etched into the stone. As she ventured ever deeper, she could feel the air growing unnaturally dense and cold, chilling her and causing her torch to flicker and sputter. Deciding to turn back from the chilling passage, her attention was drawn to a small parchment trapped under a rock, a bizarre contrast to the hard stone surrounding her. Freeing the paper and lifting it in a cloven hoof, she recalled an instinct of fear and dread becoming far, far more prominent, and swore that she heard an unknown voice speak a... cursed language in her ear, the poor doe being unable to repeat the words spoken, yet able to understand the meaning. The thumping footfalls of some kind of creature pounded from deeper within the tunnel, causing the doe to run mad with fear, the parchment forgotten by her, in her mad, instinctual charge back to the surface. As she exited the tunnel, an unspoken and unheard roar was felt, the meaning being interpreted as a singular word: "...Silence..".

Returning to her village, she discovered, much to her horror, that the parchment had found its way to her satchel. In a blind, superstitious panic, she buried the accursed paper far, far outside the tribe's territory, not daring to attempt to read, or make sense of the symbols and pictograms printed upon its surface. However, the same strange language that had adorned the walls of the dreadful cave were present, and that was enough to dissuade further investigation. The area was marked with an effigy for future deer to avoid.

Word of the doe and her discovery soon reached the small town of Ponyville, and from there, the young stallion known as "Quick Dig", hugely interested in the artifact, made the arduous journey to the far-flung tribe, to see and perhaps even acquire the supposedly cursed parchment. Upon arrival, the tribesdeer seemed... detached, and unresponsive. The doe who retrieved the parchment vanished weeks ago, the same time Quick Dig began his journey, after having troubled and frightful dreams. The remainder of the tribe had been noticing strange behaviors of the animals and insect life around them, and the flora hadn't been doing as well as in previous years. The weather was becoming more unpredictable, with pitch black clouds and white fog accompanying the night, and the disturbed dreams and horrifying sounds of screaming fawns being heard by some, yet all children had slept peacefully. Dreams of impossible geometry and illogical and mind rending creatures, depraved acts and clear, concise suffering.

The stallion ignored the strange happenings, journeying to the point at which the parchment was buried and retrieving it, ignoring the cries and warnings of the tribe. Leaving early one morning, travelling through the mist, the stallion found the tribe's village to be completely silent, all deer seemingly absent, but a strange, musty smell present instead. Brushing it off as his mind playing tricks, he made the journey back to Ponyville, the parchment a heavy weight within his saddlebags, paying no heed to the horrors within the huts of the tribe.

The stallion snapped his head up, a knock at the door drawing his attention. Curious as to who was at his residence at this late hour, he left his
tea on the counter, peeking around the corner that led to his front door. He couldn't see anypony there, but it was possible the darkness outside merely obscured them. Walking over and opening the door, he was greeted with... nothing. Nopony was there. Peeking his head outside, the only thing he noticed was a strange, musty smell that hung in the air. Swiveling his head the other way, he took note of a pony walking... awkwardly down the road, the lack of light simply granting him a silhouette to gaze upon. It looked as if the poor pony was drunk, and trying to find their way home. The musty scent grew stronger as they got closer, and as the pony came nearer the dim light that emanated from Quick Dig's abode, he noted an interesting coat pattern that covered the pony's barrel and withers. But as the pony approached, he was startled to see that the pony, at one point a pegasus, had lost their wings, and the pattern on their body was the blood that poured from the jagged nubs of bone and torn muscle that remained where wings belonged. Quick Dig observed numerous gashes and lacerations on the poor pony, the cause unknown. The pony could be heard repeating the same phrase, over and over, in a monotonous voice.

"The noiseless draws closer... and closer... the noiseless draws closer... and closer..."

Quick Dig called out to the pony, now identified as a mare, leaving his home and taking a few concerned steps onto his porch, into the inky blackness of the moonless night.

"You there! Are you alright? You must get to a hospital, you've suffered some kind of horrible accident!"

The mare made no motion of having heard him, not even the swivel of an ear, instead continuing her staggered path down the dirt road and her mumbled repetitions.

The night continued to grow darker around Quick Dig, a detached part of his psyche noting the alarming amount of fog that rolled in, making navigating the already pitch-black night even harder to do. But his concern for his fellow pony was enough to cause his departure from the protective light of his porch. He carefully made his way to the mare, horror seeping into his emotions as he noticed her deteriorative condition.

She stopped, slowly looking over at him, before she spoke harsh, grating words, her mouth moving and yet the sound coming out... wrong. But another voice, unheard, pierced into Quick Dig's mind, bringing him to the ground with pain, as the voice brought visions with it. Foals left unattended. Mothers standing idly by as their children are taken by a variety of fates. Husbands watching their wives meet their ends, and wives watching their husbands do the same. Groups of ponies participating in acts so depraved, that Quick Dig vomited merely at the sight. All around them, every mind wrenching vision, sights of buildings too tall, constructed of flesh, bone, and blood, bridges suspended by nothing, islands of bone in the sky, seas of blood, entire planets made of the bodies of still living, breathing ponies, crying out for Celestia to save them from their damnnation.

But the ruler was unseen, unknown. The absence of the deity allowed the horrors to continue.

Bipedal figures, too long, too narrow, walked the plane presented in the vision, their thin heads swiveling as they orchestrated the violence, the evil. Playing God in the ocean of an unstructured reality.

The words were the key. The words led to this world. The words were the utensil of malevolence.

"Dreams lie where the sleeper resides..."
"Death calls to the stillborn..."
"The culling is not a choice..."
"The noiseless will prevail..."
"The noiseless will prevail..."

Quick Dig pulled himself up, away from the execrable mare, practically dragging himself up his steps and into his home, slamming, locking, and drawing the bookshelf that lay next to his door down, barricading entry. He shuddered, turning around, and came face to face with the Visage of Princess Celestia.

The Diarch was smiling, before her lips moved and Quick Dig heard her voice in his brain.

"You did this..."

Her eyes welled with tears of blood, before streaming down her white cheeks and pouring onto the floor, her fur and skin sloughing off and pooling onto the floor, her bones collapsing into a pile atop the pool.

Quick Dig screamed, pushing himself up against the bookshelf barricade. More words pounded into his skull, bringing him to the floor again.

"REJOICE! THE NOISELESS ARE HERE!"
"REJOICE!"
"REJOICE!"
"REJOICE!"

Quick Dig screamed. He screamed until his voice ran raw, the words echoing painfully within him, as the sound of his cries waned, before he could no longer hear himself.

His windows shattered, the only indication of their destruction the feeling of glass pelting and cutting his skin, and long, spindly appendages reached in, skin stretched too tight over bones, covered in the blood of the fallen, clasping around the stallion and dragging his unwilling form to join the others, those who had become enlightened.

The harsh whistle of the kettle broke the stallion from his deep slumber, snapping his form awake with a gasp, as he fell from his chair and hit the floor, knocking his head on the table as he fell. Panting, horrified, he looked around, relief flooding through his veins as he realized, that it was nothing more than a dream.

The wind blew the trees outside, noisily whistling a separate tune from the kettle, which screamed to be removed from the heat of the stove. The stallion obliged, rubbing his head as he rose and took the kettle from the burner. As soon as the task was done, he exhaled heavily, then turned around to look at the table where he sat.

The parchment was there, a single word scrawled violently across the ancient writing. Moving closer, the stallion nearly collapsed from horror as he read the abhorrent word.

"REJOICE!"

The wind was gone. Quick Dig could not hear his own breathing.

The lightbulb shat̴t̶e̸r̷e̴d̶

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R̵̡̨̗̩̦̟͚̭͎̪̩̤̩̭̠͚̼̜͔̫̼̠̩̖̻̠͍̝̉͌̉̽̀͛̏́̓̅̈̉͋͘͝e̶̡̼͙̤̲̝̖̪̗̮͚̍͜ͅj̸̡̡̧͉̗̞̻͚̙̭̦̰̬̜̜̫̘͎̭̫̩̊͗͆͐̑̓̋̒̀̊̂̈́̃̀̀̏̄̆̈̌͊̽̉̌̔͛͑͝ͅȯ̷̹̘̘͙̰̫̖̈͛̽̈́ĭ̴̧̡̼̯̤̰̻̝̻͉̃́͗̏͛͗̓̈́͋̍̉̒̀̒̑͌͊̿̒̑̏̕͠͝c̶̱̘̜̹͖̦̰͇̒̾͐̈́̍͜͝e̴̢̤̣̰͔͚͙̋̈́̂͌̓̊̈͑̆̌̀̿͋̉͐͑̐̀͒̀̀̆͘̚͠

R̶̢̨̢̧̨̨̨̨̲͈̹͖̖͔͈̻͚͙̱̯̥͎̤̝̘͙͉̳͙̖͕̮̥̯̗͉̠̬͙͇̫͙̘̊̂̉̊͑̃̀̍́͌͛͗̓͌͐͒͑̌̍͘͘͜͠͝ͅe̴̢̨̡̱͉̲͉̝̙̥̮̹͙͉̠̖̞̘̮̳̤̣͙͚̯̖̲̹̽̊̅̈́̓͒̿͒̈̂͛̽̊͋̒́̒͒̔͊̈̋̈́́̽̿̈͘͘̕͝͝ͅj̶̲̫̪̺̥̬͔̣̳̺̫̠̔̆͌̊̅͗̑̅̈͝ͅͅo̶̜̩̲̯̺͕̯͈̜̻͉͒͒͗̿̃̉͂͌̾͗͛̓͂̈́̇͗̽̈́̅̈̾̈́͋͊̾̑̀̂̏͘̚͠i̸̡̢̡̧̢̨̘̥͇͇̺̜͓̜̘̗͍͖̩̰̭͙͔̲̳̤̣̹̳̫̤̳͔̬̻͔̝͓̥̜͖͕̙̋̓̑̿̈̑̈́͑͗͐̽̊̋͒̃̾͐͐̾̅̌͂͐͋͊͌̈̾̎̈́̌̋͋̄͒̕͠ͅc̴̨̢̡̢̛̥̠̞̙̣̖͔̱͎̺͓̭̺̠̰̦͉͉̼̜͎̺̠̲͔̮͈͕̻̯̻̙̫͓͇̜̯̤̣̲̳͙͉̐͛̏̆͑̀́̈́͂̉̈͑͂̈́̾́̍͗̏̈̒͊̽̐̓̀̇̓̑̊͂̿͐̈́̎͘̚̕͘͝e̶̡̡̢̨͎̰͖̳͖͕̠̳͚͍̗̬͖̙̣̦̜̬̠͉͔̜̮̭̟͑̒̽͐̆͊̀͑͑͂̆̀͆̉̎̿̈̌̑̅͐̾̓̎̓͐̃́̎͒̕̕ͅ!̵̢̢̧̰͔͈̗͎̤̪͕̥̬̙͕̤͈̲̭̩̠̔̾̋͛̽̌́̐̍͜ͅ

R̶̢̧̢̢̡̨̨̡̡̢̡̛̛̭̤̮͍̘͎͎̗̩̗̤̮͖͎̬͎͚̬̥̪̺͍̠͔͇̙͉̩̤͉͔̞͈̼̩͓̤͙̩͔̹̩̼̙̼͔͙̤̻̳̝̙͕̮̲͍̹̝͙̭͕͎͔̙̺̪͉̮̠̹̯͉̞̦̮͙̥̲͉͎͇̪͔̠̰͉̰̫͓̹̫͎̜̦̝͎̯̗̣͇̭̙̭̠̟̾̀̎̌̑́̊͐̔͗͂̑̂͂̂́̋͑͆́̆̓̽̂̃̃̋̀̓͊́̋͛͑̏́̽́͑̑̓̄̾̈́͆͂̿͑́̂̿͌̓̓̓͑̓͋̆̈́̒͂̎̊̆̓̈̇̈́̋̌̓̇̿̀̽̇̂͐̀̈̎͆̀̄͊̊͛̈́̾̉̋̑̈̊̎̃̍̿͒̄̈́̀̀̒̉̓̌̑̋̈́̂̍̐̇̓̋̉̃̽̂͂̆̏̓́̋̒̽̎̂̿̄̇͑̅̒͌̈̔̾̊́̈́̀̈̽̑̅̑̃̅̐͌̈͐͛͌̈́͒̓̍̒̽̓̿̈́̉̈́̅͗̕͘͘͘̕̕̚̕̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅĘ̷̡̢̧̧̡̢̨̧̡̡̧̨̨̧̢̛̛̛̛͉̣̥̗̜͖̺̻̳͓̟̼̙͚̖̻͚̪͍̞͍͔̯̪̣̳̜͚̤̦̹̭̹̹̜̠̪͙̫̥̲̟͍̹͎̠̖͔̯͇̗̘̥͍̝̟͎̙͈̥̤͉͓͍̠̤̝̫͎̻̣̠̲͕̟̘̘̫̭̯̝̯̣̝͖̻̺͙̼̠̤͕̙̯͖̤̘̖̗̟̦̞̩̗͎̹̱̯̺̖̩̱͉̻̻̜̹͖̭̞̤̙̠̙̫͕̰̭̞̗̗͎̹̬̳͕͕̟̟̞̳͈̦̹̖̜̙͍̰̖͔̭͍͇̙̮̭̟͎͇̣͔̬͙̬̳̗̩̪̟̘͈̼̱͎̤͖͍̻͚͎͖̫͔̦͔͓̦͉̦̜͙̩̟͖̯̥̹̼̖͍̱̳̯͕̟̦̫̳̗͈͚̣̺̠̙͊͆̎̏̆͐͑͋͂̈̋̏̏̄̿́͐͒̓̈́̀͑͊̾̄͑̐̌̑̍̈́̋̿̓̉̾͌͋͋̂̾̈́̆̓̀̉͗͊̔̊̊̌̌̊̄̾͊̽̉̃̆̈́͂͌̊̓̊̒̀̅̋͑̃̏̾̔̾́̿̈̎̌̐͋̒̀̆̒͗̒̿̏̄̐̀͊̍͌͋̽̀̄͊̇̈͑̍̆̈̉̋̇̋̓̃̿̋͒̽̊͊͗̿̔́̈́̾̒̌̽͐̉́͐̿̿̿̌̍͒͑͂̓͊͋̒͗̈́̌̄͌͌̀̈͐̂̓̎̇̈́͌͆͋̔͗̓̕̚̚̚̕̚̚͘̚̕̚̕͘͘͘̕͜͜͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝ͅͅͅJ̷̧̢̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̤͈̻͔͍̯̣̹̪͚̘̮͚̺̫̗͔͔̩̙͓̞͖̣̝̱̻̣̱̗̥̱̣͔͔̹̪̝̪̘̰̘̹̝͓̫͍̦̖͚̤̞͉̦̙̾̈́͊̈́̉̓͑̓͗̔̒͗̿́̏́͊̍̔̾̾͊̈́͆̇̅͆́̈́̆̾̿̀́͗͂̌̉̑̓̉̽̀͐͑̋̇̎͗͋͋͆̑̏̇͛̓̓͗͊̊͋̋̈́̿̌̎̊͑̇̋͛͗̃͋͗̓̊͌̎͛̋̓̀̓͆̐̽̂̌̿̿̍͛́̈͛̀͊͌̌͋̓̉̊̂̌̾́͑͗́̓̏̓̑́̽̈́͌̂̆́̓͗̉̉̅̃̈́͋͛̄͆̂̇̅̃̆̋́̌̅͋͆͐̓̈́̈́̊͛͐̒͋̆͌̐͗̓̏̃̑̾̄̈́̽͗̽̽̀̄̾̾̀͌͗̅̈́͛̑̀̄̒̎̀͒̂͛͊͂́͛͛̓͊̊͗͛͌́̓́̿͗̌͊̇̉͋̔́̌̄̊͌̂̑̆̈̏́̓͒̿̄̍̐̈́̒͌̐̓̓̓̀̀̊̀́̍̍̅̾̒̈́̊̚̕͘̕̕͘͘̕̚̚̕̚̕͘̚̚̕͘̕̚͘͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͠͝Ơ̴̢̧̨̧̢̧̢̡̡̨̧̧̢̨̢̢̢̡̢̧̨̡̢̢̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̠̝͓̲̜̬͍̭̺̘̝̜̟̥̳̱̬̼̳̱̤̮͎̗̙͎͉͕̙̯̝̰͙͎͔̻̗͍̦̼̠͓̱͎͖̣̙̼̣̱͓̺̦̤̟̤̗̺̘̫̗̪̪̝̼͖̣̭̯̥̠̬̭̤̱̖̜̜͕̝̰͕̥̤͇̮̫͎̗̼̱̖̠̞͓̱͓̠̙̩̪̥̪̜̮̻̺̟͎̟̩̮̠̱̗̘̘̝̠̲̳̩̪͔̬̭̫̙̺̹̠̠̮̠̰̪̺̮̗͈̺̟̻̼̮̦̠̩̝̞̞͖̤͚̬̜̜͔͙͙̦̺̬͎̗̩̪̭̳̫͚̱̦̳̫̳̼̥̼͓͚̤̖̟̩͙̯̺͉̯͓̟͉͈̯̹̩͍͓̣͇͖̠̥̦̞̟͉̘͚͓̜̯͍̖̞̯̝͎̮̯̞̺̮̠̟̟̳͙̳̫̪͍̓̃̀̏͐͋̎̏̂́̾̉̎̌̊̈́͆̋͊̊̂̀͆̎̆̽̀̉̀̎́̐̅͐͂̀̎̓̎̂͂̿́̋͒̽́̔̏̂̌̅̂̑͂̍̑́́̆͋̾̎̈́͂̂̋̑͆̄̈́̀͊͑́̐̒̎̓̈́͛͐̀̀͑̏̎̀̌͗͛̑̍͌͌̓̒̽̇͐̄͌͐͂̈̎̇͋̿̒̍̄͗̀̒͑͒͒̍̓̓̽̑̉̌͋̍͌͆̽͐̈́͐̈́̔̄̑̎̀̀́̽́̊̅̓̿͑̉̾̓̊̎̉̊̃́̑͗͐̆͋̃͋͊̐͑̆̈́̔̈̒̈̐̊̃̉̓̈́̿̅́͌̉͗̌͂̒̍̍͐̑̑̅͗̍͑̊̊̄̈́̅̓͗͊͘͘̚̚͘͘͘̚͘̚͘̕͘͘̕͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅÎ̸̢̨̧̨̢̡̛̛̤̼̻͕̫̜̼̯̼̪̠̟̗͎̩̯͎̣̠̳̲͔͔̝̰̻̞͇̠̺̝̝̬̙̼̥̤͇̹̗̭̖͖͓̮͕̟̖̠͇̱̟͉̺̯͎͎̜̙͎̬̖̤̦̭̤͐̽͊͂̈̇͗̑̾̎͑̆̇́̽̑͒̅̒̀̂̑̀̆̏͗̿̄͗̅͋̍̌͗̇͌͒̀͛͑́̄̽̄͋̃̓̈̅̇̍̑͊̏̅̀̾̃͒͑͋͐̄́͐̈̑̆̀͒͒͋̒͂̓̔̌́̒̾͂̎̽͗̃͂̓̊͗̋̉͒̈́̾͂̿͒̔͂͋̔͌͋̀̽̀̏̓͆̏̏̓̇̎̆̿̅̐̈̐͐͛̎̿̾̅̈̑̾̒̾̌͂́̇̏͒̊̇̈́̔͛̍̈͘̚̕̕̚̚̚͘̕̕͘̚̕̚̕̕̕͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅĆ̴̨̨̧̨̛̛̛̜͎̺̘͓͔̳̤̻̟̯̱̥̫̳̮͚̻̹͙͈̰̘͍͍̟̠̟̩̰̦͎̲̙̣͎͓͙̟͕̩̻̲̫̘͖̣̫̪̼͎͇̟̝̤͎̝͈̗̘̗̫̤̮̦͖͓̗̭̟͔͎̙̖͈̤͎̭̰̳̣̫͉̘̖̞͈̪̻͉͖̱̪̝̪̦̘̠̪̳̞̯̥̮͙͚̹͍̞̹̲̻̭̠͖̯̙͈̳̦̝̦̔͆̓͒̓̈́͑̃̈́̾̋̐̃̓̆̌́̆͆̓̐̉̌̉̑̾͐̂̊̉͒͌͋̈́́̓̓̈́̓̍̀̈́̍̒͛́̍̓͛̔̿͐̒͆̑̅̎̓͒̉͌͑̀̐̾̅̎̃̓̾̌́̿̀̏͆͌͌͛̓̍̍̈́͒̽̇̆͑̀͊̌͂̀̍̌́̾̉͂̉̒͊̀̏͗͑̅̓̾̄̽͆̽͊̾́̔̅̉̇̒̊́͑͗͗̈́̐͒́̏̂͗͑̄̈́̔̒͗͂̄̑̐́̒̍̄̔̂́́͐̀̾́͐̋̾̿̉͆̀̑̿̀̋̋͗̿̈́̑̒̈́̇͂͛̎͐̀̊̊̔̑́̽̃͌͑́̑̊̐̀̌̌̌͛͗̏͒͛̎̑̈̍̔̉̔̒͆̾̑̎̏̀̀̂͋̀̑̔̚̚͘̚̚̕̕̚͘̚̕͘̚̚̚̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅE̶̢̨̡̛̛̛̛̘̹̳͇̜̪̫͇͉͈̳̦̦̫̟͕̫̯̗̳̜̞̤͎̹͍̥͕̼͇̖̗͕͓̓͐̈̋̎͗̄̈̊́͊̄̄̈́̔̏̿͐͗̓̋͊̏̄̈̽̀̆̅͗̈́̓̓̈͆̄̈́͛̍́͊͋̓̿͊́̇̑̇̑̎̈̿̄́̈́̊̂̽͗͗͋̽̈́̋̎͆̔̀̅̉͘̕̚̕̕̕͘͘̕͠͝͠͝!̷̢̡̢̢̡̨̧̡̛̛̛̛̱͚͓͈͕̬͎̩̘͍͚̮̤̲͇̬̻̻̳̲̯̤̺̻̠̤̤̘͙̲͇̣̯̳̦̠͚̞̗̜̬̭̣͕͇̖̯̞̙͉͍̹͔͖͍͇̮̞̼̖̗̲̞̩̳̳̭̟͖̼̫̲̠͍̻̱̣̰̱͙͈̮͕̖̫̮͚͔̟̭̬̻̟͈̠̜͚̮͚̟̯͔͔͕̮̖̤̫̻̳̖̪̩̟̳̰̞̳̩̱̹̝͎̳̹̘̼̜̟͖̝̥̙̥̱̥͍̤̘̫̖̬͗̂̃̓̅̒͆̇̌̓̌́̔̊̓̓̌̓͛͗̎͛̈́̐̀̋̎̈̋͛̏̀̔͛̎̽͒́̾̀̐̈́̈́̈́͛̈͊̌̒͐̏͌̊̊̇́̎̈́̓̈́̔̍̏̓̄́̽̾̈́̓̔͐͐́͗̋͒̍͛͒̀̇̋̅͌͑͒̂̀̑̑̌͐̒̒̓̂̈́̓̓̃̂̀͒̅̓̾͊͐͆̈́̆̒̏̑̂͂́̽̂̓̅̄̿̋͊̒̄̄́̑͛́̏̈͋́̔̓̓͆̑̉̓̑͑͋̆̿͆͒̈̿͗̏͋̒̃̍̒̑͆̎̔̇́̏͗̓͂̈́̍͗̿̀͌̋̽̓̈́̄̍̉͒́̓́́̎̃̍́͗̽̍͊̅͆̅̓͌͂̎̓̀̉̾̄̀̏̍̑̔̋̈́̒̏̏̈́̂̈́̏͆͘̚͘̕͘̚͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅ