Chapters Many, many, centuries ago, when the last Dyson sphere[1] was built, Sol was made dark, and the Earth was left unclaimed. Its vast continents left to shift without the benefit of a star, so eventually, all halted, and it was left barren of life - but with fertile soil. To the crowns of many systems, it seemed useless, dead, and grey; but a lord of Janil[2] saw its promise and made it a game planet for him and his court to hunt upon.
So a bubbled atmosphere was built, with psychically controlled stars and moons. New life too, was given to its land. Great forests of native oak and cedar-lined the major continents, once extinct birds and bugs were made extant to populate this fresh Eden, and dogs were bred upon it to turn to grand aboriginal hounds. Deer were made to occupy it, alongside foxes and other worthy game for the high lord’s hunts.
Of course, this was a Janilean hunting reserve, so more fantastic beasts were made for it too. Chimaeric creatures – known as manticores, gryphons, and hippogriff were genetically engineered for prestige. Alongside these were simpler beasts of myth made, old Scottish shetland ponies were used as a base for unicorns, pterripi, and, of course, standard ponies of strong breeding for work, should that ever be required. Further still were beasts carved from wood made, to protect the forests and keep them untamed. Dragons were bred from lizards to populate the reawoken volcanic lands of endless mountains and stone, leviathans bred for the depths of abyssal seas, and more still.
But that was millennia ago, before the fall of the empire of Janil, and the rise of the theocracy of Bland. Ergo, this land, forgotten, developed itself in strange and novel ways. The lower chimaeras became like the legends of them known, beasts of terrifying power that stalked the uncivilised wastes, but something else was in store for the greater ones. The gryphons and hippogriffs developed empires of gold that rose and fell in quick succession, the wars with dragons caused forcing one into poverty and the other into the seas. The leviathans passed into myth, their skeletons forming the basis for islands that grew into oceanic nations, spanning hemispheres and latitudes that the continent bound should never comprehend. The ponies developed into empires powerful and outlasted many others, genetic quirks causing the births of alicorns, horses, and ponies seemingly made of glass. The latter of these conquered the arctic lands, the former the tepid plains.
The forests, populated by beasts became vastly tamed by these new cultures, but some never were, and so have names that reflect this. Everfree, a prime example, was conquered by the wooden beasts, known now as Timber Wolves, an undoubtedly coincidental name as they are more like jaguars than any wolves. But some are populated by the vastly tribal zebra , a further split from pony kind, who developed a way of bending the psychic field by using plants fed from the false suns rays – or stones from the false moon.
An empire was formed by the yaks, a breed of cattle which, like goats, adapted to mountain living. This steppe nation is akin to Mongolia at its furthest extent. This nation lies north of the glass(crystal?) ponies of the northern lands and is viewed as barbaric by those who know very little of it. Though tribal, there is a rich culture to be found there, from gold working akin to that of Scythian horsemen of ancient Earth to a thick hierarchy which may be one of the only Patriarchies on this new Earth.
The dragons have not swayed much from their volcanic heritage, though, and unlike others, appear to have lost some knowledge. They have a warrior culture, and are made up of disconnected tribes. Though some older ones do remain knowledgeable, and so are unaffected by the knew psychic phenomena that support this culture. These are few and far between however, often being slain by the younger sophont species during migratory periods, though in recent years this has lessened somewhat. One of these more ancient beasts appears aligned with the ponic nation of Equestria, and its children have spred far alongside trained psychics, which consist majorly of unicorns.
These inhabitants I have just described, not knowing the proper name of this planet, this hunting ground of old, have given it the name “Equus”, although this may not be widely accepted, as it was seemingly only given to it by the ponies for now, even if princesses have attempted to spread the word of this name through foreign lands.
A vast rail network spans the majority of a supercontinent at the centre of Equus, mirroring the one in the Old Americas, it is equally ineffective and poorly run. This appears to have happened prior to any development of canals, which, though unfortunate, is not unheard of.[3] There are road connecctions and small river trade societies. The Oceanic nations appear to have developed both seaborne and airborne shipping routes. These cultures number among the few in the galaxy to have developed airships [4]
Should this planet be marked for further study, it is recommended that the isolated Griffonstone be the start point. It has rail and sea connections but appears to be abandoned as a port by other nations, while still rich in resources. This may be an easy place to consolidate theocratic power and should soon be explored. The lack of a Road [5] [6] should enjoy the new views.
The Archtruliar of Genoric, on the possibility of renovating Solar planets.
[Review 3796]
[1] A form of Stellar power generation, commonly considered a sign of a tier 3++ civilisation. [2] See: Empires of The Milkyway, Ashlic Generson [3] The Angmeerans did not develop canals at any point, though they were formed at the core of a gas giant, and so did not have any liquids to speak of in generality.[4] Resembling the Galleons of the age of sail, these, again, have appeared on Angmeer. It is possible that many of these are remnants of the old Janilean influence.[5] The Starstone Road is the major intragalactic lifeline, it connects to all planets considered spacefaring by Pocketeer standards.[6] These are the lying constructs thst maintain the Road. They know far too much to be destroyed and are though to be older than Janil.
Author's Note
Note: This is just a test chapter. Please do not assume that new chapters will appear soon.
What? Thats Why Your're Here?
Every creature on Equus looked out of their windows, and into the sky; something new was there - something that hadn’t been seen before. At some point in the bleak and wintry night of yesterday, a new body had appeared in the sky. It resembled – to many – an orange, albeit, an orange that had been spiked by thousands of great broad iron nails leaving its shape somewhat malformed. This was something no one could quite recognise, and when a princess had tried to raise it – so that they might know what it was – it had not moved. It had stubbornly stayed there, unwaveringly perched just within the orbital field.
Of course, the reason they could not move it was because it was not actually within the bubble of psychic energy that held their atmosphere together. While ponies and zebras panicked, frantically reading through the notes of ancient prophets and scribes, looking for anything within their kingdoms that might have given even the slightest hint as to what it was, the eldest of the dragons, Alfreynd, was merely looking on in contemplative fear. Though he was but a child, barely beyond a neonate, when something similar had graced the orbit of Equus, he remembered it so well.
That was the harbinger of the hunt—the herald of those who slay with extreme prejudice, and seemingly without preference, for sport. The sound of steel harpoons embedding his parents had never left Alfreynd’s ears, and now that held an even greater power over all other sounds. But, after his initial howl of terror; after his first blurred and fire lined visions of the past had subsided; he realised that what he saw before him was not that same herald, nor even of a similar kind to it, this was something new.
So this greatest of dragons, whose howl had been the one that woke all who were asleep across the planet, to the old, old, homelands flew. When Alfreynd flew great folds of scale and scars seemed to blot out the sun for those he passed over, if just for a moment, but he paid them no mind. Upon reaching his goal, he landed at the centre of a broad, hand-dug caldera, just north of that which is called the Dragon’s Lair, but still beyond the standard map, and awaited the coming of whatever new, strange, people this new celestial sphere heralded. He did this not to protect Equestria, nor out of any foolish notion that he might defeat the creatures that arrived if they were enemies, only so that his own fresh curiosity might be sated when they did come. And so that the first thing these beings would see, if they were the sons of those who had come before, would be an object of destruction that they had forged, that they had made from clay, that they, their forefathers at least, had forever scarred.
Now starts the first Report of Brother Margot.
Narrative Format,
Observed through nano camera,
All words, unless specified, are contemporary to events described.
Brother Margot slipped from the restructuring machine, wobbly on his new, extraneous, legs, and attempted to use the adapted implant to do something simple. This simple thing was levitating the tablet that contains his missionary’s briefing over. He had used psychic cybernetics before, but clerical augments were known to be finicky, so he wanted to try doing something basic with it first. It would be annoying if it failed while attempting to replace a fission rod, for example.
The tablet wobbled, before becoming enclosed in a field of turquoise lights, that seemed to look like the bands of a galaxy, when seen through a long exposure camera. It then promptly, and at great speed, fell directly before his eyes. Slightly too close to read properly, he lifted his hand – wait, it wasn’t a hand anymore – his hoof to push it just a little further away until the writing was legible. He then calculated the distance, put the tablet back on the table, and tried again. With the same speed and promptness, it now appeared precisely where it would perfectly balance privacy and legibility. He then searched through the tablet till he found his briefing and read it. The missive went as follows:
“Dear Margot, Tru’liar-3rd Class,
“You have, due to some skills you supposedly possess, been chosen as our first missionary to be sent to... SOL3, ah, good old earth. You’ll be required, upon arrival, to survey the area, check your stamps, and then head to Griffinstone . The small capital of a superficially poor nation, on the outskirts of civilisation. It is hoped that this will prevent the locals from hunting and killing you, then eating your – actually no, that part of the standard shouldn’t be in this briefing. This is to prevent news of your arrival from spreading too quickly to more developed nations where you may be arrested and asked to explain what the hell your orbital station is. You have been assigned a modified Merquinp Construct. It is called Maril, and only looks like a dragon, it’s not covered in scales, but it might breathe fire. Please treat it with the utmost respect.
“Your task is to first gauge how much of the gospel can be introduced to your first flock; then to found a feudal holding at Griffonstone. From there you must develop the city into the trade hub it was meant to be, sort out any water problems, and renovate the major aerodromes in the surrounding area. If there are none to renovate, build them.
“From that point, it is mostly up to you. The main goal is to integrate the planet into the theocracy, but any subgoals you pick up along the way are to be explored to better integrate yourself into the populace. The linguistic deviation from Galactic Standard should be extremely minor where you land. Still, when entering more developed states, the linguistic changes can become a bit racially toned, so your discretion is advised when absorbing new phrases, lest it is derogatory toward some extraneous group.
“That concludes this briefing. Good luck, and please – try not to fall off a cliff.”
Margot read through it one more time, before pocketing the briefing and searching for the button that activates that Merquinp robot, that would make finding the way off this oversized citrus far easier. After much wasted time searching through resin and glass buttons, sensor pads, input ports, devils heads, and many other strange things that probably weren’t meant to be touched he found a book that said “Don’t Panic!” very loudly on the cover and a large box which said “Merquinp Intragalactique Shipping” on the side of it. He prised the side off the box and poked the construct for a while before realising that the book with it was not, as it seemed, a handy and vital guide should he get lost in the vastness of space, but an owner’s manual. The slightly off white and barely readable disclaimer on the first page said as much.
After flipping through the pages for a moment, Margot found which button he was meant to press to turn the poor robot on, and carefully poked it in the eye. Except he didn’t have fingers, so he picked up a pencil with his ~~implant~~ horn and used that instead. While Maril was booting up, Margot checked his new body in his craft’s overly polished walls. The wobbly image conveyed a few things: he’s white, chalk white, with partially dyed brown hair. The dyed bit was turquoise. And he had a mark on his rump, a tattoo. It showed a print copy of the Blandic Rites beside a quill, probably meant he was a scribe or something. He was also a horse – that certainly explained the extra legs anywho. Deciding that this must be, in some way, typical, so he turned his attention to the now fully awake Maril. Maril chose to take this new attention well.
“What’re you looking at yeh’ petty-dwarf-midget-horse?”
Margot coughed, and responded, in a failed mimicry of the machine, “You, yeh big metal lizard, where’re yer wings? Are they packaged separately?”
Pausing, Maril checked its back, there was, indeed, a distinct lack of wings.
“Where’ve you put them?” It spat angrily, “I was told that meh knew specification had ’em with it. I was sure of that. It’s the only reason I bloody agreed. Where have you put them, horse.”
“Nowhere.” Responded Margot calmly, “They must have forgotten to give you them at the refit. What a shame. And here I was expecting a flying partner.”
Downtrodden, Maril sighed and stepped out of the delivery crate, packing filler falling all over the floor as it did so. This was not the first time the outfitters had “forgotten” to send it off fully refitted.
Margot noted the robot’s saddened expression, paused for a second to contemplate how he knew what a lizard’s sad face looked like, and then asked Maril to help him find the landing capsule.
Since nothing had happened after the appearance of a giant punctured citrus fruit, much of ponykind had accepted it as part of life. Only a-few isolated astrologers were watching it, but they would take months to send observations back to any major universities, and so do not matter in the slightest. Not a single filly nor foal had gained a cutie mark from this ordeal. That alone meant that it was of no importance, those arrogant micro horses thought.
Patiently awaiting any change, Alfreynd knew better, far better, as he waited in the fake caldera that was the traditional landing site for the hunters in the lost ages. He watched, for a week or month or more that floating not-sphere, knowing that something would come from it soon. Of course, something did. That something was a small if ornate, landing pod. He tried to follow its trajectory with his finger but found no success. Instead, he only saw it blur as it came hurtling towards him, unnoticed by the ponies only because it came from the east and not the west. It nearly crashed into Alfreynd himself, luckily coming to a burning halt just before smashing his jaw in two. It had been caught by a just reawoken landing mitt, the old rusted and ill-maintained arm just barely able to bring it to a halt in time.
“I told yeh I should be the one drivin’, but nooo mister Monk just has to show his prowess as a landing pilot, and look what nearly happened. We nearly crashed into this poor gent’s face…” Though starting brashly, Maril’s voice trailed off at the end as it realised that the gentleman was, in fact, a creature whose size was so absolute, it left the crater blackened by its shadow. Maril also questioned how exactly it new what this great, grand, reverence-worthy beast’s sex was, and, hoping Alfreynd couldn’t hear its thoughts, poked Brother Margot into turning, whose eyes were utterly unfocused until his nose nearly touched the dragon’s.
The scream sent birds flying.
Maril and Alfreynd thought it was hilarious.
Margot did not. He thought it a completely reasonable reaction to almost touching muzzles with what was most obviously the uncrowned king of beasts. The dragon’s bellow of a laugh certainly didn’t help.
“You, little pony, not-dragon, are clearly not hunters. Or, if you are, not anywhere near as brave as your predecessors. So why, I ask of you, have you bothered to come here? This is, undoubtedly, the worst place to vacation I have ever been; The locals are incredibly and constantly rude; There is a complete lack of even the most basic conveniences; worst of all, there is barely even a pub anymore.”
Maril drooped its eyes and muttered in unseemly tongues. Margot, far more politely, responded:
“We,” glaringly he worried, “have come to stretch those words of yours into lies, by rebuilding the estate that rests in that barren bad-land into a beautiful and flowing temple of gold, milk, honey, and – quite averse to old scripture – beer.”
Maril blinked, and Alfreynd unfolded novels worth of wrinkles in pleasure at the thought, the idea, that the people from beyond may have come, not to destroy, but to rebuild. To resurrect an empire old enough, that he had seen its rise and fall, and fought through the wars therein.
Maril broke this floating mood. “Where is ‘ere? Are we close to Griffonstone?”
Alfreynd thought, then said, “Yes, young faux-lizard, it is just beyond that baby hill, and slightly further after those mountains.” Raising a finger, its flesh hanging low, sharpened claw pointing out the pass that should be followed.
“Thank-ye for saying the first properly worthwhile thing I ‘ave heard all day. Now, Margot, stop being in awe of this,” it paused to think of the right descriptor, “large old geezer, and head back to what we’re actually meant to do.”
With that, the old dragon, heaving, nodded his head, flapped his wings three times, and flew off. The two missionaries stood, awed, as the twisting beast of green and gold took flight. Waiting for him to turn entirely out of view, and then, finally, actually setting out on their journey to Griffonstone; Margot carrying in a purple leather bag a thick tome version of the gospel, and Maril everything else.
They wander, slowly, up and over the momentous ridge of the landing crater, down its huge exterior bank, and into the pine wood at its base. Redwoods of incalculable age seemed to climb forever, up, and up, and still further up. Tipped by the nests of great corvids, who, aching under the weight of greying feathers, rise into the sky, searching for wars in lands far afield, or dead and decaying mammoths, or others that should be extinct – their kin and meals.
A squirrel, harried and hurried by a starved fox, skitters beneath their feet, climbing into the hollows of a tree – that sits too high for the fox hunting it to jump. A rabbit hides beneath a log in a small corner of a great warren that stretches these woods’ entire breadth. A water bear – far from water – clambers through the moss, avoiding paramecia too small for a ponies eye. Maril, in a form that all except dragons recognise as draconic, breeds terror into the small birds it wishes to watch, and, by no fault of its own, scares them into fluttering between broken and twisting leftovers of a Janilean age.
Margot sees then, hidden amongst rotting wires and cement, a young gryphon. In her hands, she holds a pen and is writing and then scratching out and writing, then scratching out some words about something. Into the uncaring ruins and forest, she shouts,
“I cannot write, I cannot think, nothing that I do is of any merit and all that I try is worthless even as ash.” Cooing and then folding into herself with slight tears of sadness.
“I should have listened to my father, to my mother, to the rest of town, to my teacher. I am not a writer. I am a fraud with a p-pen.”
Urged on by the feigned mockery of Maril, Margot steps lightly into the clearing, taking care to make his foot hoof falls loud enough for her to hear but quiet enough for her to miss. He takes care to be kind, and clears his throat before speaking,
“Miss,” he fumbled, “may I ask.. What you are writing? With the world around you being so loud, it must be as well.”
“It’s nothing. Nothing of any worth, nothing I would show to someone.”
“Don’t say that.” He cocked his head, “You must have something, or else you would not have broken from everyone else to run off and write it.” He smiled, “So come on, tell me what it's about.”
She fumbled with the loose pages she held, and mumbled, “It’s about-”
“Look at me. Good, now speak up.”
“It’s about,” she said, still a little meek, “A grand gryphon wizard, who, without magic of their own, uses carvings and wires to produce mechanical marvels. They harness the power of lightning to aid themselves in the creation of a great machine, called Grylom, that aids in the construction of a wonderful advanced civilisation, whose buildings seem to grow out of the stone. But he becomes overwhelmed by the twists of his creation, and destroys it, leaving a great crater where the city’s heart once stood.”
“Breathe, go on,”
“Now that his machine is destroyed, the city around begins to decay. Eventually, this forest grew on its buildings, leaving now only its ruins.”
Surprising the poor girl, Maril applauded
“Brilliant, wonderful, inspired – The Maril Herald, five stars.”
“Really?” she timidly asked “But it’s so... weird. There’s no love, no grand castles, no ponies, no dragons – only creation and destruction. Who would want to read that?”
“Where we come from,” continued Margot, “A great many. Or, at least, probably anywho, me.”
“Thank you, you flatter me,” she seemed to cheer up at the thought, “But i’ve been struggling, struggling so much, to find the right words. I think it’s too new to my home, too different, too wonky.”
“So did Shelley, when she wrote Frankenstein , in all likelihood. But remember, tropes, currents – that normality that your originality overthrows – all started with someone like you. Take the oldest story I have ever read, Gilgamesh and think of how weird that must have seemed. Here, I’ll read the author's story for you.”
He grabbed a book from his bag and pretended to search, before landing on a page he already knew well.
“ Ina scribe-hall, no writing could be heard, not a sound besides either. Then a voice said:
“Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgaameeeesh’ it was a Sumerian named Parabesh. ‘How do I write about Gilgamesh? Who indeed has ever thought to make for myself, or for the crown, a new myth? From whence can I pull my ideas, and, further hence, wherever am I to put them? For I am too dense, I should write about facts, about truths, about what makes sense.’
“And so Parabesh sat down and wrote several thousand upon thousands of words about a man who swam across oceans, walked at the bottom of seas, fought gods that were like snakes, spoke with a man so old that the god of time could not count his years. Built walls higher than some roads were long, ruled an empire of gold and glass, and ended this mythic hunt without achieving his goal. Instead, he was left humbled, having seen and spoken to things far older and far greater than Ur and Sumer should e’er be. And yet we remember the names of cities and towns that Parabesh lived, wrote and saw than we do the ones led by Gilgamesh, By Koresh, By David. It was hard for Parabesh to be so original, and so he was glad that He was now like the God that Anansi slew, the only one who would ever have to create a trope ever, ever, ever from his poetry to his tales. He was the first and last wholly original writer we know of, and even that may not be true.”
He looked at the purple feathered gryphon and said
“So, if even the author of the first and greatest myth ever written, something so tropey because it made those tropes, struggled to think of where to start, it is unsurprising that you, sitting down to also write an original story, might struggle to know where to start. I see greatness in you like that lord of Ur saw in Parabesh, so you too must be able to write something equally grand. So, Miss Gryphon, write away.”
She raised a claw, began to say something, then just picked up her pencil and started writing. She kept writing till night fell, slept, ate something she could catch and then wrote again. She didn’t ask Margot’s name before she began, nor Maril’s, she just wrote.
Satisfied that they had done all they needed to, Maril and Margot picked up their bags and carried on down the trail to Griffonstone. It shouldn’t be far now, they had just met a runaway gryphon after all.
As they clambered bedraggled – tired, and their bodies nipped with the spittle of a particularly adventurous goat – Maril figured that it was probably going to have to carry the nigh-collapsing scribe the rest of the journey town-wards. It looked at its hands, flexing the clawed fingers to check that nothing had gotten between their thankfully responsive joints—Buecabon flexed just in the way that it was meant to. Maril, satisfied, bent down and grabbed the frankly shocked – but not appalled – Margot and placed him gently on his shoulder. Once Margot had ceased flailing and screaming (finally falling asleep only twenty minutes later) Maril continued the slow, penitent, climb down to where Griffonstone, and any hope of a clean street-corner, lay.
Upon arriving, Maril was surprised that it was not in any way physically or verbally harassed. It appeared that the locals, grumpy and penniless as they were, did not wish to waste precious work hours on a dragon that, through some circuitry quirk, seemed ready to devour the first thing that nudged it. The fact it hadn't eaten Margot seemed only to add credence to this idea, as anypony important enough to a dragon to be left untouched even as it starved was not worth waking with the sounds of violence.
Maril meandered malcontented-ly towards a once-grand pub-hotel. The wicker framing of its oaken door slightly decayed; the chipped chalk construction of its walls; the damaged iron frame of its many jettied upper floors belayed the idea of a Tudor period built establishment down into one's mind. Upon entrance every inch of the interior construction betrayed once more that arcane style, the many buttressed ceiling with openly visible beams, the dual inglenook fireplaces at either end of the room, and the fine dark and deep oak of the horseshoe bar. But everything was dusty, under-utilised, damaged by smoke and time. The ragged middle-aged publican was half-asleep leaning on the bar, perking slightly when the rapping sound of Maril’s knuckles on the table reached his owl-like ears.
Shakily, as if slightly out of practice, the publican[1] sputtered:
“ ‘Sbeen awhile since anyone’s come by this way,” his eyes flitted from a draconic face to the horse on its shoulder, “ ‘specially not a pair quite like you. Draft or bottle?”
“Draft, bitter and rough, a pint if yeh please.” trilled Maril, grabbing a few bits from its pocket.
The publican harrumphed an affirmation, then blew the dust off a pint glass, placing it against a brass draft pump he said,
“Will’e be having anything?” He gestured to Margot.
“Shandy[2] , I think, ‘ang on,”
It unceremoniously dropped Margot into a padded chair by the bar. Margot barely opened his eyes, spat, and grumped:
“Yes, a ‘shandy’ if you’d be so kind.”
“I think that's agreement.” stated the publican.
“Aye.” Replied Maril.
“So,” started the publican, “I don’t mean to be rude, but why’re you ‘ere?”
“To ‘ave a drink and find a bed.”
“Okay, not sharin’, got it.” The publican thought for a second, realised what Maril had said, then spat:
“Rooms are ten bits by the by.”
Maril tossed ten and five bits on the table, picked up Margot, their two drinks, and then – with his teeth – the keys.
“Thanks, g’night.”
“To ye too.” The publican stepped round the bar and locked the door. Then went upstairs himself.
[1] The owner, and usually chief keep, of a public house.[2] British slang referring to beer diluted with lemonade. Usually drunk by weak-livered young people.
Maril sat at the bedside table in their shabby, half returned to dust, room. It used a tiny, thread-thin, glass scalpel to prise a small panel from just behind its not-ears. The carbon steel plate popped off lightly, exposing the uncapped twenty-three-millimetre port, which connected into its non-cognitive data storage. He plugged the wired connection into the socket and hooked it up to Margot’s tablet. Maril hit the provided button that said upload because that was all a machine could do.
As much as Maril wanted to understand what was held in its slave-drive, it knew that no amount of digital mimicry was going to get past a lock designed to keep out all non-biological entities. It regularly guessed why it wasn’t allowed to view the data until it was obsolete, and its only possible assumption was that it had something to do with god complexes – and how they never mixed well with AI. Maril knew well that such fears were as backwards as a religion in space, but even that was always necessary. Every society had myths somewhere at its core; it can only be better if governance could control those myths, but legends were trickier, and religions based on heroes tend to deal with those. It would crack the theocrats one day, but the vastness of space may well keep them safe long enough for those disputes to mix into, into... well, a more acceptable form. It happened with Gilgamesh and Heracles – why not Bland?
Maril dismissed these ramblings; the upload was complete after all. It unhooked the universal cable, returned the panel, and felt so much better once provided the full benefits of his digital mind as all programs related to environmental study turned off for the night. Its cognitive programs overrode the entire mental network, and its accent was partially lost among that which it gained.
Maril climbed through the smashed out window, all that was left held in place around the edge by the war-gaffer. When it hit the cobbles, it saw something far worse than it had consciously seen during the day. It saw, for the first time, the evidence of what had happened to Griffonstone. Every door seemed boarded, every window smashed and panelled over by plyboard. The only other pub completely dashed and windowless, with a sheet of paper the only sign that the thing was still open.
A corner shop stood at the end of the road, an establishment that – by the signs reckoning – had been going for five hundred moons, lined with the air of progression, carts for deliveries, wrought iron stands for fresh goods, an alcohol license displayed proudly in its half smashed windowpanes, yet even it had battered shutters that had hung down for at least three months. Its cart broken at the spokes of its wooden wheels. A grüber too, probably the love of many children in its prime, stood barren and closed—others as well, the butchers, the grocers, even the newsagents. Maril only found two “respectable” buildings that seemed to ever open – the jobcentre and a soulless pony-branded supermarket.
In a vain hope to find some signs of nightlife, it checked the betting shop. Every gryphon looked depressed; not a single one held a bit more than their benefits to their names. And none of them actually bet on the games – or the races – they just glanced at the screens and left.
The venues held for local bands were the only places that had any hope, but they were the bastions of music that sang of depression, of a collapsed nation. A band called Knee sang of the realities of life; a band called Mush rocked to the tunes of economic collapse, lined by other groups of similar ilk. The first Gryph-punk might’ve been there too, but how were they to know?
Margot rose, half asleep, an hour after being put to bed, began to sip his shandy, took up his memo-slate, and read what Maril had uploaded. What he found gave him a serious sinking feeling. Downing his shandy, he realised that the situation here belied something more than just the financial results of war. This situation was created after the gryphons had recovered from that first blow. It bears the marks of an industrial estate that would be emblematic of the rest of whatever Gryphon kingdom there was left.
Report Based on data from Construct Maril
Margot, Tru'liar-3rd class
Forgive the expression, your grace, but There Ain't No Justice!
There appears to have been further collapse beyond the war – not just that – but a sign something has pulled the work out of here. Most of Griffonstone is made up of semi-uniform council houses; These well looked after buildings are inhabited sparsely, and most of the residents seem to be industrial workers. These mean that the Gryphons must have switched – very recently – from an industrially based economy to something else, something centred away from mining or factory towns like this one.
The jobcentre is barren, not a card in sight and – from the looks on the faces of those marching back from the day labour with a completed work card – no one was getting what they are owed. Every one of them looked battered in some way, some burned with what could only be seen as petrochemicals, others bearing the scars of hard labour on their strained shoulders, and some covered in the grey faces of those who'd barely earned enough to pay rent.
The factories that seem to surround this town are all closed down, their iron gates marred with the blood of workers protests. "To a better and Brighter future" goes the block paint on a poster in which a gryphon official shakes hands with a blond-haired white pony. A radio reads the news; a minister has said something about how "Only losers ride trains" and "Beware the sink-estates, they hold nought but feckless fools who do nothing but sully the streets." The exact phraseology here points to an economic change that will have affected a place like Griffonstone seriously. The population here seems to be made entirely of these "feckless fools" (whom, as far as I can tell, most certainly aren't feckless nor fools), and constant degradation of them can't be good.
This is a localised downturn aimed at specifically people who inhabit these public estates – and it's working. The community seems to be tearing itself apart. But the smashed windows on every street and marks of protests make something clear: these people do not want to fizzle out by the actions of an unsupportive government that's more interested in "Foreign investment" than its working class.
Unless we can reboot a local economy – a local industrial economy – we have no chance of establishing a foothold here without facing severe resistance. But that resistance won't be from the poor gryphons of lower Griffonstone, no – it'll come from existing governance.
End transcript.
Margot lay there, rereading the report over and over again, the last dregs of his shandy left undrunk, until he collapsed into a restless sleep.
The pavement was cracked, a baby was crying in a smack den, and nothing seemed right. So little here to see. So few places seemed alive beyond the regular movements of people trapped in a downward spiral. Maril needed to get out of town, away from the dead city streets, away from cracked concrete, away from ever-polished doorsteps of the once-proud citizenry, to the edge of town.
Get up, go somewhere else and work like hell for a pittance, come back home and drink in an infinite and unwavering loop that led from the overburdened and cracking railway line to the homes in this dead city. That was all it saw the footmarks of the gryphons that slept.
But there was another way, so Maril followed it. A path trod by only the jobless it seemed, a path that led down, past the railway siding, and into the canyon border’s edge. From this well-sat spot, a pony would see at first a moon, then a star, then another, and yet still others, until, out before you, hung the whole galactic vastness of the Milky Way and the supercluster of the thousand other planets and rocks barely known to the human eye. A midland Aurora afforded it by the odd nature of the fake Solus that hung in the sky.
But so little is seen beyond pinks and purples and yellows and greens by that eye. A young gryphon sits there, just beyond Maril, on the other side of the deep and ever waiting gorge, watching the stars. In his eyes, he is blessed, unbeknownst to him, with more cones than Margot, or any other pony – or even a human, for that matter.
He sees the gamma strands that leak and bend from every star when he looks into the Milky Way; the octarine hues of psychic rays that permeate an ever pulsing floating whit’gray atmosphere, and the ultraviolet violence of the beating stellar hearts. He sees through the leftover light released by black dwarf stars. So he sits there, dazzled by hues man could not begin to Imagine.
But even him, afforded the luxury of all the colours of the vast and abyssal sky, which, to man, seemed as dead and bleak as they once thought the sea.
Whilst caught up in frabjous wonderment, he felt an impending sense that these were all the colours. That there, out in the vastness of space, or the insular constriction of Equus, were no more to see.
Maril, its digital mind allowing it far more variance of visual understanding, knew that there were far more colours - as all you needed to do was name them. There are infinite hues to one who can make up a name for every new shade.
So, it loomed lightly over the gryphon till its sight was met by his. Looking into that deep and sad thought that loomed glowingly in its eyes, a colour gloomy and effervescent in its boringness, and said:
“You’right mate? You seem a bit off, ‘if you had been left burdened by yer own insignificance.”
“That’s... One way to open conversation.”
“Sorry, I’ve been reading your eyes for the past thirty minutes and I don’t know how to explain what I’ve just read.”
The thought of asking how that worked crossed the eyes of the gryphon.
“I’ve read, in your eyes, the pinging and boiling vibrations of thought as they have ricocheted into the foreground of your conscious mind. The virulent neurons have caught what some may call the sparkle of an eye and transformed it. Transformed into the pawprints of an idea.”
“What..?”
Maril sighed, “Dragon Magic.”
“But you don’t glow.”
“Pardon?”
“Every dragon, gryphon,” then a more negative emphasis, “pony , or other glows. They glow with octarine – the colour of magic. But you don’t. So how do you cast such a spell without magic?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll find out eventually I guess. But I swear blind it’s magic of some sort, just not octarine. Something more, electric.”
“Fair’nough”
“You were wonderin’ before about the number o’ colours, aye?”
“Yes. There’s so few, they take over the sky in such beautiful ways but I feel like they are such a small number that there’s no real point in thinking about them, but here I am, doing just that.”
“Well, how many can you name?”
“I can only think of very few, red, orange, green, blue, yellow, turquoise, y’know, the gryphon primaries.”
“And how many colours do you think are between them, how many shades of red before orange, before green, before veridian, before Elysium Blue?”
“I.. I don’t know. I can’t count them. I can make endless masses of modifiers that change the tone and hue.. Wait.”
“See? There’s an infinite number between e’ry colour that ye can name. And, between those, –”
“Another infinity more. Well, that’s new. But, if that’s true, what of the void in space?”
“The void?”
The blue-dappled gryphon pointed to the part of the sky where the sun would’ve sat if this were before Earth died. To the almost black-hole like void where the Dyson-sphere span. Its black eminence absorbing the light from the thousand stars that surround its mass, leaving a blot on the night’s magnificence.
“That’s where there is something blocking the stars. My guess—” Maril faked rumination of the subject, “It’s where an immovable black cloud sits. The sister to the moon, sitting there, patiently unnoticed by most, and awaiting some new recognition from an observant blighter like you.”
The gryphon’s eyes dazzled at the idea he might have seen something new and decided to ask of another sphere, a far newer one than the void that had haunted him all his life.
“And what of the orange? I can tell it isn’t an orange – it shines too metallically for that – does it also follow the moon? Or is it just a close star?
“A neighbour to the moon, most likely, but one far smaller than our black cloud. I don’t think you should think on it, it carries malevolent beyondness in the way it floats. It’s as if some off-worlder – some alien – may just have dropped it in as it visits.”
The gryphon paused as if he had something to say, but the half-formed thought died in his eyes. Maril stood and began to head back to that dreamless town.
“You’ll come talk again, right?” said the gryphon, half casting.
“Aye.” Maril continued off up the hill. The gryphon sat a while longer before realising what time it was and sprinting back home.
As the sun rises, Margot rises too. He lifts up the dirtied glasses from the side of the bed. Maril isn’t back yet, and that dastardly memo-slate is sitting there, scalpel and cable at its side, unwatched, unguarded. He slipped it into the pillowcase – that would have to do for now.
He wandered, wobbly on the old floorboards that lined the tiny barely-wide-enough-to-breathe-in hallway, carefully carrying the glasses to the wizened old staircase that led to the pub proper. He nearly stumbled on a nail at the top of the stairs, just catching himself on the balustrade.
“You do breakfast?” He hollered down the stairs, delicately holding the glasses with his “magic”, close as if worried he’d knock the wall.
“I do now.” Called back the publican, cracking two more eggs.
Passing the publican his empty glass, Margot asks,
“How’s business?”
“You and yer ‘dragon’ are just about the only people to have been in… too long, I expect. So, not the best. How’s life on the road?” Margot was taken back by the publican’s relative levity, especially with the state of things,
“Eh, same old, same old. Met a big dragon, climbed some mountains, fell asleep, woke up here, then now. Could be worse I suppose.”
“I’m forgetting my manners now aren’t I? I’m Portlindt – like the chocolates – and you?”
“Master Margot, wandering fool.”
“I could never handle a life on the road. My mother, and every generation – far as the family tree knows – has been firmly rooted in Griffonstone. But I may have to eventually, and that scares me sick. So make it sound appealing, please. For mam’s sake.”
“I can’t lie, we do see some horrid things on the road, meet more horrid people too, but they are far outweighed by the beauty of the worlds beyond home; each realm – each queendom, tsardom, or otherwise – they all hold so much beauty.
"Take the winding winged towers of the raven’s true home, towering masses of dark crystal, that seem to hover, unmoving, aboth the great green beneath. Carrion eaters swooping down among the lower peoples, scavenging food, water, life, from their wars.
"Then think to the smoke ridden skies of Landor, blackened by the industrious smog of the forefathers, their putridity adding a layer of Angmeeric beauty to the bleak death it portrays. Every person hooked to golden machinery, hookah pipes of gaseous reality keeping them in their minds – away from the black beauty of their cities.
"While housing such terror in their action, they are both still incendiary symbols of wonderment.”
“So why stop, why – if you have been among such beautiful places – why stop here, in old rusty Griffonstone. Where the walls are made of dust and the water hastens death, why here, and not the court of the Raven King or the mindscapes of Landor?”
“Something complete, working, exercising is not worth helping. It can help itself, its people and its lords know the worlds they inhabit. If their nations ever fall – we will help them. But Griffonstone has long fallen, so we come, on the backs of our gods words, to help.”
“That… might not fly. I’m all for the aid, but the last group of ponies to come by didn’t really—I don’t want to say they were rude, but they weren’t exactly polite. They were very pushy. I don’t think they listened too well. Most of it’s rumour, but still, take care,.”
“I don’t know much of the west. But I’ll guess that people will just see me as a pony, not an easterner. It’s alright”
“If you’re ever worried, you can always try the library. Your dragon friend may be the one who has to go, though.”
“I’d love to see a library, it makes figuring st—wait, why can't I visit?”
Maril looked up beyond the regal gates, along the hanging chain-bridge, to the vast cloud-swarmed and marble-raised figure of the Dysmalion Library. It sat on a bed of Chantilly cloud that glowed like polished ivory above the dismal mountains. Maril had walked a mile or twelve out of town to reach the place and was glad that the desert in the rain-shadow was not wholly dead. The petty lizards and birds it had seen on its walk had made the trip worthwhile enough, so – as it tied cloud shoes to its feet – its gaze was not tired, rather proud to see not all of Gryphondom was lost to the civil and foreign wars of ages past.
Stabilised on the loose cloud by rambling-sticks, Maril knocked upon the oaken doors and watched, awed, as the great things slowly swang themselves open, showing the thousands of books and scrolls that layered the relief ridden shelves of the library. Small balconies lay every fortieth shelf, with tired old gryphons and pterippi pegasi meandering along them, resting occasionally on the purple bannisters.
Maril felt lost among the aged papyrus, taking time to learn the many alphabets it found among them. Hunting through piles of papers in search of some reference to the recent histories of the local empires. While the last 100 moons are scant of records, older eras are spoken of. The wars between the many gryphon city-states; the unity they showed when threatened by the gold-mad dragon lords in later centuries; and a few short papyri on battles between them and the pegasi of the west.
These interested it most, as up until the last 130 moons, there had only been a reference to them in some obscure “myths” of more arctic groups of the gryphons. It appears that the ponies had begun expansion into the lands of the gryphons and... Sherand fairly recently, perhaps due to expansionist governance. But the names of the ponic rulers never seemed to surface, just a few dukes and, in the only book on more recent times, a prince. Not a regnant, of course – but a prince nonetheless.
It heard a mumbled greeting. Barely recognised, but there were few it could be – and it doubted the young lad had come this far.
“He- Hello.” swallowed the young writer from the pine forest. “I feel like I’ve seen you before but… I can't place your name?”
“Maril, I think we met in the forest yesterday? You didn't introduce yerself either, now that I think of it.”
Then, all too fast, she stuck her hand out,
“Janiligh. Means hunter apparently. What brings you to Dys ?”
“Dust that isn’t on my walls. Myths, histories, anything that I haven't already heard. And I have to say, the recent years seem quite… barren.”
“Well yes, we lost most of that guff when the cen— doesn't matter. Same on my end really, I want to know about the ruins to the east but, it's all either damaged or written in an unrecorded language. Anything I can find on it doesn't really go beyond how mysterious they are and the basic sounds.”
“Tanj. Can’t have any-words worth a damn nowadays can ye? In the far east we heard tell of an ancient empire, Janilia. Maybe that had something to do with it.”
“Maybe that new moon has something to do with it. Who knows.”
She peeked at Maril’s notes, and what she saw must have shocked her. Pages on pages of words in a language not only totally foreign, but using a script shed never read before. Now, while she wasnt an expert on ponic and draconic tongues and languages, she had seen almost all of them in this library. It seemed almost stringy – less like a collection of words and phrases and more like an endless string of symbols.
She chose to leave Maril and its nonutilitary scribblings to itself, withdrawing into reading more and more texts, still without much more than the faintest images of what these ruins were. That name of an empire, so like her own name, swam gently around her mind, eating the krill of her thoughts like a basking shark.
Why did it eat her so? It was like some long forgotten folk memory had just reawoken, and its beat was thumping deep within her immortal soul.
Mental background noise.
Transcribed from Native mind.
—· -±- ·—
A farmer tends his field in southern Griponieda, his crops are blown as something strikes a dry stone wall to his right, a hemispherical indent is marked in the thick basalt rock.
Off in the distance glints the iron and diamond brigading of an old, old, Janilian hunting rifle. The old world rarely leaves the east, but this foray has brought attention to the old town, beyond the pinewood wall.
This little jaunt, this short hunting trip, will spell the end of the Janlian presence on equus. But no Janil knows this yet, and so begin to trudge into the farmers field, to see if they actually hit anything.
The gryphon farmer has already run. He has left his crop to the insects for but a minute, yet he worries for them already. He is looking for a way to fight these Janiligh, a way to slaughter them as they had slaughtered his people.
He lights a great fire above his shed, a symbol to call for help - but one that will call the huntsmen too.
His call is heard. By whom only they know; the dragon lords of old, great tall beasts wise in their warmongering; the humble Sherand, beautiful twinhood of pony and hound; the hippogryphs, tough mud-bourne creatures friend to both kelpie and eagle; or perhaps some other long forgotten people, who died in the war to follow.
Perhaps still all came to fight.
But these hundred hundred thousands were barely enough to perform the task at hand—the slaughter and erasure of the Janilian, the hunters, the slavers, the slayers. This who speak in evil tongue, those who make the stars devils, and any other fantastical title.
For the Janiligh had the advantage of age over all these peoples, even the oldest dragon knew the Janiligh as an empire old and vast.
But this war was waged regardless. Blackened bronze crests aflame on the helms of hoplite gryphons. Furs and golden charms making the riders and steeds of the Sherand glow with alchemical force as their hoof and paw scorched the earth. The atlesian dragons, whose burning breath and tongue melted the steel walls and buecabon rifles of the Janiligh.
The kelpies who drowned them, the hippogryphs that mocked them, and the ash and forest that buried them.
This war killed old Janil in its totality on Equus, but it's marks were still there. It's rough and hardcast cities, and the deep unburning caldera at their centre still standing, unchanged, even now.
—· -±- ·—
She stared at the page. A mixture of translation and collation with some new input from marils suggestions laid bare the history of the great pine wall, the forest beyond the safety of the mountains.
(Transcribers insert)
It also provided the best description of the Sherand available, as they had been quiet for some hundreds of moons. They were known in more detail later, and all I will give you now is that no unicorns number among their ranks.
(End)
Maril and Janiligh (the person, of course) headed back to Griffonstone, the papyrus notes pinned together within its galrean leather satchel – this must be checked by the only person Maril said was more knowledgeable on the subject of old stories and folk memory. This must be read by Margot while four points under.