“My ancestor,” Eohippin started, “Equiynala, high councillor of tribe Neighgoth, ruled over a great deal of Maretania.”
She placed the coffin she had bore on solid ground at last, weary after a long journey. Her company smiled, heads eagerly peering over shoulders to get a look at what they had been assembled for. The crowd watched the coffin like vultures, grinning excitedly as if it were some sort of circus act.
A cohort of skeletons clattered about in the distance, silhouettes descending a flimsy wooden plank that acted as the sole bridge on and off ship, carrying a number more coffins on bony shoulders. The necromancers that dotted the makeshift dock seemed thoroughly impressed, chortling amongst themselves like old scholars. It was not an everyday occurrence they found dead of this quality and preservation, owing chiefly to the Maretanian custom of ancestor worship.
At last, a mare spoke, evidently leader of the group, judging by the authoritative tone she’d adopted.
“We don’t often get traders here,” she remarked, suspiciously. “Whilst we are very grateful, and whilst we do understand your culture’s… pain, to separate from an ancestor like this, we assure you, they will be granted happiness.”
“I would hope so,” Eohippin grumbled. “It brings me a great deal of displeasure to bargain off the corpses of our dead.” She gave a mean glance to a necromancer that strayed a little too close, slapping their claw away from the coffin.
“Not yet!” Rosa turned to the necromancer, before continuing with a smile and a deep breath. “On behalf of us all, we do hope your journey north was pleasant, West Zebrica is a long way from here.”
She huffed, having caught her breath. Her dress, practically an artefact of her true House culture, was getting slightly soggy in the snow around the boots. “Terribly uneventful, for the most part. I had some troubles with the Nimbusian coast guard. They didn’t strike me as the sort to appreciate a ship full of the dead. Fortunately, I had enough bits to make sure they stayed out of my ship whilst I refuelled.”
Strangely enough, despite her distaste for creatures practising the art of necromancy, she found the mare pleasantly amicable. Not to mention, the months-long journey solo had made her more than willing for a chat.
An older, more decrepit necromancer from the crowd piped up, flesh slightly rotten and a distinctive accent to them that seemed more in place two centuries ago. “It’s that easy, is it? This whole time, we could’ve sailed around and paid meagre sums to keep prying eyes off our galleys? And you all told me it was folly to try! Aha!”
He jumped around, mocking his peers, necromancy clearly not aiding his agility in any way.
“I assure you, it was not a meagre sum,” she growled.
“Very well, we apologise for the inconvenience,” Rosa spoke before the necromancer could get another word in. “Now, would you care to explain the reason you brought all these bodies here? Pardon us, commerce isn’t exactly a specialty of a necromantic order.”
“Gladly,” Eohippin flashed a fake grin. “As I’ve said, this is my ancestor. Equiynala Neighgoth, high councillor of the fourth tribe of Maretania.”
“Very influential,” she taunted. “Tell us more, please,” Rosa beckoned.
“I was getting to it. Anyway, his tribe, Tribe Neighgoth, was the pinnacle of Maretanian culture, prosperity and influence. Our warriors were second-to-none, the creative industries and intelligentsia flourished,” She gestured widely. “Unfortunately, we were limited. Bound to the whims of the Obsidian Council and their miserable protection of ‘artefacts of magical importance’.” She spat.
“I have heard of The Cave,” The very mention of the name seemed to inspire muttered discussion. “Very intriguing. A shame you didn’t offer us something from there,” a vampire spoke.
“Nonsense, that would be foolish,” she laughed, stomping an armoured, bonemold boot. “I am one mare. My line, the great line of Neighgoth, effectively died with him. He was betrayed and murdered by the Obsidian Council for the crime of wanting more for our people.” She shrugged, having to contain her anger at such a denial of her destiny.
“Well, anyway,” Eohippin continued. “The despots it housed did not like it. They grew wealthy and lazy off their so-called duties. Obviously, the line did not literally die, or else I wouldn’t be here – but spiritually? Yes, the line of Neighgoth, his lands and wisdom, died with him. Regardless, enough with the history lessons, this was long ago.”
“So, you want us to bring him back?” Rosa nodded, finally understanding why she’d come to her of all ponies.
“As fully as possible. Spare no effort!” she hurried, almost tripping over her own words. “I have given you payment, but the greatest payment of all shall come when he walks once more.” She grinned, and for the first time it was genuine pride – accomplishment for her grand venture.
“I see. This payment shall indeed be adequate,” Rosa said, turning to the rest. “So we shall. Somecreature see her to her ship, kindly. We shall return by sun’s early light.”
There was a strange commotion in their leave, a chorus of bones clicking and rattling from their collective cheating of death.
As she watched the council of necromancers depart, a faint pang of guilt crept across her, watching as the coffin rolled away. It was the greatest disrespect she could have given her ancestors, but alas; these things had to happen, and ultimately, her ancestors would’ve been proud of her cunning. She was the last of his line; she should’ve ruled, and she could still. History always needed a push.
The journey back would be long, but there was solace in the knowledge that she would not take this next one alone. She already had everything mapped out, she was wealthy and influential enough to know these things.
With Equiyn’s return, everything would simply fall into place. They would not fall for the same traps as before.
The door to that great chamber raised, an igneous light pouring from the crack in the ancient stone. Equiyn Neighgoth, flanked by his ‘sister’, Eohippin, lowered their heads, making their destined entrance.
They were greeted with a sight of the purest craftsmareship, a hidden hollow in the mountain, housing the brass skeleton of what seemed to be a pony. Magic sung in strange ways in this place, unbound and unlimited. A large cavern bore in the silt and rock, magma bubbling and churning underneath, adding a terrible heat to the chamber that nothing could properly remedy.
This was the first step of Equiyn’s grand plan. Stood before the magnum opus of a dead civilisations work, it couldn’t have been sweeter. The power it emanated was almost tangible.
His ceremonial robe, elder to the world’s greatest leaders, dragged across the stone, kicking up little clouds of dirt from the undisturbed land. It was the same robe he had died in; the same robe he had been re-born in. It was almost a shame to have such priceless work, the effort of a bygone generation’s love for him, stained in the fine dust of volcanic rock. Alas, such minor sacrifices held hardly a candle to the glory they were here to achieve.
The statue had the unnerving property of seemingly being able to stare back – in presence of such magic, it wasn’t absurd to believe it did, either. Within it lay a heart of crystal that rested there, blackened from the magic within. Not a speck of dust touched it, as if the ash was aware of it in its avoidance.
The crystal seemed to thrum, its echoes reverberating through the rock. Some miraculous example of ancient engineering was connected to it, though it was left incomplete and withered with time. It rested in the chest cavern of the brass mare, metal ribs guarding it.
It could be completed. With the resources of a nation, as he aspired, it would take no time. This was not what they were here for, however. Such luxuries would come, with time.
The Obsidian Council had gone to great efforts to keep this hidden. Luckily, they were tricky ponies; no effort could hide such a thing – not for ponies as driven as they. Its rhythmic hum seemed unnaturally propagated, no apparent source of sound.
Ash crumbled at his hooves, pitter-pattering their way down the edge of the natural platform. There was a bridge below, another remnant of a civilization deemed too malevolent to exist – much like their own. Finding his way down would not be difficult.
With a flash of his horn, his orange magic scooped up and compacted hoof-sized stepping stones, forming and hovering under the pony as he stepped away from solid ground, descending in a spiral staircase pattern.
It was regal – an entrance becoming of a Lord of his standing. Time had forgotten, but they had not. This place was his claim, his noble entitlement. What a pity it was that the Obsidian Council were those he had to take from. They were powerful mages, under his guidance they could do great things for the world; alas, natural enemies could not be reasoned with.
The thrum of the heart only loudened as he stepped closer, its music surrounding them both. It became clear the noise didn’t emerge from the heart, rather it played within the very mind, seeming to come from every place all at once.
She let a satisfied grin creep across her muzzle, trailing behind her lord. Searching had taken too long, taken too much energy. She had desecrated tombs, turned to areas of magic most would loathe. It had been a tremendously difficult undertaking, and it would only get harder from here, but this was the big stepping stone – a goal finally met.
Equiyn reached a hoof out to the crystal, stepping off the final ashen platform and onto the bridge. Distance had changed the tone of the crystal’s beckoning, it had turned hums and thumps into something sharper, more detailed. Hums turned to shakier pulses, the beating noise becoming something more animated and visceral.
Magic was never as much of a tangible sensation as near this thing. It didn’t announce itself through burns or zaps, glowing auras or light shows; it was simply in the air. Unbound, uncaptured, free from the world itself to rule on its own, its own enclave in its piece of the world.
And nothing could ever be as frightening. It was magic rebelling against nature itself, and magic was a bitter force when left untamed – free to explore outside the domain of typical thaumatological theory. Time was left to its will.
So it twisted, and turned, and bent; it thrashed at all that came towards it. In purest magic like this, not even the light – oscillating, infinitely tiny packets of energy, otherwise unbothered by the universe – would manage to proceed through. Light went fainter, then it distorted. Eohippin stood by, silent and unbothered entirely. Not a muscle on her stone face twitched, a trust like no other placed into the once great figure of Equiyn.
Equiyn’s eyes couldn’t be trusted, for there was hardly the light to see, and what was visible was stretched and blurred.
On reflection, it was the first of lessons; the first proof that sight was ignorance, that there should be no trust placed in the mortal gaze. No truths it told, sight was only for what wanted to be visible – worlds came and went in the plane of the invisible, mortal eyes none the wiser.
Something changed as a threshold was crossed. This was not natural magic. Something, some force, seemed to show the pony hate. There were no signs, just a feeling, as clear as could be.
Magic did not typically burn. Magic didn’t typically shriek and flail, resisting all that tried to cross it – but this was not magic of the usual kind. It was not a simple spell, it was a concentration of its very essence. It flowed like tempest, stung like lightning. Equiyn pushed further still, ignoring the burning pains all over his body. His very soul seemed to ache. His sister stood all the same, dagger presented in her hooves, watching as their leader, the just high councillor, lord to be assumed of all Maretania, disappeared into a vortex of thaum.
Blackness. The very universe seemed to resist him. The universe seemed to tell him to stop, to go no further, as if the cosmos was warning him of the danger he faced. To listen could only be folly at a point like this. The mortal world despised the New Mare, the unthinkable thought of divinity.
One hoof reached out to touch the crystal structure, the last gleaming remnant of a world otherwise left behind. Then it burst.
A star. A pillar. An eye. The eye burned, exploding into the infinite. Rot, decay, famine. Everything, everywhere. Words, letters? Symbols of power that the universe moved to suppress. All linear, swimming through time like a sailor lost at sea.
You are not supposed to be here.
Time-march. Entropy-scale. A whole universe of iron. A whole universe of YOU.
You are not supposed to be here.
Words. Too many words. Words in every language, all at once. Words of determination, spilling out the stars, re-writing everything around it. All manner of celestial things, disappearing and forming like quilt on paper.
You are not supposed to be here.
His hoof reached ever further, towards the burning eye. Finally, it stopped, jagged stone interrupting his movement.
Wall. No syntax. Cage without bars. Malleable as iron to the smith. A pillar of flaming gold. Last limit of rule.
He couldn't stand it. Nothing rang true, nothing followed conceptions. Things simply did as they had – as they were told. They weren't supposed to act like this, nothing was right. Why wouldn't it be right?
Madness – this was defying him. This was not truth. This was not right; he had to put it right.
Agony. Fire, war and hopelessness. A vision of past, or future, or present, its honesty unknown. There was no apparent truth to anything. Still, from all the nothing, the incomprehensible, inklings of ideas emerged; some fractured, half-truths of the world, clear beyond mortal understanding.
A key formed within his hoof, its lock before him. It connected to nothing, just present in the incorporeal nothingness. There was nothing else to do in a place like this.
The key, glass but otherwise entirely unremarkable, clunked in the heavy lock as if it were metal. He twisted it, but it resisted his motion. Again, a turn, but no movement. He tried to force it, but the key simply snapped in two, bitter fragments of glass burying into his hoof. He wasn't sure why, but all it inspired was terror. Complete terror, like the universe laughed at him. It was then that he first screamed a hopeless, despairing scream.
It didn't work. It didn't work.
Was he not worthy of it? Did the universe – did magic, even – play tricks on him?
Hate. New doctrines formed within his head. He would escape this. He would not be bound by limitations forever. He deserved more than that, he saw greater than that. He would not be damned to know more than mortal minds, but trapped within a body that rotted long before his soul was due. He despised the world, he despised everything it stood for. He despised the creatures it cultivated, the lands that formed from it – he despised himself for being bested at the first step.
He despised himself. What a fool he was, believing himself able to best the universe in a battle of wit.
Once more, his hoof struck out, raging against the prison. Much to his surprise, the lock shuddered, resonating with some intangible medium. It jolted, tearing apart, straining itself to the bitter end, before smashing apart.
Divinity-beheld. The true nature of magic. Jeers of the progenitor. If only he could see, if only he opened his eyes to see.
A hoof reaching out for him, the world within it.
And then, nothing. For the briefest of moments, on a scale of time he did not know, there was nothing. Undisturbed, perfect isolation.
And then there was revelation. The infinite flowed within him, boiling all synapses and purging mortal flesh from his skin. His skull set aflame, combusting with the fires of the ethereal, sending shockwave after shockwave of pain through his very soul. The cavern, void of his presence just moments ago, was cast in the sickly blue glow of spectral flame.
But Eohippin, first sister, promised Duke of Wisdom, moved not, even still. A mare of faith like hers, whilst knowing not the magic that caused it, knew the Master was fit to overcome the world’s greatest challenges, for he was always one to dare to confront. This was their gambit. They defied typical magic before, but this was magic of a more horrible kind.
Her faith seemed most misplaced at a time like this.
Equyin screamed, clutching onto his head with his front hooves, begging for respite. The crystal’s magic held no care. He pounded against the walls of the trap, in utter agony as the information that crept through his veins re-wrote synapse after synapse, building his mind anew. It was a magic most sinister – t’was a pity he only knew it now.
Clothed in magic flame, he writhed and twisted, cried and clawed, desperately trying to escape fate. The black star of magic would not release. He couldn’t move, his mouth was left agape, eyes wide in abject terror, knowing fear truly. A million different words, all known to Equiyn, but in symbols that couldn’t be comprehended.
The words became worlds and the worlds became ink, dancing and diffusing between the stars. Even as his skull burnt, he reached out, holding the star within his hooves. He saw it staring back at him.
The soul, the spirit. An echo to sub-level.
He sat at a grand table, watching the star, its grand table piece. With him stared innumerable souls, adorned in silver and gold, blinking at him, muzzles twisted with judging frowns at the pony that invaded their ceremony.
A chalice appeared in front of him, filling with wine, but the pouring never did stop. It reached the brim of the cup, but still, it did not stop. It poured, staining the pristine tablecloth red. The words. The words became ever so loud.
The black that surrounded their table, filling this space like the void, became white at the far end of his view, the words holding it revealed. The cup kept filling. The figures kept blinking. The white crept further, up the table, but the figures sat still even as their world seemed to deconstrue around them. The wine was up to his knees, but he could not move, nor did it douse any flame. He tried to call out, but no air reached his throat. The white kept retreating towards him. The figures blinked still.
This was not meant to be known.
This was not where he was supposed to be.
It was ethereal, it was ultimate. It felt as if his mind ran through billions of different revelations, all at once, spreading like vines over his mortal brain. All libraries, all books, all tales told by campfire, every word of mouth ever spoken.
Apotheosis, it must’ve been.
The hum of the crystal was deafening, blocking all other noise in its omnipresence.
But Equiyn was a stubborn being. The hate for his position in mortal life resonated with the frequency of soul, the god-speak, the inevitable theory all must die. To assume the belief that this did not have to be the way was to assume the universe told lies, and in the assumption the world told lies unlocked the key to everything; word became life for the grand non-believer. So he reached out, forelegs extending, raging against the coming light. He held the star within his trembling hooves.
And he crushed it.
Thus was the doctrine of the Lord High Councillor, reborn:
I AM.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF ME.
YOU ARE BECAUSE YOU ARE I.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF ME.
GOD ABOVE ALL.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF ME.
HATE IS FRIENDSHIP.
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF ME.
All faded to black. No more pain, no more light.
He stood there, on the bridge. His first reaction was to drop down and sob. This was not the enlightenment he wished for.
There was no clarity, just knowledge. Even as he attempted to catalogue his mind, rewired anew, there was nothing but anger. He knew it all as if it were off by heart, but none of it in any way he could understand. No matter how he tried, he couldn't wrap his mind around any of it.
The crystal before him, once chipped and black as void, radiated a brilliant orange. The magic around it, once violent and confused, now circled it loyally, streamlined and content.
It took everything he had not to throw up.
He was left against the stone in an undignified heap, coughing, sputtering and sobbing, mumbling and groaning anything but comprehensible words.
It took him time, admittedly. Two days he stayed there, weeping in volcanic warmth, unable to command his singed body to do anything. He could not see, his ears were full of the beat of the crystal, his muzzle pressed into the dirt. He whined and writhed, trying to wrap his fragile mind around any of it.
When he finally had the strength to stand, it felt as if everything had changed.
To stand was not even in his mind the first day – he couldn’t have possibly done it. Then on the second, he commanded his legs to listen. He made it onto his belly, but his legs buckled and sent him straight back into the ash. Two more tries yielded no better a result.
A shout was heard, above the cacophony of magic – the voice of Eohippin, praying.
“Equiyn Neighgoth – Hei Maretynai! Council betrayed you, council sullied your name! Arise, great Lord of All! Here in the shrine of the forgotten, retake what you claimed in day, and in long night was stolen! Arise!”
The same prayer that had breathed life into his decaying body brought him back once more. The magic bound to the words brought strength to his limbs, allowing him to stumble to his feet. When he was stable, a dagger’s hilt was thrust into his hoof. Eohippin was still, unbothered and otherwise unmoving. Clearly, she'd stayed all this time.
He turned back to the crystal. What a pity it was.
The enchanted blade cut straight into it, twisting. The beating stopped. The cavern went silent.
Radiant, renewed. A flood of magic coursed through him, breathing life where there was none. Countless years had not been kind to him, but it was as if those years had no effect on him now. Warmth swept across him, and after a long moment he had sight once more. A new eye opened, seeing truth like shadows.
Everything had clarity. Everything had purpose. The words made so much sense, it was almost inconceivable how he didn't realise it all before. It was so very perfect. Everything fit exactly right. The enlightenment received had granted him a new type of love.
It was beautiful. There was so much distain, and all the more love because of it. He felt new life in his body, greater than what he knew even in his time.
The dagger was returned to its original wielder, who bowed her head graciously as if it was the greatest privilege.
“Eohippin, sister,” he lauded. “You have done me good time and time again. We shall depart from this place. Our campaign begins once more.”
“How we missed you, o Lord, how we missed you! This world has only decayed since you left us!” Eohippin cried, having to stop herself from launching into a hug. It was better not to, in case of any miscommunication with the long-dead stallion posing grandiosely in front of her.
”That we shall see. My image of a new world is realised within me.” There was a giddy laugh, a new confidence in his own plan. ”Come, Eohippin. I do hope you have prepared my place.”
“By orders,” she nodded. “The fools and frauds Maretania homes have not touched the lands which were once yours. I believe it would be much too inhospitable for creatures born and cradled in luxury.”
“I can not blame them. You speak of luxury as if it were a bad thing,” he laughed.
“It is, Lord. It has rotted the soul of this nation. Where we once had warriors, now all we are left with is sniffling mares of the gun. I—your influence, it's like it was never even there. They've forgotten you, Krahivar.”
"Krahivar? They hardly titled me that, even in life." He took a few steps forward, his horn glistening dimly. “It shall be no matter. The Great Tribe lives again, dear sister. Come now, I would hate to spend a moment longer in this place. I have wasted time aplenty already, let us drive the accursed Solar One’s influence from Maretynai. We shall be returning here when the moment is ripe.”
She didn’t speak, merely nodding her head, bowing deeply before trotting past Equiyn and onto the stone platform.
With the High Councillor, it was hardly a treacherous venture any longer. At last, she could be proud. Her rule, what she was born to claim, was almost within grasp. Never again would her noble title be questioned. She could picture it already: this would be the new height of culture, not just in Maretania, but the world over.
As they walked, his horn pulsed with a radiant orange, a sign of the true power that lay within him – a sign of divinity at last.
"I saw a great many things," he continued. "None of which I understood. Not at the time. I can't believe how foolish I was for it. Nightmares and pleasantries, but are there not only dreams? It is so very gray."
"What do you mean?" she looked up at him.
"No matter, my sister," He smiled, content and empowered. "Tomorrow I shall gift you the sun."
FOR THE EYES OF THE GREAT OFFICE OF ORDINATION, OBSIDIAN TEMPLE. ORDINATOR GENERALS ONLY.
Extract 1
My name is Veni lyn Sol, born of House Sol, one of the original families to make the perilous journey from Equestria. My house numbers in the hundreds, two-hundred and twelve by last census, although I am sure there are more.
My father is a bauxrat herder. My brothers are bauxrat herders. I am an artist. I live in Mareib, upon the lakes, and I paint for the affluent that will give me the time of day. I enjoy my work, and I’m told I’m quite skilful, though whether or not that is the truth is up to debate.
Our Lord is Saint Taous the mage-king. The year is 1014. Yesterday, the Griffonian Empire, whom many of us thought beyond salvation, invaded Aquilea. My partner, beautiful as can be, is named Lily Pad. She tells me I shouldn’t concern myself with the news across the ocean. Part of me believes that’s down to all the news with Equestria and the Changelings – she gets terribly upset over it. I can’t blame her; whilst it hasn’t been my family's home for centuries – for her, it’s only been a decade or so.
I cannot imagine what prompted her family to travel here. It’s hardly a bad place to live, by any metric: the ordinators keep the cities clean and free of crime, Saint Taous is an excellent leader and we‘re one of the few nations to get out of the issue with the Storm King relatively unscathed. Simply put, however, I can’t understand why she’d come here, out of everywhere in the world. We’re surrounded by nations much richer than ourselves, with much greater opportunities and much greater beaches.
Nevertheless, I am thoroughly glad she did choose here. I’ve known her for two years, but it’s felt like a lifetime. I wish to wed her one day, she truly means the world to me. I would give everything for her smile, she's so very wonderful.
I’ve been saving up my gold for a long while now. I put a little bit on the side with every painting I sell, and I hope by the winter I will be able to afford a wedding worthy of her. I know she cares little for money and material things, but I want us to have a very special day, because it's the least I can give her. I can't afford us the best of lives, but I want us to have something to remember fondly when we grow old.
But enough of the niceties; I’m afraid I can’t quite say everything is perfect at the moment. I’ve hardly heard any news from Father this month, which isn’t like him. It’s become a good feature of my month, sitting down by the lake and writing back to my family, and it’s rather annoying to have it disrupted like this.
They tell us that mail will be slower at the moment. They’ve not gone heavy on the detail, but they’ve said that ordinator patrols of the cities have had to increase, and that’s left the mail lines down to Casabronco a lot more sparse. The journey to Mareib isn’t very unsafe, per se, but the threat of cliff prancers makes ordinator patrols a necessity for any type of delivery.
I’m not terribly sure why there are more ordinator patrols around here now. I can’t form a good reason why; nothing in particular has happened recently, to my knowledge. I haven’t heard of any increase in crime, nor have I seen it myself, which makes the whole situation quite curious. I do hope everything is alright. The world feels like it’s burning, I pray there is at least one solace.
People do say there are strange things going on here. A more worrying piece of news I received yesterday was that Saint Taous hasn’t been seen for a good deal of time, which I most certainly hope is not tied to the patrols. I’m not sure what this nation would do without him – he’s such a kind stallion, and he saved us from the Storm King when I was just a colt. I have a great deal of respect for him; it’d be sad news indeed to hear he rests with our ancestors.
Other than that, no big news, but I suppose news does come slowly around here. My first thought was war was finally approaching, and I suppose we've been getting away with peace for far too long. It doesn't make it any better, I still believe it to be a barbaric matter, but at a time like this, it's just an unfortunate fact of life, and all we can do is pray there is light at the end of the tunnel. There's no real indication of it, though. The borders are more or less the same, so it isn't anything to do with our neighbours. Just a curious thought.
Though I'm not usually one to be greatly superstitious, I can’t help but feel things have been going gravely wrong as of late. It feels connected, in some strange, vague sense. Excuse the inclusion of myself into this ordeal, but I’ve found myself waking up in the middle of the night far more frequently than is usual. At first, I believed it to be nerves; I had a big job coming up from a very wealthy member of House Hayvanni (a portrait of them casting a spell, which I found hilariously in character for a member of such a house). However, what disturbed me was that I had a very similar dream the following night.
It’s all the same, and that’s what scares me about it. It’s far too frequent to just be the ramblings of my subconscious. Every night, I have a long, terrifying nightmare. I wake up, and I can remember only one part, but I always remember it vividly, as if it had really happened the day before. Again, it wouldn’t be too far out of the ordinary were it not for the fact that every night, it features the exact same pony. If it were my partner? Perfectly normal. But it never is. It’s the same pony: tall, bony, with an ashen coat and a mask of silver with three holes for eyes. It always has this stare, but I’ve never even seen its eyes.
I vividly recall one dream. I was standing by some massive tree, and I was surrounded by corpses. They were there. They walked about, waving and making polite conversation with the bodies, but never got any response back. I couldn’t even breathe. Then, finally, he came to me at last, with a small bowl full of water from a pond that surrounded the tree, and they spoke to me like I was their friend – told me it was an honour to see me here. Then my hooves moved to take the bowl, and I tried to stop, but I couldn’t. I drank from it, but I never was able to swallow it. My body just seemed not to listen.
Then I woke up. And I remember just feeling so… insignificant. It really put some sort of weird dread inside me.
The part that terrifies me, however, is that Lily has been waking up in the middle of the night too. I remember asking her what was up, since I was already awake, and she told me she had a nightmare. I thought nothing of it, until she started telling me details I’d had in my own dreams. She described the exact same pony. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t want to worry her, so I just pretended she hadn’t mentioned it and tried going back to sleep.
That’s been running through my mind ever since. This has all been very recent, but it's made the thought of sleeping horrible. I feel like it’s a sign. It must be. The details were far too identical to be coincidence, and there’s no silver-masked pony we know.
If dreams are a window into the soul, I must admit, I don’t want to know what’s going on with it.
I’ve tried drawing the pony from memory. It’s been a few days now, and every night I’ve seen them, so I just keep adding more and more details over time. I can’t remember the last time I got a restful night’s sleep. It’s driving me insane.
Now Lily is not a superstitious pony, not like me, anyway. She’s Equestrian, and their society is a lot more secular, from what I’ve heard. Even still, she’s told me she’s sure that those dreams are linked, and I’m inclined to agree.
It feels like a message, of some sorts. Lily agrees. She told me about their Princess Luna, and how she can patrol dreams, or something along those lines (Equestrian theology isn’t a specialty of mine). I’m deathly scared that it might be a similar sort of thing. I hope not.
I’m not sure who to even talk to about this. I can’t, really. They’ll think I’m crazy, and maybe I am. In fact, maybe I’d even go as far as to say I’d welcome it, because if these dreams are any indication, I pray this pony is a figment of my imagination.
Extract 2
Father got a message through to me. It was nice to hear from him again, and I had a lot of fun writing out what I'm going to send back. It's good the mail lines are back up again, that makes me worry a bit less about family.
Brother's ill again, apparently. They sent him to the doctor, and I'm being told there's nothing to be concerned about, but I hope this doesn't strain father back on the farm; they have enough issues as is with the way that the weather's been recently, the bauxrats have been acting funny. I don't know a thing or two about herding them, but I do know they're hardly the sorts of creatures to act in any sort of way that deviates from their usual eat, laze about, sleep.
I was sat at the docks again, writing under a parasol in this café I like, when I noticed something peculiar – there were a bunch of ordinaries, dressed in their fancy armours, and they were dragging somepony who kept shouting about the House system. I didn’t listen in to much of it, they were pretty eager to get them out of the way, but it was just a bunch of political nonsense. It’s terrible how those poppies have changed ponies around here, it’s about time they actually did something about it. Outlanders keep bringing it in, and it’s ruining lives.
Another dream, again. The same pony, of course. It’s beginning to feel more and more truthful, but I’m not scared of it like I used to be. The last dream opened my eyes.
I was stood there, in my dream, in some sort of desert. It was foggy, and the land was flat and detailless as far as the eye could see, except some weird jagged crystals that jutted from the land in great chunks. They walked out of the mist, and they spoke to me. I couldn’t hear any of it, it just sounded like these harsh syllables – but they spoke so very soothingly. It was vaguely comforting. Still, I tried to walk, but I guess I hadn’t learned anything from the last few dreams, and it felt like I was rooted to the spot.
Then they reached out, and placed their hoof to my forehead. It felt wonderful, in a weird way – good for my soul, if that makes sense, like being told you made somepony proud. It was then I knew they weren’t ever as bad as I thought, they were so very kind. It was a lesson, in a way, not to let initial impressions deceive. They never said anything else, but I knew they spoke to me.
Then I woke up. And for once, I felt rested, and everything felt alright. I just had this slight sense of insignificance, like I’ve been doing nothing my whole life. Though, if I’m honest, I can’t tell if that’s just a general feeling I get – it’s hard to tell.
But it’s a pattern now, and I know it.
I know they’re out there, somewhere, and they’ve chosen me. I don’t know what strange lottery they picked me from, but they’re speaking to me. I can’t guarantee it, but I really do believe they’re giving me these strange messages out of kindness, because they know me. I don’t know how, maybe I knew them long ago. They seem great, they seem important but kind, and they have this strange sort of authority to I can’t quite put my finger on.
They’re just… always on my mind. It’s difficult to concentrate. Sometimes I even wish I was asleep, just so I could dream. It’s like meeting up with an old friend.
I’ve kept up with my artwork. I have it down pretty well, I believe. From the landscapes, to the pony themselves. I must have tens of pictures of them by now. Lily ended up finding one of them, and that ended up giving her a massive fright.
I told her she shouldn’t be scared, that I’ve just been having similar dreams, but she kept thinking she was insane. She went out to stay with her sister across the city for a night whilst she calms herself down, but I really don't understand what prompted a reaction like that. She’s been hardly present recently – even when she is staying at our apartment, she spends more time attending the Obsidian Temple for spiritual counselling than she spends with me. She’s not even religious!
Dreams have always been strange, always been connected to those around us – it's the imagination at work. So what's so terrifying about him? We don't cry when we see the same people as we walk the streets. I think she just sees nightmares, and pleasant dreams, but there are only dreams. She doesn't believe in greys like I do.
Extract 3
I’m never one to get angry, even at the worst of times. But she said such horrible things about that pony, things I couldn’t quite forgive. She believes it to be some ill spectre, or all manner of horrible things, but I know all that is false. She just hasn’t dreamed the same dreams that I have. She can’t dream like I can. Maybe she isn’t worthy enough.
It's a terrible thing to say, but it's so very true. It's paining me greatly, but every day my contempt for her grows. I wish it wasn't this way, it tears me apart to even think it. We had another disagreement, and I ended up spending some of the money I'd saved up – money I saved up for us. I don't know why, whether it was out of vengeance, or hopelessness in that regard, or any manner of different things.
I would feel guilty for it, but I can't help it. If we cannot agree on the simplest of things, on the one issue I am truly passionate over, how can I choose to spend the rest of my life with this mare? No. I cannot sit about and be complacent. I've spent my entire life being dragged down by fools, and I will not fall for the same things again. I will, for once in my life, do as I decide. If we cannot agree on the most fundamental of philosophies, I cannot trust her. I cannot put up with ponies that seem to hate such good messages.
It is truth. These are not dreams – this is a beckoning. This is a call for me to meet with Him. All along, I’ve been trying foolishly to find an answer, but the answer was so very clear all along.
He is here. I haven't felt this way about anything for the longest of times, but I find myself so very passionate about this issue. It truly feels like times could finally get brighter, like there's finally someone that's willing to do what's necessary to fix things. Not just here, but everywhere. He promises such beautiful things, I just wish all could see it the way I do; it'd be a world without war, without conquest or misery. There is hope yet for this world. I'm so proud to be a part of it.
Extract 4
We didn’t dream last night. Why didn’t we dream? We have seen Him in my dreams every night. He’s always there, He’s our friend. But not last night. It was terrible. It was nothing, like some dark void. We just slept and then we woke up. We didn’t see anything, we didn’t hear anything. We’ve been trying to tell ourself that it’s fine, that it’s just one night, but we're so very scared.
The last dream we saw, he finally spoke to us. He told us his name. Equiynala. The name demanded respect. He dressed like some sort of king, and we knew from then on that they had called to us. These weren’t dreams, these were beckonings. These were our calls to action, to heed His word. But we didn’t, and we've never felt guilt like this. We betrayed His trust, we must’ve. He stopped speaking to us, he stopped calling out to us, and we know it’s our fault.
We are going to do everything in our power to spread His word, like He would’ve wanted us to. We are going outside, to preach His word. We are telling everypony that the Great House is risen. What a joy it is to be alive! What an honour it is to be the first to hear His call!
We were granted visions of a figure beyond life, with a warrior of crystal flesh and metal bone that shall re-shape the fates of armies that dare oppose He. History shall forever smile upon He.
We have so much purpose now. We were so very lost. We surrounded ourselves with ponies who didn’t truly understand, but now that we see so clearly, it’s so evident these were never our friends. They don’t trust us like He does. They don’t care for us like He does.
The Great House is risen. This is our one chance to make things right, to finally make our imprint on this foul world. This is the only truth. We are needed. The God-King of the Mountain calls to those righteous enough to witness He. His return shall finally toll the bell of peace everywhere. Is there a more beautiful thing? Maretania shall be rid of the outlander threat; free to rule as it needs; free from the pacts of nations that do not understand us.
Tomorrow, we shall make the pilgrimage to His shrine, where He promises to grant us gifts they do not understand yet.
Extract 5
He loves us all. God loves his children.
We cannot sleep. Why can we not sleep?
Where are you, lord? Why can we not hear you, lord?
Speak to us, please. My mind is so very quiet. I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
Everything is so wrong. This city is wrong. Everything is out of place. Everything is so faithless. We must put it right. We must put it right.
God loves his children.
All extracts provided to the Temple after intensive investigation from subject recovered from the Hayvanus District of Mareib. Ordinators have informed their family in Casabronco, psychoanalysts from Equestria have been provided and the matter of rehabilitation is being looked into. Locals had reported disruptive behaviour two hours prior to subject's arrest.
The pattern of Dreamers, as the Office has entitled them, has becoming a more and more concerning fixture. Ordinators have reported messengers of the House of Troubles in all great cities, including (but not limited to) Mareib, Casabronco, Tenkozogo and Beihoof. We have determined this to be linked to the cult of the Fourth House, a theocratic group dedicated to the long dead House of Troubles. All Offices of Ordination have been sent a variation of this message. By strict order of the Obsidian Council, we have been informed to treat instances of Neighgoth Worship as a form of highest treason and incitement of violence. Questioning of the guilty is required.
Until cleared as safe to deal with, the only official outside the Temple cleared to deal with the afflicted is Mylesi val Hayvanni. Any interference shall be considered an interference in House affairs, and will be dealt with in whichever way House Hayvanni deems fit.
Increased volume of ordinators necessary by the Obsidian Temple. Lord Taous bin Hanbal has informed that it is nothing to be concerned about, but to keep vigilant. No public statement is to be given.
Praise the Council.
