Horizonby KorbanChaptersChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 1Horizon |~| Chapter 1 = = = = = = = = = = = = Erod, taking a rest from tilling his gardens, lay upon his front stoop and dozed lightly. It was a glorious day, sun shining brightly and the sky piebald with a few wispy clouds, and while he had work that he intended to finish he was by no means about to spend all of this sunshine sweating. Feeling he'd earned a break, the stallion had stopped for a rest and soon could be heard the slightest of snores escaping his lungs. He was a quiet stallion, his coat a hazy yellow-tan and possessing a medium length charcoal mane that lay loosely over his brow and down his neck. Easily described as an earth pony who enjoyed his honest comforts, a full belly and smoldering pipe, a midday nap on the front step or a leisurely stroll at dusk could keep him content until his ancestor’s graves held only soil. Oft the pastimes of the lazy, these were his means of enjoying his good fortune in residing away from the bustle of towns and neighbors. After all, why should he go about mucking up such fine days as these with too much noise or strain? This is not to imply that he was inactive all of the time. Alongside his meals and rests, Erod greatly enjoyed tilling and tending land. While he was in no physical shape that allowed him to work large fields, he managed to suppress his belly enough to keep small gardens, flowerbeds and patches. It was both his race and heritage, born into and raised among a primarily earthen family, that caused him to retain such an affinity to sowing and harvesting crops, no matter how trivial. His abode rested atop a hill alongside which a narrow dirt road, just wide enough to harbor a cart, ran from the north-east and then southward as it passed. A square cottage, large enough to accommodate himself and small enough to keep him from feeling too lonely when company was sparse, was his shelter. Softened hay under a wool cover made for his bed, lain in a shallow box tucked into the corner of the rearmost room of the home. The front room contained a fireplace of mortar and smooth river stones, a few cushions and a low table, serving as a parlor when needed. Between these two lay the kitchen and pantry, with a flight of stairs descending to the root cellar, this used for storage and a degree of food preservation. The singular route outside passed the eastern side of the knoll, leaving the western slope to face only rolling hills, cloaked in wildflowers and scotch broom. The north face held the same, in addition to a handful of burbling streams. Turning to the south, as if exiting the cottage, one could see the path turn and proceed, winding through grasses and then entering a birch thicket a few hills over. Awakening from his snooze, Erod found the sun to be just hours from setting. Appalled that he'd failed to finish his work and then nearly missed his evening meal, the still-drowsy pony bustled about, gathering his tools and made his way indoors. He deposited his threadbare felt cap on the hook just inside the doorway and crossed the parlor, supplies in tow. A few clangs and clatters later, Erod had deposited the tools in the cellar and had come back up the stairs, proceeding over to his pantry and kitchen. Freeing some stubborn carrots, from behind a large melon no less, Erod closed the pantry door and nearly put his head through the low ceiling in surprise. In his parlor, previously unbeknownst to him, had been sitting a golden-tan feathered griffon. This was not, however, just any griffon. It was none other than Erod's long-time friend and companion, Wren. But Galaxia knew her unexpected presence had scared him half to death. "Wren, you nearly put my heart through my skull," the stallion voiced breathlessly, still reeling from the fright of it. "You really oughtn't to sneak up on ponies like that. I'm afraid I'll next see you in a prison if your next victim doesn’t have as strong a ticker." "Maybe you have just been idle for too long, old friend. You were never so prone to being caught unawares when we traveled," she challenged, grinning all the while. "Well, it's been years, hasn't it? You can't expect me to keep adventuring right up to my death bed." Gathering up a kettle and leaves for tea, rather than that soup he'd been looking forward too, he set about preparing something for him and his unexpected guest. After getting the pot filled and on the stove, now fired up, Erod made his way to the parlor. Embracing his friend and then sitting on a cushion adjacent, he took a moment to take in her presence. It had been years since he'd last seen this proud member of the Gilthonor clan, not since the tail end of their last adventure, and that separation was far longer than he’d have liked. While he hadn’t seen her for a few years, she had changed little. Her feathers, white above her chest and a radiant toasted-gold below, were just as smooth and long. Where her feathers were replaced by fur of the same color, he could see again a scar she had received, running downward over her side. Her eyes were the same bright, vibrant amber as they had been and still seemed as eager to take in the world as he recalled. With her perpetually tousled crest of feathers, fanning out not unlike a palm trees leaves, her appearance was both rowdy and proud. “It’s great to see you again, Wren! What brings you so far from the north?” he asked, “It was quiet, and not a soul could accuse me of lying about that,” she remarked drearily “so I left.” “Not exactly your cup of tea.” he said, chuckling at the memory of her fiery spirit. She had always been one for action and that wasn’t likely to change just because she’d tried to settle down. He doubted that she would ever truly be able too. “Not by a long shot. You know, better than anyone really, how much I’d miss the open roads and traveling, Erod.” She spoke broadly now “I missed the freedom; the excitement; the adventure!” After a slight pause, she resumed her train of thought “That is, in fact, why I am here. I could never travel the roads again without inviting you along. That’d be just plain rude.” He’d figured she was here for that, at least partially. “I appreciate the offer, but you’re not dragging me into another harrowing adventure, Wren. I put all of that aside years and years ago.” The kettle began to whistle, beckoning Erod away for a moment. The water was very much ready and he retrieved a couple of mugs from the cupboard, preparing their tea. “You mean to tell me that you don’t miss it out there?” she called from the parlor. “What ‘it’, Wren? The violence; the death; the blood soaked dirt?” he asked, becoming a little heated. “I don’t want to be part of that anymore.” It was a lifestyle he’d left behind and didn’t want to revisit. He remembered some of the wonders of that life, but at what price would it come, reclaiming them? “You’re letting bad memories taint the good ones, Erod. What about the rowdy taverns and the campfires in the night and the majesty of the stars and moon overhead?” she questioned, nearly pleading. “We lived our lives then. We didn’t while them away sleepily. We spent our time earning our keep. Every moment we were alive, we’d earned. How much more can you be living than by brushing with death and coming out on top?” He had to concede that point. He did miss the taverns and fires and night sky over the wilderness and roads. He missed the thrill of living a life in which every day was his own. He’d lived because he’d survived. With a sigh, he returned and set the tray with its two passengers, now full of steaming tea, upon the table. Sitting down, he glanced from the drinks to the table and its sturdy build. He took in the cushions, with their roughly stitched seams and worn fabric. Despite these and the other furnishings around him, he looked around the parlor and saw an empty room. This room, so much like himself that he shivered, was full and yet so empty. The furnishings fit together, easily enough, but they were neither soft nor weak. And yet the room that contained them was quiet and content to do and see nothing. These walls would never know excitement or danger, nor ever know the thrill of an adventure. The contents were part of the whole and yet fit it so ill. Erod returned his gaze to his old friend, she now taking her tea in sips. He’d missed her over the years and was now given the chance to go with her. He could not pass the chance up. Just once more, he could live again. Not this sham of an existence, lazily sliding through many days. He didn’t feel alive here. “I will accompany you, Wren.” The griffon, with her plumage now rendered a deepening red-gold by the setting sun, nodded her head and blinked solemnly. With a small grin, seeming to creak like an old, familiar floorboard, she stood from her seat. Downing the last of her tea, she replaced the cup and addressed Erod “Well, don’t let me keep you waiting. I’m sure you’ve got some supplies you’ll want to pack and gear to track down. We shouldn’t be gone for than a few months.” Wren was safe in the knowledge that, after traveling together for so long, he could decide what he would need and be able to pack it all himself. They hadn’t packed too heavily, back in the day, and so the list of provisions and gear was bound to be relatively short. “I’m glad you’re coming, Erod. To the south, down that little road, is Brinsaddle? How long until I can expect you to be ready and meet me there?” she asked. She had intended to find an inn and stay there, in the little town, until they set off. “That is correct and I’ll have none it, Miss Gilthonor. You’re not going to be sleeping in a musty little inn while I can hole us both up here instead. You just wait there and I’ll have somewhere for you in no time flat.” It was a bit longer than “no time flat”, but the light-beige stallion was finally able to scrap together a comfortable, if admittedly ugly, bed for his old friend in the front parlor. With his guest attended to, and she just readying for the night’s rest, Erod made his way down to his cellar. It was fairly dark, but he was able to discern his objective fairly quickly without the aid of candle or lantern. Making his way over, he gripped the metal handle between his jaws and began to haul the bulky load over to the stairs. A moment later, he was backing into the parlor with his burden in tow. Wren glanced up from her make-shift bed, observing her old friend as he finished relocating the object. Covered in a layer of dust and dirt, thick with years in the cellar, hunched a stalwart wooden chest. He released the latches and raised the weighty lid a bit. Chunks of the grime coating the vessel were dislodged from their wooden host, tumbled to floor by the long forgotten motion. Forcing the lid to open, much to the squealing protest of its rusty hinges, Erod got a good look at the contents and was stricken by the memories of his previous existence. Nearly floored by the flood unexpected memories and emotions, Erod remained there a moment. Finally stirring, he silently closed the lid with a thunk and pushed the chest against a wall where it would be out of the way. He moved through the kitchen into his little room, seating himself on the edge of his bed. After a moment of quiet consideration, the graphite-maned head laid itself upon the pillow. Its owner slowly began to drift to sleep, haunted by memories and emotions he could deal with in the morning. Chapter 2Horizon |~| Chapter 2 = = = = = = = = = = = = Through the haze of his troubled sleep, Erod's mind slowly began to register existence. Opening his eyes, his brain was assaulted by sunlight glaring through the window. Clenching them shut again, Erod raised a hoof to rub at his eyes. With his vision shielded, the culprit was clear. Wren had pulled the shades aside to let the light into his room. She looked over at him, a sheepish grin spread across her face. He laughed a little, despite his annoyance. It was hard to be mad at her so soon after reuniting and it was getting a bit late in the morning to be asleep anyways. He rolled out of his bed, sloppily laying the blanket back in place, as Wren made her way to the front room. After briefly stretching his sleep off and brushing his mane into decent condition, Erod crossed into the parlor after the griffon. Laid at the table was a light meal for the morning. A plate of biscuits, a jar of preserves and spice tea were the bulk of it, with some greens on the side. "Thanks," Erod managed, his voice rough with dryness. After a mouthful or two of the tea, grimacing from the heat of it in his dry throat, he was able to speak properly. "When did you learn to cook?" he asked, dragging one of the biscuits his way. "Oh, I just sort of picked it up. And you said I'd never manage it," she remarked, puffing her chest out a bit sarcastically. He'd tried to teach her how to prepare food on their travels, but the best she'd ever managed was a gritty, grey mush that was better suited for use as glue than as food. Not a complaint would be heard from behind his lips about her new found skill though. It would be a relief not having to prepare every meal on the road. They enjoyed the breakfast, laughing over stories and jokes and generally having a good time. With the emotional turmoil that had plagued his sleep now rendered trivial, the day seemed like it would be genuinely pleasant through and through. Erod helped to clean up after the meal, not wanting to leave his friend with all of the work. While Wren's new found skill in cooking was appreciable, she had still left a bit of a mess in the kitchen and cleaning was not her forte With their little feast over and the mess conquered, Erod was able to set about packing his gear and did just that. Saving the contents of his musty trunk for last, Erod went about collecting the odds and ends for the journey. Remembering well what he liked to carry, he was able to track down, with the help of his feathered friend of course, much of what he would need. Some of the supplies were not to be found, either used or thrown out previously, and would need to be replaced at some point. Sooner, if Erod could help it. They were not entirely necessary items, but they were ones he knew he'd miss if he didn't come by some, like rope or a thick needle for leather and such, if he needed to patch something or replace a strap on some gear. With the majority of his accoutrements stored in his pack or lain nearby and mid-day threatening to roll past, Erod pulled the chest out from the wall where he had stowed it the night before. Wren at his side, he undid the clasps and, with a bit more resolve this time, opened the trunk. Prepared for the torrent of emotion brought on by the memorabilia, Erod was able to sift through the contents steadily enough. The chest’s residents were from his life as a wanderer. They’d been relegated to their dark home after he had set up his on the hill. The first to be removed from the container was his traveling cloak. It was faded now, its color a greying memory of the rich green it had first been dyed. Next he extricated his old iron dagger. Spears and pole arms had been his weapon of choice for most situations and still would be, but in rowdy bars and tight spots that dagger, nearly a foot in length overall, had serviced him well. Following that, he removed his belt and an assortment of leather and woolen pouches, bags, purses and other such receptacles. Among these was a gourd, secured in a bout of dark humor by a small noose around its neck, for water. From under all that leather he began to remove components of his armor. As he held each piece in his hooves, he examined every strap, weld, rivet, plate and buckle for damage or weakness. Once satisfied that rust and his belly were the only enemies the armor would have to deal with, he set it amongst its companion gear. The armor was rather cheap as far as armor goes. Instead of well fitted plates with minimal joints and chain mail to go under, it consisted of overlapped iron plates, riveted to leather straps. Padded with wool under the plates and straps, the armor was wearable on marches and provided a fair amount of protection against arrows and blades, although serviced poorly against maces and other blunt impacts. The joints and gaps between plates were hazardous, but he couldn’t afford a better set then and that hadn’t changed, so this would have to do. Scraping the bottom of the chest, Erod was just about finished digging the gear out. Remaining were some spare leather strips, some wool and leather for gear repair, a tin of grease for leather care and some foreign currency. The money was Skalvenic, which didn’t surprise Erod. His and Wren’s last escapade had ended on the northern border of the changeling homeland. Skalven bordered Equestria on the south. Tensions had always been high between the two nations due to the natural conflict between the changeling diet and pony emotional spectrum, but they had managed to maintain relatively clear trade routes. The last venture Erod and Wren had been on together had revolved around a pegasus warlord who had restricted one such route, charging outlandish border fees and nearly inflaming a small war between the local lords. Saving that adventure for another time, the important thing is that both Erod and Wren each left it with one of his leather pouches half full of Skalvenic silvers. These coins, best distinguished from their same-metaled Equestrian counterparts by the four-point star cut out from the center, were useless outside their home province itself or the towns just outside its border. Both governments higher leaders had refused to exchange either currency for the other, claiming that it would hurt the respective domestic economies too much to warrant the benefits. Due to this rare burst, for the governments of the lands were often reasonable, of bureaucratic idiocy, Erod found it useful to keep a few foreign coins on hoof when he traveled about. After packing everything in his pack save the armor and dagger, which would need cleaning to remove the rust that had developed upon them, he dropped the Skalvenic silvers into one of the wool coin purses and a hoof-full of Equestrian bits into the other. He cinched these tight and strapped them to his belt now, so he wouldn’t forget about it later. The chest was closed and replaced in the cellar, now entirely emptied out. With Wren’s help, Erod retrieved a cask of oil and scrubbing supplies from the cellar. Moving everything into the parlor, in preparation for cleaning the rust from his metallic items, he only just took notice of the sun’s position in the sky. By this time, darkness was about to set in and the pair agreed to set the chore aside for the next day, since they were under no time constraints. After a dinner of rye flatbread, potato soup and a bit of wine, they turned in for the night to their respective beds The next day began a bit more softly for Erod, since he was no longer so shaken, and he rose shortly after the sun. Following another cheery breakfast, he and his guest set about scrubbing his armor and dagger to remove some of the rust. It would take a good deal more scrubbing and long-term care on top of that to return the armor to its former glory though. But, just removing the majority of the pesky oxidized residue would suffice and would prevent them from spending too long on just that one task. Although the dagger was no longer so rusted, it would still need to be sharpened before it would be truly useful in a fight. If he had any say in the matter though, Erod would prefer some variation of a long pointy stick. Fortunately, spears were cheap and easy to come by just about anywhere. There wasn’t too much to a simple one besides a wood shaft and a bit of sharp metal on the end, and that was assuming he didn’t just cut a tree branch and sharpen that until he could purchase a decently made one. So, he would have no problem getting his hooves on a comfortable weapon, once they visited a nearby town. Cleaning the gear and other general preparation ate up the rest of the day and passing the time was greatly eased by chat and discussion. A portion of the talk revolved around the finer details of whatever it was that had possessed Wren to leave her home. It was no trivial distance, to come this far south and seek Erod out again. Posing the question to her, he thought a bit about how little he knew of the trip and Wren’s motives. He trusted her, with his life, but he was simply curious about it all. “I couldn’t stay home longer. Maybe it’s just in my blood Erod, but I can't stay still that long. Traveling was all I really knew; all we really knew, and when I realized that I came to invite you along." That didn’t surprise him. After traveling with her, he knew how easily she got restless. “And you came all this way without gear?” he asked. She had arrived void of pack, supplies or armor. All she’d come with was the old family sword belted around her middle and a few pouches on a wide-cut style flank harness, a common apparatus used in her day as opposed to the modern saddle bags now in use. The harness itself consisted of a belt circling each thigh with a third belt crossing over the lower back to connect the two. There were many variations on this rig, but the uses were fairly universal. Pouches, purses and weapons could be securely strapped to them and it was also common to see them used as a base to armor the flanks and lower back. Some of the designs used multiple, thinner straps while others preferred fewer wide ones, such as Wren’s did. “No, hardly," she said doggedly. "I brushed into a gaggle of thugs a couple of days north and figured that my life was probably worth more than my supplies. They got busy scuffling over who should get what from the pack after I’d handed it over and I took the chance to flee.” Erod sighed with relief. "Well, I'm glad you're alright. Should we replace your pack now? I think I've got enough material here to make a new one." Tired at just the memory of it all, she replied dismissively "Believe me, I'm just as glad as you are." After a bit of consideration, Wren next addressed his question. "I don't think I'll need one just yet. It's not far at all to Brinsaddle and we'll be able to replace it there." Satisfied with that, he began polishing away at a particularly stubborn patch of rust. "So, what's the nature of this little venture of yours?" He’d really prefer to know what he was getting into, at least vaguely, before they went gallivanting away across field and stream. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Wren, because he did, but there was always that desire to know what was coming. Even if the knowledge would provide no advantage on his part after they set off, it would comfort him a bit to know what lay ahead. "Well, that's just it Erod," Wren said, a motivated, excited sort of grin spread across her beak, her eyes shining, a sparkle in them. She’d always worn that geared-up expression when she got thinking about her goals or anything else that really got her pumped. He silently savored that look, because it was just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen, back in the day all the way up until now. But he’d never tell that to her, although it was amusing to imagine the look she might have shot his way if he did. "I don't know,” She continued dreamily. “I'd thought to myself, 'Self, what do you think would be a good way to rekindle that old sense of adventure?' and what better way than to set out on a path with no destination?" she finished with a pat of her talon, on a plate of armor she had been working on, and a chuckle. After a share in the humor and a bit of consideration, enough time for Erod to finally rid the metal of that pesky spot of rust, he decided that he liked the sound of that plan. Or what of a plan it actually was. There wasn't much in the world that could quite compete with the mystery and freedom of truly wandering. With no goal in mind, the duo would be free to go wherever they chose and to take up whatever jobs they wished, all on a whim. Besides, could he honestly find a better source of adventure to trust than a friend who talks to herself for advice? Their conversation was mostly concerned with their departure and what places they were interested in seeing on the road or things they would like to do. While they were going to be wandering about, it didn’t mean that they couldn’t have any small goals and places to go. Due to the subject matter of the talk, their moods had really spiked and neither could help but be excited. However, they did have to eat at some point and with the entirety of Erod’s metalline gear now ready to go and laying with his pack in wait, he set about preparing them a dinner. The main course consisted of a hash made from yams, celery and some pumpkin seeds, all sautéed in a dash of heather-infused oil. With a fragrant entrée prepared, he would need a suitable side dish. To fulfill this position, he sliced some bread, leftover from the a few days ago, on the bias and toasted it in the range. As a topping, he prepared a tapenade with some mixed flowers in addition to its standard olive base, anchovies and capers. The tapenade had been an acquired taste for Erod, as it was not a standard foodstuff among the ponies and goats of the time. The catching, sale and eating of fish and other meats was against the Canons of the Church. The punishments were harsh and, unlike the government's, much more consistent in delivery. The Church itself had not lasted into the princesses' later rule. Some of their practices had, however, such as the exclusion of flesh-based food from the diet. Because of their influence and oppressive directives, most of the pony and goat settlements did not have a market in fish or other meats whatsoever. The eating of chicken meat, eggs or other small animals would be common in pony and goat cultures if not for the Church, but the slaughter of cows and such still would not. The natural connection between such creatures and the more sentient races was too intimate for them to eat the flesh of one another. A pony eating beef was as close to cannibalism as it could be. But fish, chicken, rabbit, squirrel, lizard and such were not quite so close to the hearts of those lands. Erod’s years of wandering and current isolation had left him with some resistance to the indoctrination of the Church and so he did partake of such protein-rich foods upon occasion. Tapenade had, in fact, been introduced to him by Wren herself. The Church had no hold over the folk of Griffonland or Skalven, as the former was beyond the Church’s arm of influence and it was not uncommon for a Church priest to be stoned to death or hung in the center of town, at the end his own sash, by changelings of the latter. The preaching, beliefs and actions of the Church had earned them a harsh reputation across the lands and while they had their supporters, many outsiders were prone to violent action against the Church and its members. Due to the lack of influence in their homelands, the griffons and changelings both held thriving markets in fishing, although the feathered batch had a naturally high skill in fishing that the changelings lacked. What this all meant for Erod was that fish products, such as jarred anchovies, were rare and rather expensive in Equestria and especially this far inland. It was fortunate that the anchovies the merchants brought in were preserved so well and sold secretly, as the Church would persecute any offenders of any of their protocol with loss of the tongue, followed by the eyes and then the ears, should the offender repeat. You would eventually be whipped, or by some similarly painful methodology, to death. The sentence of death was never issued as “For the ingestion of flesh” but rather as “Repeated breach of the Church Canons”. It was looked upon as an encouragement of rebellion and was swiftly dealt with. The Church took its Canons very seriously. With all of the trouble caused by the Church and her recent trip down, the tapenade was a pleasant treat for Wren, used to eating fish as she was. Glad to have it after her travels and to be sharing it with Erod, it was already clear that the night was going to be great fun. In the midst of the meal, the toasted gold griffon excused herself to the cellar, instructing her friend to stay at the table, and all with that cute little grin to boot. After a moment of silence and a couple more that involved a lot of clattering and thumping from below, Wren emerged with a cask of cider to celebrate. Erod wasn’t about to protest, so he retrieved two mugs and filled the first round. With a toast to their health, wanderings ahead and good fortune, the two put the mugs to their lips and quaffed the alcohol, beginning their celebration of the night’s youth. Chapter 3Horizon |~| Chapter 3 = = = = = = = = = = = = With Erod's house two days journey behind them, our intrepid duo had only a few more hills to cross before they would begin to see the outlying farms of Brinsaddle. The short trip over was often uneventful, but this is not one of those times. A band of woods ran between the land around Erod's home and the hills of Brinsaddle, connecting two larger forests to the north and south. Before this tale can be continued, we must first revisit the events that transpired in the forest, for it was here that the dullness of the pair's trek met its ominous end. "Have you got that tinder lit yet?" Wren asked, dropping her load of firewood onto the damp litter of the forest floor. "Just give me a minute," he shot back, a bit frustrated. It was starting to get dark and it was already rather cold. "Almost," she remarked encouragingly as his pile of fluffy, almost dry wood shavings began to smoke and the first coal of the fire began to form. After a bit more work, the stallion managed to get a small flame to sprout. With a fire crackling under the darkening sky, the two prepared to settle in for the night. Erod had his bed roll spread first, over a layer of pine needles to hopefully hold the cold and wet from the forest loam at bay. A glance over to the fire prompted him to search for more fuel. It was bad enough that nearly everything within eyesight was soaked and damp, but having the fire die in the gloom could easily leave them dead by the morning. "I'm going to gather some more wood, Wren," he said, rising from his bedroll. "Alright. Don't wander too far," she reminded him. "Yeah," he said, although too quietly for her to hear. Moving out into the growing darkness, Erod strained his eyes to locate anything flammable. It was slow going in the thick brush and the small camp by the road was becoming fainter by the second. He was just about to give up his search when the softest of sounds struck his ear. He had difficulty following the sound, distant as it was. Had the silence been any less absolute, he'd never have caught it. His body reacted with instant suspicion, but his curiosity got the best of him. As he pressed onward into the deepening pitch of the night, the sound became less and less vague. Tracking it with more ease, his ears tensed forward, the earth pony came into a clearing. With a canopy of leaves no longer overhead, the moonlight was able to shine down, not that it helped much. Under such meager lighting, he could just discern a myriad collection of angular, worn shapes in the open area. It took him a few moments to decipher the moonlight-drained colors and barely visible shapes, bordered all around by malicious darkness, but he soon came to the realization that he was standing in a graveyard. "Why in the name of Orion's Belt would anypony put a cemetery in these woods?" he mumbled. The air was cold, damp in the moist moonlight, and left him shivering in its breezy wake. The darkness was tightening in around him, choking off his sight, leaving him claustrophobic and cutting him off from the warm world he knew. The world he once knew. The more he thought of it, the more he became aware of a terrifying silence that came down like a heavy blanket, smothering his perception of the world in fear and terror. Silence. He once again sought out the noise, his mind jolting back to what had lured him out to this graveyard in the first place. Looking about shakily, he found that, no matter how hard he strained, his ears instinctively swiveling about with each fresh wave of fear, the sound had ceased to cut through the night air. His initial confusion over this was quickly replaced with a creeping trepidation. The thought of something in this horrible, seething darkness that knew he was there; could hear him breathing in the still cold; could hear his heart pound against his ribs; could just reach out and pluck one the hairs rising along his back was quickly swallowing him in the depths of terror it created. Panicking now, he turned to exit the clearing and leave, urgency flowing freely from instinct. In his wild dash for the edge of the cemetery, he stumbled over a broken headstone and sprawled into the dirt and rotting moss on the ground. The fall, combined with the malicious darkness and heart-chilling dread, left him dazed, unable to convince his body to crawl out of the dirt and to keep moving. As Erod lay on the soil, trying his hardest to get his mind and body back under control, he heard that sound again. Still reeling from the turmoil in his mind, he had trouble sorting out from where he'd heard it. It was much clearer and closer than it had been as of yet, neither of which was helping his mind recover. With it so close, it was much more distinct. It was a sound that he would have a very hard time ever forgetting; a crumbly, shifting, gravelly sound. Erod could only drum up more confusion when he eventually identified it as the sound of dirt and rocks being moved. Rising a little, shaky from adrenaline and fear, the stallion looked about himself. Dark as it was, his searching gaze struck upon no possible source. His eyes, nervously darting left and right, found that there was nothing in the clearing of headstones, dead trees and thick darkness that could be making such a sound. Just as he was regaining control over himself and making to flee from that dark place, the dirt beneath him exploded upward, showering him with rocks and dead vegetation. A hoof punched upward through the surface, ripping through the upturned soil and scraping at the ground. A bony, half-decomposed snout was soon visible, tumbling Erod over again as the beast hauled its shoulders to the open air. Its free hoof thrust outward, tearing at the ground in an attempt to free the rest of its body, with raspy, dead grunts accompanying its flailing. His surprise and close-up presentation of the monster propelled him off the edge of sanity, his mind reaching out for security as it dropped into a pitch black hole of desperation. His own legs kicking and driving at the dirt, Erod only managed to scramble away from the churning grave enough to pin himself against a nearby statue, chunks of concrete showering him as he impacted the old figure. Fear allowed him only short, panicked outbursts of a breathless scream, his lungs trying to cope with both his sheer terror and instinct to run as they expanded and contracted faster and faster. The decaying mare's wrenching and struggling was paying off as she tore her other foreleg from the ground, sending more of her earthy prison sailing. With two hooves on the surface and her previous resting place significantly emptied of both soil and corpse, she managed to extract her midriff and hips. She bucked a few times, trying to free her hind legs. They came free, however one did so with a sickening crunch and a crack that split through the night air. A guttural, hoarse shout of pain escaped her throat, bone protruding from the rotting flesh of her left rear leg, just below the knee. The undead mare, an earth pony herself, turned to Erod. Seeming to have forgotten the pain of her broken leg, she limped over. She could not put weight on her broken leg, but it seemed to simply give out rather than cause her any more pain. Standing over Erod, she gazed down upon him. Her eyes were white, glazed over and empty; cold and lifeless. She raised a hoof, intent on ramming it through his skull and churning his brains and blood into the dirt, when a low, whistling moan slipped through the trees, carried further than was natural by some vile magic. It was cold, greasy, dead; it swallowed Erod's mind, pushing out all semblance of hope, leaving behind only thoughts of torment and despair. With a tremble, his vision darkened and he slumped to the ground, his mind drifting among torturous nightmares.
Chapter 1Horizon |~| Chapter 1 = = = = = = = = = = = = Erod, taking a rest from tilling his gardens, lay upon his front stoop and dozed lightly. It was a glorious day, sun shining brightly and the sky piebald with a few wispy clouds, and while he had work that he intended to finish he was by no means about to spend all of this sunshine sweating. Feeling he'd earned a break, the stallion had stopped for a rest and soon could be heard the slightest of snores escaping his lungs. He was a quiet stallion, his coat a hazy yellow-tan and possessing a medium length charcoal mane that lay loosely over his brow and down his neck. Easily described as an earth pony who enjoyed his honest comforts, a full belly and smoldering pipe, a midday nap on the front step or a leisurely stroll at dusk could keep him content until his ancestor’s graves held only soil. Oft the pastimes of the lazy, these were his means of enjoying his good fortune in residing away from the bustle of towns and neighbors. After all, why should he go about mucking up such fine days as these with too much noise or strain? This is not to imply that he was inactive all of the time. Alongside his meals and rests, Erod greatly enjoyed tilling and tending land. While he was in no physical shape that allowed him to work large fields, he managed to suppress his belly enough to keep small gardens, flowerbeds and patches. It was both his race and heritage, born into and raised among a primarily earthen family, that caused him to retain such an affinity to sowing and harvesting crops, no matter how trivial. His abode rested atop a hill alongside which a narrow dirt road, just wide enough to harbor a cart, ran from the north-east and then southward as it passed. A square cottage, large enough to accommodate himself and small enough to keep him from feeling too lonely when company was sparse, was his shelter. Softened hay under a wool cover made for his bed, lain in a shallow box tucked into the corner of the rearmost room of the home. The front room contained a fireplace of mortar and smooth river stones, a few cushions and a low table, serving as a parlor when needed. Between these two lay the kitchen and pantry, with a flight of stairs descending to the root cellar, this used for storage and a degree of food preservation. The singular route outside passed the eastern side of the knoll, leaving the western slope to face only rolling hills, cloaked in wildflowers and scotch broom. The north face held the same, in addition to a handful of burbling streams. Turning to the south, as if exiting the cottage, one could see the path turn and proceed, winding through grasses and then entering a birch thicket a few hills over. Awakening from his snooze, Erod found the sun to be just hours from setting. Appalled that he'd failed to finish his work and then nearly missed his evening meal, the still-drowsy pony bustled about, gathering his tools and made his way indoors. He deposited his threadbare felt cap on the hook just inside the doorway and crossed the parlor, supplies in tow. A few clangs and clatters later, Erod had deposited the tools in the cellar and had come back up the stairs, proceeding over to his pantry and kitchen. Freeing some stubborn carrots, from behind a large melon no less, Erod closed the pantry door and nearly put his head through the low ceiling in surprise. In his parlor, previously unbeknownst to him, had been sitting a golden-tan feathered griffon. This was not, however, just any griffon. It was none other than Erod's long-time friend and companion, Wren. But Galaxia knew her unexpected presence had scared him half to death. "Wren, you nearly put my heart through my skull," the stallion voiced breathlessly, still reeling from the fright of it. "You really oughtn't to sneak up on ponies like that. I'm afraid I'll next see you in a prison if your next victim doesn’t have as strong a ticker." "Maybe you have just been idle for too long, old friend. You were never so prone to being caught unawares when we traveled," she challenged, grinning all the while. "Well, it's been years, hasn't it? You can't expect me to keep adventuring right up to my death bed." Gathering up a kettle and leaves for tea, rather than that soup he'd been looking forward too, he set about preparing something for him and his unexpected guest. After getting the pot filled and on the stove, now fired up, Erod made his way to the parlor. Embracing his friend and then sitting on a cushion adjacent, he took a moment to take in her presence. It had been years since he'd last seen this proud member of the Gilthonor clan, not since the tail end of their last adventure, and that separation was far longer than he’d have liked. While he hadn’t seen her for a few years, she had changed little. Her feathers, white above her chest and a radiant toasted-gold below, were just as smooth and long. Where her feathers were replaced by fur of the same color, he could see again a scar she had received, running downward over her side. Her eyes were the same bright, vibrant amber as they had been and still seemed as eager to take in the world as he recalled. With her perpetually tousled crest of feathers, fanning out not unlike a palm trees leaves, her appearance was both rowdy and proud. “It’s great to see you again, Wren! What brings you so far from the north?” he asked, “It was quiet, and not a soul could accuse me of lying about that,” she remarked drearily “so I left.” “Not exactly your cup of tea.” he said, chuckling at the memory of her fiery spirit. She had always been one for action and that wasn’t likely to change just because she’d tried to settle down. He doubted that she would ever truly be able too. “Not by a long shot. You know, better than anyone really, how much I’d miss the open roads and traveling, Erod.” She spoke broadly now “I missed the freedom; the excitement; the adventure!” After a slight pause, she resumed her train of thought “That is, in fact, why I am here. I could never travel the roads again without inviting you along. That’d be just plain rude.” He’d figured she was here for that, at least partially. “I appreciate the offer, but you’re not dragging me into another harrowing adventure, Wren. I put all of that aside years and years ago.” The kettle began to whistle, beckoning Erod away for a moment. The water was very much ready and he retrieved a couple of mugs from the cupboard, preparing their tea. “You mean to tell me that you don’t miss it out there?” she called from the parlor. “What ‘it’, Wren? The violence; the death; the blood soaked dirt?” he asked, becoming a little heated. “I don’t want to be part of that anymore.” It was a lifestyle he’d left behind and didn’t want to revisit. He remembered some of the wonders of that life, but at what price would it come, reclaiming them? “You’re letting bad memories taint the good ones, Erod. What about the rowdy taverns and the campfires in the night and the majesty of the stars and moon overhead?” she questioned, nearly pleading. “We lived our lives then. We didn’t while them away sleepily. We spent our time earning our keep. Every moment we were alive, we’d earned. How much more can you be living than by brushing with death and coming out on top?” He had to concede that point. He did miss the taverns and fires and night sky over the wilderness and roads. He missed the thrill of living a life in which every day was his own. He’d lived because he’d survived. With a sigh, he returned and set the tray with its two passengers, now full of steaming tea, upon the table. Sitting down, he glanced from the drinks to the table and its sturdy build. He took in the cushions, with their roughly stitched seams and worn fabric. Despite these and the other furnishings around him, he looked around the parlor and saw an empty room. This room, so much like himself that he shivered, was full and yet so empty. The furnishings fit together, easily enough, but they were neither soft nor weak. And yet the room that contained them was quiet and content to do and see nothing. These walls would never know excitement or danger, nor ever know the thrill of an adventure. The contents were part of the whole and yet fit it so ill. Erod returned his gaze to his old friend, she now taking her tea in sips. He’d missed her over the years and was now given the chance to go with her. He could not pass the chance up. Just once more, he could live again. Not this sham of an existence, lazily sliding through many days. He didn’t feel alive here. “I will accompany you, Wren.” The griffon, with her plumage now rendered a deepening red-gold by the setting sun, nodded her head and blinked solemnly. With a small grin, seeming to creak like an old, familiar floorboard, she stood from her seat. Downing the last of her tea, she replaced the cup and addressed Erod “Well, don’t let me keep you waiting. I’m sure you’ve got some supplies you’ll want to pack and gear to track down. We shouldn’t be gone for than a few months.” Wren was safe in the knowledge that, after traveling together for so long, he could decide what he would need and be able to pack it all himself. They hadn’t packed too heavily, back in the day, and so the list of provisions and gear was bound to be relatively short. “I’m glad you’re coming, Erod. To the south, down that little road, is Brinsaddle? How long until I can expect you to be ready and meet me there?” she asked. She had intended to find an inn and stay there, in the little town, until they set off. “That is correct and I’ll have none it, Miss Gilthonor. You’re not going to be sleeping in a musty little inn while I can hole us both up here instead. You just wait there and I’ll have somewhere for you in no time flat.” It was a bit longer than “no time flat”, but the light-beige stallion was finally able to scrap together a comfortable, if admittedly ugly, bed for his old friend in the front parlor. With his guest attended to, and she just readying for the night’s rest, Erod made his way down to his cellar. It was fairly dark, but he was able to discern his objective fairly quickly without the aid of candle or lantern. Making his way over, he gripped the metal handle between his jaws and began to haul the bulky load over to the stairs. A moment later, he was backing into the parlor with his burden in tow. Wren glanced up from her make-shift bed, observing her old friend as he finished relocating the object. Covered in a layer of dust and dirt, thick with years in the cellar, hunched a stalwart wooden chest. He released the latches and raised the weighty lid a bit. Chunks of the grime coating the vessel were dislodged from their wooden host, tumbled to floor by the long forgotten motion. Forcing the lid to open, much to the squealing protest of its rusty hinges, Erod got a good look at the contents and was stricken by the memories of his previous existence. Nearly floored by the flood unexpected memories and emotions, Erod remained there a moment. Finally stirring, he silently closed the lid with a thunk and pushed the chest against a wall where it would be out of the way. He moved through the kitchen into his little room, seating himself on the edge of his bed. After a moment of quiet consideration, the graphite-maned head laid itself upon the pillow. Its owner slowly began to drift to sleep, haunted by memories and emotions he could deal with in the morning.
Chapter 2Horizon |~| Chapter 2 = = = = = = = = = = = = Through the haze of his troubled sleep, Erod's mind slowly began to register existence. Opening his eyes, his brain was assaulted by sunlight glaring through the window. Clenching them shut again, Erod raised a hoof to rub at his eyes. With his vision shielded, the culprit was clear. Wren had pulled the shades aside to let the light into his room. She looked over at him, a sheepish grin spread across her face. He laughed a little, despite his annoyance. It was hard to be mad at her so soon after reuniting and it was getting a bit late in the morning to be asleep anyways. He rolled out of his bed, sloppily laying the blanket back in place, as Wren made her way to the front room. After briefly stretching his sleep off and brushing his mane into decent condition, Erod crossed into the parlor after the griffon. Laid at the table was a light meal for the morning. A plate of biscuits, a jar of preserves and spice tea were the bulk of it, with some greens on the side. "Thanks," Erod managed, his voice rough with dryness. After a mouthful or two of the tea, grimacing from the heat of it in his dry throat, he was able to speak properly. "When did you learn to cook?" he asked, dragging one of the biscuits his way. "Oh, I just sort of picked it up. And you said I'd never manage it," she remarked, puffing her chest out a bit sarcastically. He'd tried to teach her how to prepare food on their travels, but the best she'd ever managed was a gritty, grey mush that was better suited for use as glue than as food. Not a complaint would be heard from behind his lips about her new found skill though. It would be a relief not having to prepare every meal on the road. They enjoyed the breakfast, laughing over stories and jokes and generally having a good time. With the emotional turmoil that had plagued his sleep now rendered trivial, the day seemed like it would be genuinely pleasant through and through. Erod helped to clean up after the meal, not wanting to leave his friend with all of the work. While Wren's new found skill in cooking was appreciable, she had still left a bit of a mess in the kitchen and cleaning was not her forte With their little feast over and the mess conquered, Erod was able to set about packing his gear and did just that. Saving the contents of his musty trunk for last, Erod went about collecting the odds and ends for the journey. Remembering well what he liked to carry, he was able to track down, with the help of his feathered friend of course, much of what he would need. Some of the supplies were not to be found, either used or thrown out previously, and would need to be replaced at some point. Sooner, if Erod could help it. They were not entirely necessary items, but they were ones he knew he'd miss if he didn't come by some, like rope or a thick needle for leather and such, if he needed to patch something or replace a strap on some gear. With the majority of his accoutrements stored in his pack or lain nearby and mid-day threatening to roll past, Erod pulled the chest out from the wall where he had stowed it the night before. Wren at his side, he undid the clasps and, with a bit more resolve this time, opened the trunk. Prepared for the torrent of emotion brought on by the memorabilia, Erod was able to sift through the contents steadily enough. The chest’s residents were from his life as a wanderer. They’d been relegated to their dark home after he had set up his on the hill. The first to be removed from the container was his traveling cloak. It was faded now, its color a greying memory of the rich green it had first been dyed. Next he extricated his old iron dagger. Spears and pole arms had been his weapon of choice for most situations and still would be, but in rowdy bars and tight spots that dagger, nearly a foot in length overall, had serviced him well. Following that, he removed his belt and an assortment of leather and woolen pouches, bags, purses and other such receptacles. Among these was a gourd, secured in a bout of dark humor by a small noose around its neck, for water. From under all that leather he began to remove components of his armor. As he held each piece in his hooves, he examined every strap, weld, rivet, plate and buckle for damage or weakness. Once satisfied that rust and his belly were the only enemies the armor would have to deal with, he set it amongst its companion gear. The armor was rather cheap as far as armor goes. Instead of well fitted plates with minimal joints and chain mail to go under, it consisted of overlapped iron plates, riveted to leather straps. Padded with wool under the plates and straps, the armor was wearable on marches and provided a fair amount of protection against arrows and blades, although serviced poorly against maces and other blunt impacts. The joints and gaps between plates were hazardous, but he couldn’t afford a better set then and that hadn’t changed, so this would have to do. Scraping the bottom of the chest, Erod was just about finished digging the gear out. Remaining were some spare leather strips, some wool and leather for gear repair, a tin of grease for leather care and some foreign currency. The money was Skalvenic, which didn’t surprise Erod. His and Wren’s last escapade had ended on the northern border of the changeling homeland. Skalven bordered Equestria on the south. Tensions had always been high between the two nations due to the natural conflict between the changeling diet and pony emotional spectrum, but they had managed to maintain relatively clear trade routes. The last venture Erod and Wren had been on together had revolved around a pegasus warlord who had restricted one such route, charging outlandish border fees and nearly inflaming a small war between the local lords. Saving that adventure for another time, the important thing is that both Erod and Wren each left it with one of his leather pouches half full of Skalvenic silvers. These coins, best distinguished from their same-metaled Equestrian counterparts by the four-point star cut out from the center, were useless outside their home province itself or the towns just outside its border. Both governments higher leaders had refused to exchange either currency for the other, claiming that it would hurt the respective domestic economies too much to warrant the benefits. Due to this rare burst, for the governments of the lands were often reasonable, of bureaucratic idiocy, Erod found it useful to keep a few foreign coins on hoof when he traveled about. After packing everything in his pack save the armor and dagger, which would need cleaning to remove the rust that had developed upon them, he dropped the Skalvenic silvers into one of the wool coin purses and a hoof-full of Equestrian bits into the other. He cinched these tight and strapped them to his belt now, so he wouldn’t forget about it later. The chest was closed and replaced in the cellar, now entirely emptied out. With Wren’s help, Erod retrieved a cask of oil and scrubbing supplies from the cellar. Moving everything into the parlor, in preparation for cleaning the rust from his metallic items, he only just took notice of the sun’s position in the sky. By this time, darkness was about to set in and the pair agreed to set the chore aside for the next day, since they were under no time constraints. After a dinner of rye flatbread, potato soup and a bit of wine, they turned in for the night to their respective beds The next day began a bit more softly for Erod, since he was no longer so shaken, and he rose shortly after the sun. Following another cheery breakfast, he and his guest set about scrubbing his armor and dagger to remove some of the rust. It would take a good deal more scrubbing and long-term care on top of that to return the armor to its former glory though. But, just removing the majority of the pesky oxidized residue would suffice and would prevent them from spending too long on just that one task. Although the dagger was no longer so rusted, it would still need to be sharpened before it would be truly useful in a fight. If he had any say in the matter though, Erod would prefer some variation of a long pointy stick. Fortunately, spears were cheap and easy to come by just about anywhere. There wasn’t too much to a simple one besides a wood shaft and a bit of sharp metal on the end, and that was assuming he didn’t just cut a tree branch and sharpen that until he could purchase a decently made one. So, he would have no problem getting his hooves on a comfortable weapon, once they visited a nearby town. Cleaning the gear and other general preparation ate up the rest of the day and passing the time was greatly eased by chat and discussion. A portion of the talk revolved around the finer details of whatever it was that had possessed Wren to leave her home. It was no trivial distance, to come this far south and seek Erod out again. Posing the question to her, he thought a bit about how little he knew of the trip and Wren’s motives. He trusted her, with his life, but he was simply curious about it all. “I couldn’t stay home longer. Maybe it’s just in my blood Erod, but I can't stay still that long. Traveling was all I really knew; all we really knew, and when I realized that I came to invite you along." That didn’t surprise him. After traveling with her, he knew how easily she got restless. “And you came all this way without gear?” he asked. She had arrived void of pack, supplies or armor. All she’d come with was the old family sword belted around her middle and a few pouches on a wide-cut style flank harness, a common apparatus used in her day as opposed to the modern saddle bags now in use. The harness itself consisted of a belt circling each thigh with a third belt crossing over the lower back to connect the two. There were many variations on this rig, but the uses were fairly universal. Pouches, purses and weapons could be securely strapped to them and it was also common to see them used as a base to armor the flanks and lower back. Some of the designs used multiple, thinner straps while others preferred fewer wide ones, such as Wren’s did. “No, hardly," she said doggedly. "I brushed into a gaggle of thugs a couple of days north and figured that my life was probably worth more than my supplies. They got busy scuffling over who should get what from the pack after I’d handed it over and I took the chance to flee.” Erod sighed with relief. "Well, I'm glad you're alright. Should we replace your pack now? I think I've got enough material here to make a new one." Tired at just the memory of it all, she replied dismissively "Believe me, I'm just as glad as you are." After a bit of consideration, Wren next addressed his question. "I don't think I'll need one just yet. It's not far at all to Brinsaddle and we'll be able to replace it there." Satisfied with that, he began polishing away at a particularly stubborn patch of rust. "So, what's the nature of this little venture of yours?" He’d really prefer to know what he was getting into, at least vaguely, before they went gallivanting away across field and stream. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Wren, because he did, but there was always that desire to know what was coming. Even if the knowledge would provide no advantage on his part after they set off, it would comfort him a bit to know what lay ahead. "Well, that's just it Erod," Wren said, a motivated, excited sort of grin spread across her beak, her eyes shining, a sparkle in them. She’d always worn that geared-up expression when she got thinking about her goals or anything else that really got her pumped. He silently savored that look, because it was just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen, back in the day all the way up until now. But he’d never tell that to her, although it was amusing to imagine the look she might have shot his way if he did. "I don't know,” She continued dreamily. “I'd thought to myself, 'Self, what do you think would be a good way to rekindle that old sense of adventure?' and what better way than to set out on a path with no destination?" she finished with a pat of her talon, on a plate of armor she had been working on, and a chuckle. After a share in the humor and a bit of consideration, enough time for Erod to finally rid the metal of that pesky spot of rust, he decided that he liked the sound of that plan. Or what of a plan it actually was. There wasn't much in the world that could quite compete with the mystery and freedom of truly wandering. With no goal in mind, the duo would be free to go wherever they chose and to take up whatever jobs they wished, all on a whim. Besides, could he honestly find a better source of adventure to trust than a friend who talks to herself for advice? Their conversation was mostly concerned with their departure and what places they were interested in seeing on the road or things they would like to do. While they were going to be wandering about, it didn’t mean that they couldn’t have any small goals and places to go. Due to the subject matter of the talk, their moods had really spiked and neither could help but be excited. However, they did have to eat at some point and with the entirety of Erod’s metalline gear now ready to go and laying with his pack in wait, he set about preparing them a dinner. The main course consisted of a hash made from yams, celery and some pumpkin seeds, all sautéed in a dash of heather-infused oil. With a fragrant entrée prepared, he would need a suitable side dish. To fulfill this position, he sliced some bread, leftover from the a few days ago, on the bias and toasted it in the range. As a topping, he prepared a tapenade with some mixed flowers in addition to its standard olive base, anchovies and capers. The tapenade had been an acquired taste for Erod, as it was not a standard foodstuff among the ponies and goats of the time. The catching, sale and eating of fish and other meats was against the Canons of the Church. The punishments were harsh and, unlike the government's, much more consistent in delivery. The Church itself had not lasted into the princesses' later rule. Some of their practices had, however, such as the exclusion of flesh-based food from the diet. Because of their influence and oppressive directives, most of the pony and goat settlements did not have a market in fish or other meats whatsoever. The eating of chicken meat, eggs or other small animals would be common in pony and goat cultures if not for the Church, but the slaughter of cows and such still would not. The natural connection between such creatures and the more sentient races was too intimate for them to eat the flesh of one another. A pony eating beef was as close to cannibalism as it could be. But fish, chicken, rabbit, squirrel, lizard and such were not quite so close to the hearts of those lands. Erod’s years of wandering and current isolation had left him with some resistance to the indoctrination of the Church and so he did partake of such protein-rich foods upon occasion. Tapenade had, in fact, been introduced to him by Wren herself. The Church had no hold over the folk of Griffonland or Skalven, as the former was beyond the Church’s arm of influence and it was not uncommon for a Church priest to be stoned to death or hung in the center of town, at the end his own sash, by changelings of the latter. The preaching, beliefs and actions of the Church had earned them a harsh reputation across the lands and while they had their supporters, many outsiders were prone to violent action against the Church and its members. Due to the lack of influence in their homelands, the griffons and changelings both held thriving markets in fishing, although the feathered batch had a naturally high skill in fishing that the changelings lacked. What this all meant for Erod was that fish products, such as jarred anchovies, were rare and rather expensive in Equestria and especially this far inland. It was fortunate that the anchovies the merchants brought in were preserved so well and sold secretly, as the Church would persecute any offenders of any of their protocol with loss of the tongue, followed by the eyes and then the ears, should the offender repeat. You would eventually be whipped, or by some similarly painful methodology, to death. The sentence of death was never issued as “For the ingestion of flesh” but rather as “Repeated breach of the Church Canons”. It was looked upon as an encouragement of rebellion and was swiftly dealt with. The Church took its Canons very seriously. With all of the trouble caused by the Church and her recent trip down, the tapenade was a pleasant treat for Wren, used to eating fish as she was. Glad to have it after her travels and to be sharing it with Erod, it was already clear that the night was going to be great fun. In the midst of the meal, the toasted gold griffon excused herself to the cellar, instructing her friend to stay at the table, and all with that cute little grin to boot. After a moment of silence and a couple more that involved a lot of clattering and thumping from below, Wren emerged with a cask of cider to celebrate. Erod wasn’t about to protest, so he retrieved two mugs and filled the first round. With a toast to their health, wanderings ahead and good fortune, the two put the mugs to their lips and quaffed the alcohol, beginning their celebration of the night’s youth.
Chapter 3Horizon |~| Chapter 3 = = = = = = = = = = = = With Erod's house two days journey behind them, our intrepid duo had only a few more hills to cross before they would begin to see the outlying farms of Brinsaddle. The short trip over was often uneventful, but this is not one of those times. A band of woods ran between the land around Erod's home and the hills of Brinsaddle, connecting two larger forests to the north and south. Before this tale can be continued, we must first revisit the events that transpired in the forest, for it was here that the dullness of the pair's trek met its ominous end. "Have you got that tinder lit yet?" Wren asked, dropping her load of firewood onto the damp litter of the forest floor. "Just give me a minute," he shot back, a bit frustrated. It was starting to get dark and it was already rather cold. "Almost," she remarked encouragingly as his pile of fluffy, almost dry wood shavings began to smoke and the first coal of the fire began to form. After a bit more work, the stallion managed to get a small flame to sprout. With a fire crackling under the darkening sky, the two prepared to settle in for the night. Erod had his bed roll spread first, over a layer of pine needles to hopefully hold the cold and wet from the forest loam at bay. A glance over to the fire prompted him to search for more fuel. It was bad enough that nearly everything within eyesight was soaked and damp, but having the fire die in the gloom could easily leave them dead by the morning. "I'm going to gather some more wood, Wren," he said, rising from his bedroll. "Alright. Don't wander too far," she reminded him. "Yeah," he said, although too quietly for her to hear. Moving out into the growing darkness, Erod strained his eyes to locate anything flammable. It was slow going in the thick brush and the small camp by the road was becoming fainter by the second. He was just about to give up his search when the softest of sounds struck his ear. He had difficulty following the sound, distant as it was. Had the silence been any less absolute, he'd never have caught it. His body reacted with instant suspicion, but his curiosity got the best of him. As he pressed onward into the deepening pitch of the night, the sound became less and less vague. Tracking it with more ease, his ears tensed forward, the earth pony came into a clearing. With a canopy of leaves no longer overhead, the moonlight was able to shine down, not that it helped much. Under such meager lighting, he could just discern a myriad collection of angular, worn shapes in the open area. It took him a few moments to decipher the moonlight-drained colors and barely visible shapes, bordered all around by malicious darkness, but he soon came to the realization that he was standing in a graveyard. "Why in the name of Orion's Belt would anypony put a cemetery in these woods?" he mumbled. The air was cold, damp in the moist moonlight, and left him shivering in its breezy wake. The darkness was tightening in around him, choking off his sight, leaving him claustrophobic and cutting him off from the warm world he knew. The world he once knew. The more he thought of it, the more he became aware of a terrifying silence that came down like a heavy blanket, smothering his perception of the world in fear and terror. Silence. He once again sought out the noise, his mind jolting back to what had lured him out to this graveyard in the first place. Looking about shakily, he found that, no matter how hard he strained, his ears instinctively swiveling about with each fresh wave of fear, the sound had ceased to cut through the night air. His initial confusion over this was quickly replaced with a creeping trepidation. The thought of something in this horrible, seething darkness that knew he was there; could hear him breathing in the still cold; could hear his heart pound against his ribs; could just reach out and pluck one the hairs rising along his back was quickly swallowing him in the depths of terror it created. Panicking now, he turned to exit the clearing and leave, urgency flowing freely from instinct. In his wild dash for the edge of the cemetery, he stumbled over a broken headstone and sprawled into the dirt and rotting moss on the ground. The fall, combined with the malicious darkness and heart-chilling dread, left him dazed, unable to convince his body to crawl out of the dirt and to keep moving. As Erod lay on the soil, trying his hardest to get his mind and body back under control, he heard that sound again. Still reeling from the turmoil in his mind, he had trouble sorting out from where he'd heard it. It was much clearer and closer than it had been as of yet, neither of which was helping his mind recover. With it so close, it was much more distinct. It was a sound that he would have a very hard time ever forgetting; a crumbly, shifting, gravelly sound. Erod could only drum up more confusion when he eventually identified it as the sound of dirt and rocks being moved. Rising a little, shaky from adrenaline and fear, the stallion looked about himself. Dark as it was, his searching gaze struck upon no possible source. His eyes, nervously darting left and right, found that there was nothing in the clearing of headstones, dead trees and thick darkness that could be making such a sound. Just as he was regaining control over himself and making to flee from that dark place, the dirt beneath him exploded upward, showering him with rocks and dead vegetation. A hoof punched upward through the surface, ripping through the upturned soil and scraping at the ground. A bony, half-decomposed snout was soon visible, tumbling Erod over again as the beast hauled its shoulders to the open air. Its free hoof thrust outward, tearing at the ground in an attempt to free the rest of its body, with raspy, dead grunts accompanying its flailing. His surprise and close-up presentation of the monster propelled him off the edge of sanity, his mind reaching out for security as it dropped into a pitch black hole of desperation. His own legs kicking and driving at the dirt, Erod only managed to scramble away from the churning grave enough to pin himself against a nearby statue, chunks of concrete showering him as he impacted the old figure. Fear allowed him only short, panicked outbursts of a breathless scream, his lungs trying to cope with both his sheer terror and instinct to run as they expanded and contracted faster and faster. The decaying mare's wrenching and struggling was paying off as she tore her other foreleg from the ground, sending more of her earthy prison sailing. With two hooves on the surface and her previous resting place significantly emptied of both soil and corpse, she managed to extract her midriff and hips. She bucked a few times, trying to free her hind legs. They came free, however one did so with a sickening crunch and a crack that split through the night air. A guttural, hoarse shout of pain escaped her throat, bone protruding from the rotting flesh of her left rear leg, just below the knee. The undead mare, an earth pony herself, turned to Erod. Seeming to have forgotten the pain of her broken leg, she limped over. She could not put weight on her broken leg, but it seemed to simply give out rather than cause her any more pain. Standing over Erod, she gazed down upon him. Her eyes were white, glazed over and empty; cold and lifeless. She raised a hoof, intent on ramming it through his skull and churning his brains and blood into the dirt, when a low, whistling moan slipped through the trees, carried further than was natural by some vile magic. It was cold, greasy, dead; it swallowed Erod's mind, pushing out all semblance of hope, leaving behind only thoughts of torment and despair. With a tremble, his vision darkened and he slumped to the ground, his mind drifting among torturous nightmares.
