The Shadows of Yadith

"Know that when the Star Prince fell he brought with him an idol of the shattered dimensions, which was given pedestal before the high throne of his kingdom.

However, ruin followed this idol and the kingdom fell to the foulness that grew and grew upon the years that passed, and was so terrible that no mortal could fully describe its malignancy.

Terrible fungal jungles grew from the broken earth and devoured the lands, as if sent from a great evil of unearthly proportions. The mountains of Ah-lakosh and Faurimda spouted forth vulcan flame upon the earth, and great cities were devoured by rivers of fire. Terrible insects engulfed the air and equines were cut down by their hideous limbs.

Many sought to end the madness, but for two centuries the Kingdom of the Star Prince was reaved with horror. It was not until the arrival of Akmun-Drah, the great mage of the East, that the great horror was destroyed and the statue thrown back into the abyss."

-Extract from the Star Prince

It was a sodden morning when I awoke, shivering with cold from my midnight passage through the ancient and solemn regions of Northern Equestria.

I had taken a train-carriage possessing the safety precaution of a locked door to avoid intrusion as I worked at the writing desk hidden within. Thus during my travels I had used these conveniences to further my research, translating the old Equestrian dialects and Proto-Zebra runes of the arcane books during my three-day travel.

I had learned much of the archaic and deplorable from the elder volumes, and they had in turn revealed their secrets in the ancient tongues, of the fabled Palace of Fallgorn, of the Ruins of one-proud Zann and the sacred unnamable temple-city in tattered Ilithica which dwelled across the starry void billions of miles hence.

Much had been revealed to me by their primordial fables, but still the statue remained hidden behind a veil of obscurity. Only fearful hints suggested of its purpose and the murky origin from whence it came, and so many were contradictory that I wondered on any validity of the fables, enquiring whether any of them referred to the same statue that I beheld.

The strange knowledge had weighed heavily on my mind, clouding my dreams with nebulous fantasies, and awakening me in fright with the terrible vistas they had unlocked. I awoke sweating each night from these terrors and often crawled to the bathroom, wide eyed and shuddering, whilst being transfixed by the image of myself in the mirror.

I found that only the normality of my surroundings and through careful contemplation each morning could my nightmares be soothed. They were a terrible sort and only by meditation for a few hours could I function without sudden explosive blasts of fear crushing my mind. With reasonable efficiency and access to suitable amounts of coffee I managed to function despite the sleep disruptions and proceeded to translate more of the 'Pannathic Scriptures'.

The ancient text proved to be enlightening in regards to its mythology. Thurim had not been the only city the tome had spoken on. The Vanished Isolationist Palace of Fallgorn and Lost Empire of Zann were two other wondrous and horrifying mythical places that it had been mentioned alongside that of Thurim. Through these tales, more details had been given to the multiple interpretations of the statue. Still I did not believe its fables regarding these lost places or anything that it suggested regarding the statue, but the thoughts invaded my sleep despite my doubts.

I soon feared the coming of my dreams.

I found more on the intriguing magic’s it laid out in by pentagram and chant, which I assumed was some sort of Zebra mysticism that had been included to make the volume seemingly more strange and eldritch. Still, despite their attempts at some strange quasi-magic seeming to me to be no more than nonsense to my mind, I did pause through the ancient sections of the Pannathic scripts and wonder what would occur if the words were spoken aloud. There was one section I found most luridly interesting, and it arrested my thoughts for many an hour on the train journey.

“Upon summoning thy spirits which lie beneath the earth, and for their ancient powers to be collected, one must repeat this chant to Olden Xhavxhazak-Khai who knowieth the way, and bring thy enemies destruction:

FA-UUR NEGAI X’OOS T’EM-RIS XHAVXHZAK

CKAHUK N’KAIDAH XEEMOS TA-JAARHA

UNDURRAI DAGKH MXAH- OOMIS FAZKH

IA XHAVXHAZAK! IA XHAVXHAZAK

NEGAALIS-DUR UZHAKAHAI MAZXHIR SOTHOTH!”

The tongue was not of any known kind that I could discern, and frequently I would have difficulty trying to translate these dark chapters due to the queerness of its syllables, which came out as gibberish even with successful translations of the other paragraphs detailing its effects.

Often, I found myself whispering half-syllables of the chant; mouthing the ancient sounds and the forgotten languages they spoke in, yet each time I caught myself, stopping after but a single syllable. It was as if a cold wind passed me by, the objective of the summoning perhaps? It caused me to fear that elder tongue, drawing forth a promise from my lips each time, that I would never attempt the whole incantation. For fear of what would answer to such a far-fetched call.

The book contained further analysis of required devices or elements of powders and bizarre liquids. According to the book, these were required for the summoning of certain unspeakable things from beyond the voids of time, things described so terrifyingly candidly that I shuddered at the mere thought of them, despite my belief they were nothing more than blackened fantasy of false Apocrypha.

It was not a dream or arcane revelation that awoke me this day, but something inherently primordial within my very being, a powerful sense of trepidation and premonition.

I sensed I was closing on my destination.

Gathering myself from the tangles of blankets, I pulled on my silk morning gown and stumbled sleepily to the balustrade of my section of the carriage. I opened the glass-paneled door and peered into the dark morning light. The sun had just started its ascent and the first light of dawn was gathering over the wet, murky landscape before me.

Northern Equestria’s appearance certain held true to its reputation. Huge canopies of dark trees stormed the region and in-between the awning forest, tiny farm dwellings dotted the hills with small homesteads.  Through the forests, I knew ran long marshes and lakes, making the place more inaccessible and the success of the Chatterhoof rails more incredible. Murky waters shined and glistened, and sometimes I noticed signs of movement amongst the still marshes. I wondered at what aquatic animals the tangled roots and obscure waters hid from sight.

The rail-lines were arranged on an upraised platform, covered in red gravel and raised above the ground by large stone blocks and steel supports, allowing the line to travel in a direct cut through the marshes and lakes. It seemed sometimes that the line was flying over water, as occasionally the rails were slightly submerged when crossing the forested lakes that frequented the land.

At last I caught sight of my destination, a small township by the name of Oaksbridge, which appeared through the morning mist before me. A sleepy place, its houses were well-tended and its wide wooden streets carefully repaired and maintained on high platforms above the unforgiving marshlands below. On a small hummock sat a Celestial chapel. Indeed it may surprise my more modern readers that the practice still continues, but in such regions as the Northernmost reaches of Equestria, the ancient practices and traditions hold strong.

At last the steamer came to a stop, and I began to arrange my things for departure. It did not take long and soon I was clothed suitably in my longcoat and a trilby hat, levitating my leather saddlebags onto my back before I stooped to exit the small door. Whilst leather products were rarely produced, and even then only beholden to the Griffin folk to the west, synthetic mimics had been produced by some of the more industrious and radical scientists. The material had recently grown in popularity, as it proved to be a practical material with high durability.

The morning mists enveloped me as I swam through its curling tendrils along the wooden gangways into the township. I passed a few villagers, and marveled at their antiquated clothing, nodding courteously to them as I passed with a smile. They returned the smile usually, albeit with a sense of caution, it was obvious that despite the new railway, the township did not get many visitors.

I made my way to the town center and approached a nearby grocer, partly for my investigation into Timberdale, but mostly because I was famished. I entered with the chiming of small bells and a nearby unicorn attendant, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen, hastened over to welcome me. It was obvious that he was intrigued by the appearance of an outsider, and he questioned me thoroughly on my business and of any recent news from the capital.

For my part I was willing to reveal to him news of Equestria, making note of recent events much to his delight. As for his questions regarding my business I stated that I was seeking a friend, who had recently sent me a package however I was unsure as how to reach him. The young colt nodded with a smile and asked me with town my friend dwelled; I replied to him that it was the township of Timberdale.

With that one utterance the colt became silent.

His teal coat seemed to pale further and he stumbled over his words as he replied timorously to my inquiries, asking whether I had asked about Timberdale.

I nodded in affirmation, worried at the youth’s sudden change of attitude and asked if he was feeling well. He replied he was fine, however I saw in his eyes a great sense of inexplicable fear at the mention of the aged township.

With gentle nudging, I tried to get the young colt to open up about what had startled him so. He seemed to have regained some semblance of stable thought as I asked, but the pleasant and good-natured personality was gone. There now lurked a strange fear in his eyes, and he peered at me almost affrightedly as I pressed for further details.

He replied that the township was ancient and decadent, that all sensible ponies had long since shunned its horrible presence. A bad lot now lived in that crumbled quasi-city, and it was rumored to be a cursed place, where night howls sounded which weren’t of any pony or animal. The reputation of the crumbling place had not improved by the disappearance of numerous visitors and inspectors, or by the vast and vile, foreboding swampland that surrounded the place for miles and miles.

Then there were the residents of that damned place, hideous leering creatures, lacking all the goodness and wholesomeness of normal, honest ponies. Instead being of a vile, degenerate, foul race, shunned and hated, they would be attacked by the villagers on sight, and the mutual hate was sent back in turn. Dark practices dominated the city, and he pressed that it was unwise to linger long in those crumbled stone edifices. There was something very sinister about the residents, something that went beyond sheer inbreeding…

Something hidden and terrible.

I was worried by this news, but shrugged off the strangeness as nothing more than local superstition and a communal feud with the decaying township. I asked a final question to the youth before I left and received a startling surprise.

I had asked if he knew of the Quill family manor and he turned slightly less pale at the mentioning. Clearly the family was considered of purer linage than that of the common locality of Timberdale. He frowned but nodded, although he said that it had been a long time since he’d been there and only once to sneak into town in order to deliver a package, but he hadn’t seen the young owner in many months since then. Razorquill was the only local of Timberdale the community wouldn’t attempt to attack on sight, however he was far from trusted, only grudgingly tolerated. His manor was in better condition than the other dwellings, and sat on the Hollows, a series of slight mounds to the left of the town, where once the gentry of past had lived.

This worried me greatly, and I asked how I could reach the Quill manor, and quickly. The youth looked at me suspiciously, and advised again that I should not visit the lands around Timberdale. Still he grudgingly revealed that I might be able to acquire a carriage to somewhere near the damned place, but the cost would be high and it was unlikely the driver would be willing to go the whole way. Instead I would likely be made to walk the length of the horizon, and that I should be aware of cutthroats in the dark alleys that twisted through the city.  Although the locals would not do anything to me so long as I did not linger longer than dusk and the encroachment of night.

I thanked him for the information and bought numerous snacks and small foods from the store in preparation for my long journey. The shop attendant gave a final warning before I left; reminding me of the dangers of the corrupt town, but by now I had firmly planted many such warnings under in the category of spurious communal feuding. Still I had prepared for problems in my journey in case of emergencies, taking my time to learn several defensive and offensive wards, in case I became endangered.

Moving from the store I decided it would be prudent to pursue the local archives of the community for the history of Timberdale. The local library provided the ledgers and documents regarding the long-term history of the place, time-cracked tomes hidden amongst the dusty piles, tended by an ancient earth pony librarian whose beard could have challenged that of Starswirl.

The local records proved to be of limited use in locating the history of the township but did provide suitable background information on the city.

Five founding families, the Falconers, Masons, Irontrees, Silvercoats and Quills, founded it in the seventh century of the lunar banishment, all of whom would later become the gentry of the township as their fortunes became superlative. Drawn there by the remarkably rich woodlands, they quickly began to form what had become known as Timberdale, its success bringing more families to the area.

Midway through the seventh century, the lumber and carpentry businesses had borne fruit, causing the growth of many industrial and artistic establishments, and fish farms and rice paddies in the local lakes. It became famed for its industry and productivity, and for its splendorous carpentry, which soon received a royal request in the formation of the creation of the new Canterlot throne. When work was completed and its magnificence unveiled, Timberdale gained a population rush, and quickly became nearly a fully established city overnight.

In the beginning of the eighth century the magnificent Celestial Cathedral was established and an ordained bishop, one Shining Glory, took residence in the newly forming city, giving it proper status. With this established, Timberdale became one of the jewels of the Northern Reaches, a shining beacon of power and prosperity. But this was not to last, soon the fledgling city was in a state of danger as business ventures began to fail and the vast deforestation paid a price on the landscape, investments and ventures came to nothing and the city began to fall, both from grace and into the marshes below.

A brief resurgence of glory came under Bannertail and Sons Co, which found rich mineral deposits beneath the city. But their disturbance of the earth came with deadly consequences. In the midst of the eighth century, a powerful earthquake hit the town. Some assumed it was the work of fault lines, many miles beneath the holes they dug, but whatever the reason the consequences were fatal. Vast swathes of the city fell into the marshes and thousands were killed in the tremors, the city was in ruin and practically all the houses and industries were destroyed or badly damaged in the chaos. The Cathedral and the Hollows were the only parts of the city left reasonably undamaged. Timberdale never recovered.

With the majority of its population dead and its city in ruin, the survivors began to leave the desolate place. There were brief attempts to re-establish the glory of the city, and they were effective to some degree, but large portions of Timberdale were left in ruin, all prospects of industry and riches had long since dissipated.

A fringe sect took residence of the Cathedral and the remaining families became insular and reticent, shunning the outside world and chasing off any officials who dared to enter the dark chasms of their homes. For the next hundred and fifty years, Timberdale wasted away in isolation, becoming a notorious pariah of the North, its grandeur spent. Now dark things were done in its murky streets and woe-begotten alleys.

The documents ended there, and there seemed to have once been vast swathe of previously existing pages and sources, yet all that was left was hundreds of small, burnt, vestigial remains proving that they once existed wholly. I queried the local librarian in this and he stated it had happened in a previously existing library which had caught fire. The cause had not been found but it was generally considered the work of the Dalers, working to further isolate themselves from existence.

“They’re a disgusting bunch them Dalers.” the old stallion spat when I inquired further, “Hate outsiders and everyone who ain’t them. Would have been wiped out years ago if the marsh didn’t protect them an only provide access by a road or two. Rotten heretics.”

I tried to coerce more out the old librarian but he was unwilling to further talk about Timberdale, showing his revulsion of the topic with a grim taciturn silence. I left and tried to locate a carriage to the town, but found it intensely difficult as by merely mentioning the town caused the locals to often become silent and brooding, others attempted to caution me against it with lurid talk of demon worship.

At last I managed to find one stallion named Silver Rein to take me to the decrepit town. Silver Rein appeared to be somewhat drunk afore the trip, but still we managed to get underway quickly in his diminutive open top carriage, trundling along the rarely used grit path to the town. During this time he muttered a great deal on the outlandish nature of the request, but did not force me back on the road or abandon me. His price however, was quite extortionate and I was perplexed to whether I could truly just put it down to backwater prejudice and superstition, or if there was something truly wrong with the decayed place.

As we traveled slowly along the path I became aware of a sudden change to the landscape, it became a barren quagmire, and where once great trees had stood now only their rotten, disintegrating carcasses left the impression of existence. Still there were a few trees still clinging to the region, but the gentle, placid forests ended in almost a straight line when we reached the inhospitable marshes, and any remaining trees held to the extremities of this impenetrable line. we braved the mire of the wasteland and progressed through the overgrown cobble road, I peered at my watch and noticed that it would be nearing ten, and I began to wonder how much time I would have to investigate the ruins of Timberdale before being forced to leave by the coming of night.

I also noticed a change in my driver, where once he had been jovial and spirited in his semi-drunken state, he was now fully alert and nervous, carefully staring from right to left in tetchy agitation. The cart lurched slightly as he quickened his pace, and he started talking long copious pulls from a quart of whiskey.

I suddenly realized that Timberdale had decayed and broken down over one-hundred and fifty years previously, yet the trees had yet to grow back, instead a solid wasteland extending for miles still dominated the landscape. Surely there had been some regrowth over the years?

But as I gazed back at the border between the marsh and the forests, I noticed a singular line of very ancient trees standing at the borders, not the young saplings that would be usually expected. I asked Silver Rein about this anomaly but received an answer which only served to increase my confusion.

“Them trees will never grow back…” he grumbled, looking grimly at the desolate wastes. “There’s somethin' in the soil which kills all but the grass, makes the trees rot and grow bloated, afore they eventually topple intah the wastes to add more to the marsh. It never recedes; it grows each year, little by little. Soon all the land around will be engulfed by it.”

I began to ponder on the force driving the growth of the wasteland.  Could it be that there was some sort of toxic residue in the soil that limited the growth of plant-life? Surely the grass was untouched? But as I looked I noticed that even the grass had a cracked, worn and dull look to it, without vigor, only extensive waves of yellow and brackish brown.

The amateur scientist in me urged to take samples of the soil for further analysis, but I was unwilling to tarry in the face of the looming shadow of Timberdale I now glimpsed.  We had been travelling for almost three hours, and my driver was becoming increasingly erratic in the face of the profile of town.

However I was not to leave the marsh with some vague impression of horror, whilst staring into a nearby brackish pool of vile swampland, my gazed happened upon a disturbance beneath in the rancid, grey soil. Something arrested my eyes and I saw it writhe through the earth. My first impression what that it was a snake or eel of some kind that populated the marsh, but something about it looked twisted, vile, repulsive.  Before I could properly discern the thing, it slipped wetly into the loose soil once again, leaving me with a vague feeling of disgust and fear.

We rose on up a small hummock and I stared down the brooding ruin of a once grand town, which appeared to have almost reached the prestigious level of a city before its collapse into decay. I asked the driver how many ponies inhabited the town, he looked nervous and answered that he did not quite rightly know.

“They run the census officer out every time he tries to visit, an pretty much anyone if they linger too long, nobody’s welcome in Timberdale except those like themselves”.  He scratched his chin, gently caressing his stubble in a thoughtful manner, “Ah reckon about two hundred folks be liven there nowadays, although ah can’t be certain”.

I noticed he was unwilling to go further into the ruined quasi–city of Timberdale and decided to descend and walk the rest of the way.

My hooves crunched as I landed on the gravel and Silver Rein raised the quart of whiskey in a drunken salute, wishing me well on my search, and most importantly to keep myself safe. I asked him if he could return an hour before dusk and nodded, stating that he would be present on this hummock at the specified time, although he would not delay if I was late, and I would have to walk the way back if I was.

As I gazed over Timberdale, curiosity got the better of me and I resolved to investigate the city with the spare time I had. Once I had familiarized myself with the streets I would direct myself towards the Hollows and enquire after my friend. I rationalized this as a means to understand the streets, so if necessary I could make a quick exit before nightfall.

I waved him off and listened to the gentle crackle as he and his cart swayed softly back the way he had come. I turned now, to the brooding veil of the ruined town. Trotting down the road at a light canter, inspecting the notable grandness of the buildings before me, despite the decay and desolation they had endured. Wide roads of cobblestone paved the collapsing city, and smooth pavements, marked with hundreds of hooves banded such lines.

Tall marble houses lined the streets, their windows boarded up and their raised gardens overrun with weeds and sickly flowers, as well as the occasional rotted tree. It would have almost been picturesque if the plant life did not hold to the same sickened and decayed look as that of the marshes. I could image that once these places had been carefully tended with golden, scarlet and azure blooms. The trees were the most intriguing, for it seemed that all around the marsh they had grown bloated and died before I had travelled this place.

Still these trees were not far from the invasive decay that seemed to spread across the wastes, and I assumed that they might have been protected somewhat by the stone blocks beneath the earth, that was until one I found a crack where one unruly root had broken through and gorged itself upon the virulent poison infestation. I beheld them in their decayed prime, moldering branches and foul sores covering their blighted bark and weak yellow leaves sprouting with rarity, whilst their remains coated the athropied roots below them.

One especially abysmal specimen exhibited symptoms that I could only describe as semi-fantastical; a giant gash had sundered its way through the tree where once a stately branch had towered. Within this hollow wound grew a vile white fungus which puffed forth jagged white spikes, spreading unknown spores on a humid breeze.

The buildings were highly antiquated, and I marveled at their endurance despite how time had treated them, and the earth shook them. There were many collapsed constructs as well, fragmenting and crumbled manors and villas which had become nothing more sodden grit and broken masonry. I had yet to see any other equine which inhabited this broken city and as I trotted alone along the road, the silence caused a feeling of supreme isolation to settle within me.

I approached a cracked fountain, watching as slimy, stagnant waters collected and rippled around a fallen statue, now indiscernible under the wear of time. I peered around the area and noticed that despite the vast piles of rubble and decay, I was currently positioned in a central crossing point between districts. To my left I noticed a rusted sign, and I peered at the archaic scrawl in order to comprehend what it revealed. The little that I understood seemed to suggest that I was in Ash-hoof square and that the streets leading off were Ironhoof district, Innmarch Street and Silverluck Merchant Quarter.

I surveyed my surroundings, and assured that there was nothing keeping me, edged my way down Innmarch Street, carefully stepping through the pitiful ruins of a fallen wall. I continued along this route, noting the extreme degradation of the street compared with the relative intactness of my previous ventures. Few buildings were still standing and those that did, tottered at every gust of wind. The swaying structures made me nervous and I cursed my choice.

Ahead, the brooding spires of the Celestial Cathedral loomed, its crumbling statues staring in solemnly at the dead city that surrounded it, whilst cracked shrouds covered their bodies and black glass signaled their rise into the aether.  Five towers existed in the Cathedral, one for each end and a queerly placed central spire in the center of the minister, extending like a splinter of obsidian into the sky, slicing the air in like a blade. Soon I was able to fathom the stained-glass windows, blackened by grime and stone dust, but could distinguish figures in the mural, although I could not tell exactly what they were.

All this time I had continued along the road in complete and utter silence, not a scavenger or pony showed its face, and for the first time I noticed a distinct lack of rats and other vermin in the collapsed sections. Perhaps they inhabited the underground sewers. But the troubling lack of animals, most notably birds, in this place was curious.

I passed a nearby tailors boutique, and stopped to look through the cracked panes of glass into the ransacked insides. Through ragged waves of ruined silk and other materials, I distinguished something that made my veins turn to ice. Across the shattered remains of antiquated machinery I recognized the undeniable stains of blood. It matted the walls, leaving the once cheerful painted pictures of prancing fillies and colts, dripping in a morbid, blackened ichor that seemed to have trickled down the walls. It pooled on the floor on a once-extravagant Saddle Arabian carpet that was encrusted with blackened stains. There were no bodies, and I was thankful for that small kindness, but still I could not help at shuddering, for it seemed that the ichorous taint had looked suspiciously recent.

I continued along the road, carefully proceeding through regions of crushed housing, until I stood on a small hill of bricks and spear like planks, peering like a strange bird across the realms of Timberdale. The isolation and silence of the place was becoming unbearable, and I scanned the other streets for signs of life without success. The town seemed utterly deserted. A broken, remote destination in a state of permanent decline. Wherever the inhabitants might be, they had chosen to disappear into the folds of forgotten dwellings and dilapidated spires.

I stumbled down the teetering mound to the fractured cobblestones once again, disappearing into the destruction of the streets with increasing agitation, shifting my saddlebags from side to side in order to lessen the complete hushed stillness of this domain. Surely there must be some ponies that still inhabited this desolate place? The driver had even mentioned that their numbers could have been as high of two hundred, but if so, then where was everyone? Even with the expansiveness of the Timberdale, it would not be hard to at least distinguish some inhabited buildings amongst ruins, yet I had not found any whose windows and status denoted the signs of anypony living within.

I pondered upon this, wondering whether the community had simply withered away because of the intensive isolation, and that the other villages and towns simply hadn’t acknowledged its passing. It seemed a suitable explanation, especially considering the utter hatred and fear Timberdale caused them, that they would not wish to investigate whether it was uninhabited, rather preferring to let it perish and wear away, simply forgetting it ever existed.

But if so, then why did more recent visitors such as the store clerk and my driver, state that it was still inhabited?

I reached another junction of roads and turned left into a less degraded street. This street seemed to have either survived the earthquakes onslaught or had been rebuilt afterwards. Its windows were intact but still an air of dereliction hung over it. Rusted gates swung back and forth on fragments of hinges, their orange bars forming the words “Falconers District” in looping writing. Two ragged banners fluttered despondently above on high iron streetlights, and I had to scrutinize with great difficulty on what the faded symbol represented. Upon the banner appeared to be a Falcon which held in its claws a jagged blade of lightning, its outstretched wings suggesting a great and powerful majesty to the heraldry.

I gently pushed aside the corroded gates and progressed further into the depths of Timberdale. My hooves were the only thing to alleviate the terrible silence which seemingly ruled supreme over the fallen city.

As I gazed about the slumping roofs of the district, I noticed I was drawing ever nearer to the extravagant fortress-like Celestial Cathedral. Its central spire now seemed titanic compared to the small, thin and needle-like towers around it. It rose high into the sky, its masonry twisting upwards in a spiraling vortex and ending in an open-topped peak. A slight lip seemed to extend outwards and some form of stone block rested on top, but I could not be sure.

The sound of scrabbling distracted me from my musings, my head whipping towards where the sound was coming from. I noticed that a sudden mist was blowing in from the marshes, coating the cobbles beneath my hooves in a miasma. Suddenly a small filly covered in a hooded oilskin coat darted from a nearby building and into the street before me, heading for an alley to my left. This was the first sign of life I had seen in this dilapidated landscape, and I hurriedly shouted out the diminutive foal in order to gather directions before I became lost within this labyrinth. I would not allow myself to be isolated in the dominion of Timberdale once more.

The filly instantly stopped in the middle of the street, almost as if time had stopped and she was frozen in position. I called out once more, my voice echoing in the streets, trying to express emotions of kindness and friendliness to this hooded foal, to prevent her from fleeing from me on sight.

She began to turn towards me, the dark hood completely obscuring her features. I cooed gently and supported the slow turning progression of the youngster, softly beckoning her to continue to turn towards me.

What followed would haunt my nightmares for months afterwards.

Cold maleficent orbs stared back at me, pupil-less milky spheres without iris or anything to distinguish sight. Abhorrent black veins pulsed across the creatures face in vile, obsidian tendrils; its leprous flesh warped the features of the creature into that of an abominable grimace. Scabrous skin flaked and correlated in chitinous bulges, and rotten, needle-like fangs revealed themselves as the sides of her muzzle rose slightly in a sickening smile, slowly mouthing a single word silently...

Outsider.

Suddenly, she turned tail and ran with surprising speed, launching herself into the nearby alley. I hurriedly followed behind as the filly darted in and out of the winding streets, only to watch the foal speed into a drainage tunnel and into the deep recesses of the sewers. I realized that I would have no chance to access the tiny drainage tunnel, and withdrew from that dark abyss with a disturbed sense of fear, stumbling and faltering backwards in maddened haste as a wave of revulsion hit me.

I ran back to the relative security of the main street, my mind a flurry with horror. I now walked with stealthy trepidation, furtively moving in hunched positions, watching every shadow for life. My mind began to play tricks on me, making me start at false scratching and imagined crackling within the degraded streets. Eventually I realized my folly, as no sound emanated these lost districts but my own clandestine shuffling, even so, I activated my magic and focused on combat wards, worried at the emergence of more Timberdale degenerates from the shadowed alleys.

What inbred mutation had created such a loathsome spawn?

I now realized why the surrounding regions shunned Timberdale, if all its residents were as disfigured, I doubt even the best and most tolerant of ponies could have stood such transmuted beings for long. Such congenital looks inspired nauseated loathing within my very soul, and I wished to avoid them and their terrible visages.

I now hurried through the district until encountering a junction after traversing a long disruption of falling buildings. Taking the left street I began to move towards the now visible rising of the Hollows, timorously creeping through the debris of fallen Timberdale.

I was now eager for the silence, the utter quite of isolation which meant security from the residents. Occasionally I would pause and wait, frozen in position, almost as if expecting some repulsive padding to sound behind me, signaling the inbred progeny of the township to be gathering behind me, to ambush me.

I took a street called Birch-gall pass, the street name being so faded it was nigh unreadable. I crouched amongst the debris, holding my breath unconsciously as I sped from shadow to shadow. I moved quickly, darting behind a collapsed statue, completely still as I listened intently to the rush of the wind, watching as the feeble mist thickened, beginning to reach towards my chest.

It was when I took a breath and moved into the center of the street that it sounded.

The ringing of a cracked bell.

I stopped, arrested by that vile discordant song as it droned forth just in front of me, I turned my head slowly and peered above the mist, my terrified mind taking in the putrid, collapsing structure of a bell tower that hung precariously in the sky.

I looked up and noticed the oxidized, bronze bells tolling out their terrible chimes, but what captivated my gaze were not the movements of the cracked bells, but that of the abhorrent silhouette gazing down at my paralyzed form.

A silhouette perched on two immobile pointed legs.

Utter hysterical fear drowned out all rationality in my mind as I gazed upon the being, I knew that some ponies could balance on two legs, but not in a completely immobile position like the creature above, they would stumble and fall after but a few moments. But there it was, the leering shadowed being, staring down from the darkened spire of the bell tower...

Staring directly at me.

It was abominable, something that nopony should be capable of doing, and if my mind was working rationally then I would have wondered why my mind saw only repulsion in that hidden figure, for it was surely not the position that drove such primal instincts. But still, disgust and fear dominated my mind as I charged desperately for the murky depths of a nearby alleyway, once hidden I peered out again at the wrecked bell tower.

It was empty.

Adrenaline surged into my body and I charged across the collapsed ruin of a nearby manor, ignoring the nicks and cuts that I gained from such a hasty flight through the debris. I ran and ran, my mind slowly reaching the inescapable conclusion that the young assistant in Oaksbridge had warned me of.

Something sinister dwelled within Timberdale.

________________________________________

At last I reached the Hollows, staggering and panting in exertion as I pushed myself up the hill, my fears flagging and adrenaline receding, I began to slow my pace, collapsing in a heap at the top. I lay there on the ground, breathing in the smell of moist soil as I sprawled there. After a few minutes I regained my strength and unsteadily regained my footing, looking about to locate myself within the shattered remnants of these detestable ruins. It must have been a few hours since my entrance into this fallen place, and I peered at my watch to assess the time, which is assured me was quarter past one.

It appeared that I had arrived at my destination, before me stood two leering gargoyles squatting on stone plinths on the terraced plateau, accessible by stone steps leading ever upward to the ancient manor houses. I had collapsed it seems, in the shade of the terrace, in what appeared to have once been a garden bed, but now consisted of nothing more than shriveled grass and grey, barren soil.

I peered behind me and was surprised to see how far I had travelled in my terrified haste, in my previous position the Cathedral had brooded dominantly over the landscape, but now its size had been greatly diminished by the distance, but still darkly pressed itself upon Timberdale to the West. Whilst I ran, I had encountered nopony else but those two vile specimens in my journey, but perhaps I had not noticed anyone else in my blind panic.

I realized how irrational my fear was now that logic took control again, and wondered why I found those two so utterly objectionable to my senses. Whilst yes, they had been horribly disfigured by whatever foul heritage ran through their veins, and were naturally rather loathsome examples of the residents, I could not explain why their sheer hideousness made my blood turn to ice and made my fears scream in my head. It was entirely illogical to think in such a manner, for after all, it was not their fault for their deformities, but still...

The residents were uncannily abequine.

I realized now that the local rumors had some basis in reality, they truly were almost abequine and I understood why the villagers hated them so. Country folk unknowing of any of the basics of genetics would definitely see such ponies as almost monstrous; their hatred was almost a normal sense of revulsion to something that was to their senses, inherently abominable. I myself had receded to such primordial fears as my flight had shown, truly I should have been more forgiving due to my greater comprehension of biological matters, but some primal senses within myself told me this was no simple mutation.

I shook my head to awaken myself from my glazed ruminations, realizing that I had strayed too far from my true reason from coming to this accursed town in the first place. I had to find my friend Razorquill. The shop assistant had informed me that he lived in his family manor on the Hollows and I began to climb the long steps upward.

As I passed I became aware of my extended sight of Timberdale from my position and occasionally turned my head over my shoulder to look at the sprawling chaotic town. I could see the small hummock where I had started, and the diminutive square where I had chosen my direction, unconsciously moving towards the Cathedral which stood near the center of town. Now I saw my chosen direction of the street with the bell-tower, abandoned by the mysterious figure that had loomed there.

From my vantage point, the town seemed as deserted as I had first concluded when entering; however I managed to distinguish some movement towards the marshes to the North. It seemed that some dwellers were farming tiny fields in the more arable earths of the marshland, feeble rows of plant life weakly rising from the ground and being tended by drab, ragged, shambling figures. Their very presence sent feelings of hatred rolling through my mind and I had to restrain myself from openly scorning the damned equines.

As I looked closer at the ruins however, I began to notice more and more figures amongst the rubble, sometimes they would dart in and out of sight, other times they lingered in areas for long periods of time before ambling off to some dark corner or decayed edifice. It seemed the mists had cleared for the moment and I almost felt relief at their disappearance, they had lent to an already disturbing place an undeserved sense of lurking horror.

I happened upon one manor, a well-tended sign stating that it was once the residence of the Silvercoat family. This was the first sign that anything had been cared for since the Earthquake so long ago, and I appreciated the normality of stable, albeit ancient dwellings with their antiquated grandeur. Crossing the path I continued upwards further, until I reached the second highest estate.

Before me I beheld the Quill Manor, an ancient artifice which had existed since the townships founding. Trotting along the broken pathway, I stooped under the branches of two long-dead trees, rotting not unlike the city in their death throws. I moved up the whitewashed porch, stepping onto the wooden boards and tapped precariously upon the door.

Silence.

I waited a while for a response, but received nothing in way of a reply, and so turned the door handle before me with dread filled curiosity.

The door swung open.

As it creaked inward under unoiled hinges I furtively stepped inside, standing in the midday light as I surveyed a room covered in darkness. No light shone in the house and I felt immediately that this place had been uninhabited for weeks. Up ahead was a long staircase and black curtains shrouding the high windows at the intermediary landing. To my left and right, doors lead off to other rooms, also covered in the artificial darkness of veiled and boarded up windows. I closed the door behind me, wondering to where my friend had disappeared, for I was in no doubt that the house was truly empty.

A shuddering thump set my eyes roaming in their sockets and my heart into my mouth as I stepped back, wondering from where such a noise would come. Yet as my back hoof hit something solid, I turned around and noticed that the door had simply caught against the jammer. As I sighed and gave the door a good shove to close it, I noticed that the key was hanging from the lock; I chose to bolt the door behind me, fearing the possible following of certain loathsome figures from Timberdale. As I walked through the door to my right, I noticed a trail of dusty hoofprints behind me, swiftly realizing that they were my own. It seemed that everywhere a light coating of dust pervaded, I realized that wherever and whenever my friend had gone, a long time had passed.

I passed through the door to my left and entered what appeared to be a study; books lay in high piles around the place, and documents were spread across all the furniture in scattered groups. I picked some of these up from the table and opened the curtains, allowing the much-needed light into this abandoned place.

Peering at the tidy penmanship of these documents, I realized that it appeared to be centered on several occult researches of Razorquill’s and his subsequent investigations. He had been quite successful in the matter, as the prodigious amounts of notes he had gathered stressed.

As I read I was able to discern two main topics that his research had focused upon.  The notes seemed to keep drawing back to the ancient history of Timberdale and some mysterious esoteric society within Trottingham. Although sources were plentiful, I could not find his personal musings on the matter, and despite intensive rifling through the piles of manuscripts, I found not one journal or diary concerning his work.

I placed some of these notes within my own saddlebags, deciding to further investigate the house. Inquiry brought little new information to what I had guessed or gathered, Razorquill was not present within the household, as I had expected. I wondered at his absence, for it seemed that all the things necessary for the beginnings of the day had been left out, including a long-rotten meal. It was as if he had suddenly gotten up from whatever he was doing and had disappeared.  The one consolation was that I could find no evidence of a violent removal, easing some of my tension.

All the rooms, especially the dining room and his study, amassed large amounts of books upon Timberdale along with detailed notes on a Trottingham cult. It seemed this was the research that had dominated my friends’ mind and which he had so vaguely mentioned in his letters. Several archaic journals, which looked to have been gathered from the crumbling township, seemed enlightening to me and I levitated them to my growing collection, moving towards the study to read up upon my friends’ inquiries.

Most of the historical data regarded the earthquake and the happenings a few years previously and thereafter of the event, most notably on the nature of the chaos it caused and the subsequent actions taken by the folk of Timberdale. It was quite curious, and I wondered on Razorquill’s perception on it, as he would have had greater insight into the history of the township than I.

The documents were of the most genial intrigues, mostly official details given by the government with a few snippets of small-scale newspapers and copies of documents regarding the issue.  Many thought it a most curious event, considering that North Equestria was not a part of the nation to receive earthquakes, and found it incredibly strange that one of such magnitude had disturbed Timberdale.

Another portion of the notes regarded the strange mining operations of Bannertail and Sons underneath the town at the time of the incident. It was a curious case… for whatever reason, Bannertail had decided to dig underneath the town, working off some strange dreams he had received during the night. Strange dreams, the documents related, as those of strange and huge resource pools with rare materials lining the abysses below. Indeed they had discovered large portions of rare metals and valuable stones just below the sewer regions, but it seemed as if they had discovered something more, as Bannertail and its employees seemed incredibly reticent and protective after the find.

The documents ended here, providing no more information and leaving it as a simple accident due to the miners digging too deep. I wondered what Razorquill had been so curious about. Nothing more was revealed here regarding the issue and I moved swiftly on to the array of degraded journals. Most of them had decayed and their messages been lost to the forces of time, but what I learned was truly astonishing in the strangest of ways, and sometimes I wondered for the sanity of the writer. Whilst the journals of the other townsfolk were revealing, the most intriguing documents were that of the miners and Bannertails own personal records, which suggested very luridly of something more than a natural tragedy. I could not write out such things, as the length of this document would be so extensive as to be almost unreadable, but what I can gather in a compressed form was as follows.

In 821 Timberdale was in a grave crisis, practically all its’ industries seemed to be on the verge of collapse. A mysterious blight had waylaid the crops of Timberdale, the fish had developed a contagious disease in that same year, making them perish en-mass, and ruining the industries built around them. Even the timber trade failed, vast deforestation having made it more profitable to acquire timber elsewhere, not to mention their remaining market share plummeting in the face of Zebricanian competition. Bannertail and Sons had been a simple jewelry shop, brought about by the past riches of Timberdale, but now faced financial destitution due to a series of failed investments into the Northern diamond mines.

On that night, Sovereign Bannertail slept uneasily, dark thoughts and feelings clouded his dreams in a terrible mist of black and he saw the fall of his business repeatedly. But then these nightmares dissipated, a strange force moving them aside, instead of dreams about failure, he dreamed luridly of other dimensions and blackened abysses. It seemed as if he watched thousands of years of history flit before his eyes and into nothingness, all the while he was aware of someone or something watching him, just afore his line of sight.

He was unable to move and the watchers gaze terrified him to the extreme. Just as he regained control, the visions changed and then he saw Timberdale before him, shining like the stars of the midnight sky. It seemed as if he descended through the streets and burrowed into the earth, simultaneously aware that he could see through the ground and the soil at the same time, below him, he saw a dark mass, some giant shape which absorbed all light and spoke silently of prophesies and portents. He stopped before this mass and saw it to be a great stone mound, covered in riches and metals of the rarest kinds. And whilst he looked, he heard within his mind a warped, crawling voice whisper forth, drawing him at titanic speeds towards the mass of stone and he began to scream once again as he fell into the black shape.

With this he woke from his sleep, startled awake by his own midnight howls.

It was on this date, that the first tremor was felt within Timberdale, it was a small thing, hardly noticed by the few still awake during this time, but still it was felt.

Bannertail had many of these dreams, so many that he often went without sleep for days upon days. Lacking in rest, to the ponies around him it seemed that he was becoming increasingly delusional; his deranged mind seemed to believe there was some sort of truth behind such visions. So with the last of his failing resources, he hired a group of miners, promising them of riches and worship beyond their wildest dreams, buying industrial machinery in an attempt to achieve something of extreme, almost religious purpose in the mining. The miners dug deep beneath the earth and Bannertail became more erratic as they did so, whispering that they needed to go deeper,that it was his calling from afar, although none knew what called him but himself. They began at the level of the sewers and descended further than had ever been ventured by those of Timberdale ponies, deep into the earth which harbors so many things now lost.

Eventually, they struck something.

It is here Bannertails diary becomes completely incoherent; the poor stallion seemed to have lost his mind and turned into a dribbling lunatic, consumed with madness in occult quasi-religious zeal. The text, splotched with ink and dried blood, told me that ‘The Whisperer’ had rewarded him with more wealth and glory than Canterlot and the golden Zebra kings of the east combined. Other sources seemed very withdrawn and quite about the affair, only vague mentions in shaking hoofwriting about some elder ‘structures’ and ‘stones with hideous pictures’ beneath the earth. The other sources do give a strange light into the nature of Bannertail after this discovery.  It seems he passed out when the first of these things where unveiled and returned claiming to have seen and spoken with ‘It of beyond,’ laughing hysterically when the miners drew back from his wide, insane eyes.

‘The Whispering’ seemed to demand certain things best left unrepeated, and the journals of the miners make shuddering comments on the intensive blasphemy spouted by the mad creature as he writhed and frothed on the ground before them. Bannertails family seized him and brought him back to his manor as he tittered, screeched and flailed, speaking in a tongue not one stallion recognized.

His relatives claimed work-related exhaustion combined with a lack of sleep had caused such psychotic delusions. But others were not certain that all of it could be accounted to such effects, and the miners made sure to ward themselves against evil whenever they saw the mad jeweler. Nevertheless, immense fortunes were found below these stone structures, and Bannertails business flourished with the influx of the plentiful resources.

Bannertail seemed to lose interest in wealth and prosperity once he had attained it with his exploitation of the structures below. Indeed, he was not protective of his fortune and seemed to have regained some semblance of sanity from his violent change.

He began to spread his fortune around the town, resurrecting businesses and making friends in high society and amongst the less upstanding poor amongst the warrens. It was throughout this era that the cryptic arcane organization only known as the “Mysteriachy” began to attract attention; first in press clippings, and then slowly becoming emergent in certain journals of the locals of Timberdale before the destruction.

They were oft to mention the strangeness of the uniform of the curious ecclesiastical order, which robed in curious ways and possessed no signs of Celestial faith even though they claimed such affiliations. They began a small church in one of the derelict warehouses, and the locals were apt to avoid that place during the night, as the unspeakable chants that were heard under the cloak of midnight were utterly alien.

The obscure order appeared to be linked to Bannertail, who was enjoying newfound popularity amongst Timberdale. From the Watchstallion reports and files it appeared that the authorities suspected that he held connections with the organization, but could bring no definitive evidence for such assumptions. It was becoming unwise to accuse Bannertail of any thought of wickedness or suspect dealings in criminal organizations, those who did often found themselves isolated by the community, for coin spoke louder than truth.

The “Mysteriarchy” flourished amongst the moldering warrens and dark alleyways. It was even rumored that the rich and affluent had fallen under its influence, and were holding sacrilegious sermons in the Cathedral at midnight under the guidance of an unknown High priest. The bishop condemned such things and spoke out against the actions of the Mysteriarchy. But he disappeared soon after his final sermon, three days before the Earthquake, in which he claimed that the Mysteriarchy had taken part in ‘the most heinous practice of demon worship’.

It was obvious that this idea had resonated with the outside world, for people were less anxious to visit the archaic place. The vanishing of visitors and ponies amongst the slums was becoming an increasing deterrent.

Terrible rumors spread of ‘equine sacrifice’ to nameless things that certain rites had raised, worshipped as gods by the esoteric order. The most horrifying rumors suggested implicitly of rape and foul rituals by the cultic acolytes, this was the originator of the queer looks of the later residents of Timberdale.

I found the first case of the taint amongst a pile of collected medical records, obviously gathered from some local doctor. The records made me gasp, but I will continue to write of what they said, but I shall do so for it is vital to understand certain things now known to me, and to withhold the knowledge would be a crime against my case.

It seemed the first few cases were stillbirths, malformed beings which possessed a strange blade-like skull shape and of thin body formations and bone structure. Indeed it almost seemed as if their hooves had anthropied into tiny skewer blades, like the talons of a mantis or some other loathsome carnivorous insect. Their skin and blood were dark; almost becoming blackened to the degree that the doctor first thought it was necrotic. Further details revealed the formation of internal and external polyps within the creatures. The doctor mused on the abnormally sophisticated biology of these growths, which almost seemed to suggest morbidly of abnormal organs. What their purpose was, the doctor could not discern, they were too malformed to analyze effectively. In any case, it might just appear as if they held a purpose, as suggested by the side notes of the medical practitioner.

The queerest and most foul specimens were those of Unicorn foals, and the changes from this eldritch taint seemed to be increasingly bizarre with each case. Once examined, it was immediately noticed that their horns had elongated abnormally and become thin and rotten, with certain growths within the structure that altered the appearance completely. Blotches of flaking skin and mutated protuberances of bone formed on the skulls of such cases and it seemed as if the head was attempting to transmute into something completely alien. The skulls on all cases were chillingly uncanny due to their similarities, looking like that of avian origin rather than equine, the doctor dreaded the possible hypothesis of a contagious and deadly new pathogen forming in the slums.

However, the cycle of death was broken by the birth of Runic Silver, the first of the ‘Strange Ones’ which would survive from birth. His mother was a taciturn mare, of whom it was rumored had connections with the Order and who had seen more terrifying things than she dared tell. Indeed it seemed as if she was nervous and jumpy about the health of the child. Whilst other mares had feared the birthing of these unwanted creatures, this mare seemed to wish for the first healthy child since these attacks had begun. She muttered about appeasing someone, and further inauguration into a mysterious hierarchy. Indeed it was rumored in the warrens that her case was little to do with unwanted advances, despite the lack of apparent father.

After several hours of intensive labor, the colt was born to her. At first it seemed to the doctors as if it were a normal foal, but further inspection revealed certain differences likened to that of the stillbirths. The veins were abnormally prominent and the blood strangely tinted, the face was like the others, long and scythe-like, and it stared back at the doctors with curious eyes, silently mocking, but showing all the signs of being, at least technically, “healthy”.

It stared at his examiners with fully formed murky dark eyes, and the seeming ability to see perfectly despite only just entering the world. Those dark eyes spoke of awareness and understanding entirely unheard of for a newborn, and the doctor winced whenever the foals’ gaze passed over him.

Still, his hooves and other features were normal, and the doctors could find no excuse to gather further information on the colt. His mother carted him away in woolen swaddling as he stared balefully back at them. Several of the doctors made holy signs once he was out of sight, whispering of a plague of evil forming within Timberdale.

It was contagious.

Within less than six months the doctors were dealing with more cases, and it was becoming more and more terrifying as they observed those dark eyed, “strange ones” beginning to grow up. They grew at an astonishing pace, causing the doctors to wonderer if it was truly a pathogen or rather some vile black magic which had caused the changes.

Within these six months, the mortality rate had fallen to nothing amongst the tainted, almost as if the formula had been perfected with Runic Silver and it was now spreading like a disease amongst the population. By winter, there had been sixty cases of the Strange Ones compared to but one healthy filly, perhaps most disturbingly, Runic Silver now appeared to be of the same age and height of a colt five times his age.

He had astonishing mental capacities and was exceptionally quick to master reading and writing, being able to decipher even the most complex of texts by the last months of winter, already delving deep into tomes regarding certain esoteric intrigues.

He remained vocally restrained, isolating himself and avoiding contact with other foals, whom found him naturally repulsive and shunned him, driving his shambling form away whenever they caught sight of the abequine colt. He did, however, begin to speak, only occasionally, but with an unsettlingly complete grasp of the Equestrian language. But what truly disturbed ponies was not his strangely developed vocabulary, although that was most certainly a queer characteristic for a foal so young.

It was his voice which they found hideously repugnant! A quiet rasp which pitched up and down like undulating pipes, mixing with a bass tone which spoke of simmering contempt for those he addressed.

Within the next two years of the growth and warping of the children, as well as the attacks and disappearances, the warrens had become a nest mass of hysterical fear. The watchstallions were at the ends of their wits regarding the consistent terrors that lurked in those dark alleys, yet were completely helpless to stop them.

The inner reaches of the labyrinthine poor quarter became a battleground between delusional gang stallions, the Watch, and other, murkier entities which chose to prowl after midnight. It was clear however, that the Mysteriarchy was the source of the abominable changes in the young, for they had appeared to take unlawful custody of the strange foals after their birth. Their blue robed forces had driven back the invasive gangs, and chased off any probing Watchcolt who was unlucky enough to cross paths with the mysterious hierophants. The poor quarter became a killing field, and it was now frightfully natural for many Watch squads not to return from that dank maze of obscurity, disappearing like the very victims they sought to save.

Meanwhile, the tremors beneath the strange township grew in frequency and power, ponies whispered that there was something coming up out of the earth. Some mysterious object with the cult was removing for the beginning of a final nightmare sacrament.

The miners which had originally discovered the structures below had long since left, disappeared or had been rendered jobless by Bannertail, who was becoming increasingly delusional and rasped psychotically of ‘the Whisperer’ once more. It was now evident that he had connections with the cult, and he was often seen to be taking robed visitors up to his manor and providing for certain ‘guests’ on the whim of a greater power.  Tales of horrible shades were spun, of things which flew with no wings, and others still, which crawled across shuttered windows and the tottering houses of the warrens. Gore began to coat the walls of the dark passageways, and it was not the work of pony hooves which had caused these markings of slaughter, but that of unknown and elusive horrors.

Whilst not having enough evidence to properly sanction a raid on the Mysteriarch Temple, the Watch decided that the only way to end this madness was to utterly eliminate the cult. The population agreed, for they had seen things happen since the cults rise in the slums that would have made even the hardiest ponies blood curdle. They had also observed the growth and the increasing malignancy of the strange children, noticing how these revolting creatures had begun to change… becoming something that should not be.

Runic Silver was the worst; he had grown and matured to the appearance of a colt of seventeen and now chanted dark things in rasping foul tongues at any who approached. He had become horrifyingly astute and intelligent with the passage of time, surpassing all but the wisest scholars that he had encountered. He now read of such evil veiled manuscripts as the ‘Libro Tenebris Mysteria’, whose contents were rumored to hold tales of ancient gods and devils. He was known to whisper the dark passages under his breath, almost in amusement at the insane writer’s folly, and in a contemptuous voice that suggested he knew better of the things that gibbered amongst the folds of time.

He wore the robes of the Mysteriarchy now, and whatever abequine transformation worked beneath such garments went unseen. However, terrible rumors were heard of vile disfigurements, mantis like hooves with sharp crystalline points, and of a foul shaped head which contorted further and further into rampant mutation. But the most prominent feature were the foul monstrosity’s eyes, which now glowed like some malignant yellow orbs and shifted and moved like the hellish, lethal gases from beyond the void.

This degenerate spawn of chaos now held a high position within the order, and carried out depraved chants and foul sacrifices which had never been seen before in the ranks of the Mysteriarchy. Screeches and horrible undulating calls disturbed each night, as if something had been brought up which should not have been. Lights of all colors blinded onlookers during midnight, and an eldritch pillar once lit up the night sky, chaotically twisting into the heavens to reap its unknown and terrible magic. More and more of the strange ones were born, and soon there could not have been less than two hundred of the foul horrors. The people prayed for strength and guidance, but secretly knew they should pray for a quick death, for something was coming from the shadowed night, to bring forth a terrible end to all of them.

But with whatever remaining courage still dwelled within them, the ponyfolk of Timberdale made one final, desperate attempt to halt the madness. A horde of townsfolk, brandishing makeshift weapons, along with the remaining watchstallions and their heavy crossbows, advanced to the temple of the Mysteriarchy in a massive horde. As they advanced, the ponies noticed their numbers were being thinned at the edges of their ranks. Sometimes, hideous gurgling shrieks sounded around them and the diaries told that there seemed to be fierce fighting at the dwindling edges against some horrifying squealing throng of abominations. The crowd began to move faster, into a pace which was nothing more than a chaotic charge of fear-drenched madness, erratically sprinting at the shining temple of the Mysteriarchy.

The opening shots on the temple killed very few of the blue robed cultists, and a full out attack began to rage. Magic was thrown by the occult mages, and bolts from crossbows rained down upon them from the roof. Within the temple, the chants grew louder and a ghastly cry in some alien script began to drone forth, like the bombilation of a thousand unspeakable and putrefying insects. The call froze the blood of many of the rabble that had sought to destroy the cult.  What could be gathered from the chant was a seemingly unspeakable prayer in a maleficent dialect which few could accurately write down.

“MṺU-ZHK-JAAI ELO-GH’UR IA! YOG SOTHOTH!

IA! NEPTHYS JAA-KAAL MUXZH-AKU’REX

UN-DUR YUGROTH, UN-DUR HA’ZEX!

DAJEEN-XHAN-DAL-UUR

IÄ LIR IÄ LIR!

DAA-SO’O GRAT’HA’NIS MU’XHT AZATHOTH!”

The last words of the rabble in the various documents spoke of a several hour siege, where they had a chance to write down what had happened so far during their respite. Some of the mob on the edge spoke of something... foul, which grasped and squealed against them in the shadows, carving and slicing its foes with repulsive, heavy-hooked talons. They could not describe what they had seen in those darkened streets, and what they could gather was that these things were not of that which was good, but that which was whispered to be drawn from outer spheres.

The last information revealed was that the mob were going to make a final attack on the Temple of the Mysteriarchy in order to put an end the hellish ceremony, before that being to which they chanted awoke. There was talk of a final push towards this before the ritual ends and disturbingly determined views that this thing which was brought from the ‘structures’ below would destroy all of Equestria if those who worshipped it raised it further.

There were no more entries after this. Each journal, dairy and scrap of paper ended with the assault or sometime before it. Those I believed which had been collected closest to the old temple were covered in old, dark stains on the final pages. I wondered whether it was the earthquake which had finally destroyed them, or whether it had been the other… that foul thing which they had whispered of.

I rationalized that they were simply old superstitious documents. Such times were full of weird rumors and beliefs, and it would be the obvious idea that this had been founded around the backward principles and ideologies of our Ancestors during this era.

I well-remembered the stories from this period, such as the Necromancer hunts of Trottingham, and the Werewolf Scare in Mane. Such mythological fantasies might have also been brought into the equation by our suspicions and the superstitious pony-folk of the past. Then again it could be that they had found one of the artifacts which had been spawned during Discords reign of chaos, before the restoration of Equestria under the royal diarchy; this would definitely explain the sudden irrational activities of Bannertail and the formation of the insane cult.

Whilst the doctors reports were shocking, I had no doubt that it had not been the work of dark magic, but rather been caused by genetic disorder due to the increasingly isolated nature of the community and especially that of the warrens. Furthermore, the use of high-level aging spells by a powerful arcane researcher might have been the source of the rapid growth; it was quite possible that the high priest might have had such skill, although it would require one of extreme experience in the difficult magic’s, or at least one who possessed a relic such as the Alicorn Amulet.

However, despite all my rationalist theories in regards to the evidence that my compatriot had collected, I could not altogether shake the sinister doubt that somehow the ponyfolk of Timberdale might have been right. There were many unanswered questions in the documents, such as the sudden appearance of the taint within the populous of the warrens. Previously, there had been no sign of such mutations leading up to this variant, and it seemed much too sudden to be natural. Furthermore, there was the issue of the massive intellect development to take into account, which no known magic was able to produce such results, as far as my own limited research had shown. Also, what had been drawn up from the pit that the ponies had described so feverishly as been the inescapable doom to all Equestria? What was it that the strange foal Runic Silver had chanted during that foul last ritual, which the undulating buzzing of the thousand-spawned swarm had screeched in unison to?

And finally, what were the ancient structures below?

________________________________________

I paced back and forth, wondering deeply on the nature of the information that I had gathered. I grew more suspicious of the township and its hideous past, and peered out between the planking over the drawing room window. It appeared to have been nearing three in the afternoon, and a quick glance at my watch confirmed such ideas. It would be best to leave this place soon.

drawn back to my work, I delved back into the documents, desperately trying to draw out as many facts as possible, in case I missed anything in my overviews. No new revelations occurred, and instead I turned to the documents regarding the Trottingham Cult for information regarding the nature of what the statue was. I hoped that whilst reading through the notes on this Trottingham Cult, I might be able to discover where my disappeared friend had gone to. His lack of appearance or even the remnants of a journal was mysterious; after all, nopony can truly just disappear without a trace.

The documents on the Trottingham cult were sparse. Thus I had difficulty trying to find sources which might enlighten me to the nature of the statuette. I believed that due to the lack of discussion on the certain statue in the journals and documents, it may not have come from Timberdale.

However I could not be certain, perhaps it was the thing which they had raised from the structures below? Yet I internally scoffed at the idea, for the ponies had argued that this thing would have brought doom to all of Equestria! This was not the work of the statue, as its mundane and rather limited magical attributes seemed to suggest.

From what I could gather from the sparse documents, I had been correct in that assumption at least.

A few months earlier, there had been a transaction between a group of smugglers and my friend. Whilst I knew he was deeply interested in antiquarian items, I never knew he had occasionally resorted to smuggling to acquire his needed devices, the discovery was shocking. This however might have been a one-off, for I had encountered no other documents of transaction between the various smuggling groups across Equestria in my delvings. It detailed the buying - for an inordinately low sum – a curious silver box, of which I knew could have only been the artifice I now carried with me in my saddlebags. Across the sides of the sheets detailing the sale were noted several curious comments. They ran as follows:

“Curious whispering heard around it.”

“Statue said to cause visions of other worlds and dimensions.”

“The smugglers don’t like being near it, causes nightmares.”

“The language completely incomprehensible, taken to specialist but no head or tail could be made”

“Said to be used in dark magic”

These clues caused a cold sweat to form upon my brow, and a deep anxiety built up within me. Could it be that this statue had been responsible for the hellscapes that had wracked my sleeping hours, and driven me to extreme measures to avoid slumber? Not even specialists could comprehend the language? And where did these rumors of dark magic come from, where had they spawned their first whispered beginnings?

Delving into the remaining details, I saw what this strange society had been named.

The Esoteric Order of the Silver Eye.

…an organization I vaguely half-remembered.

I had heard of this curious ‘Order’ close to half a decade ago. They had brought a manor property up upon a hill in the center of Trottingham. The strangeness of their ways and modes of speech had confounded their neighbors. Their mysterious activities were the stuff of wonders, at least according to the honest and ignorant folk of the city, occasionally a newspaper issue had been printed regarding the activities of the mysterious order. Deep rumblings had often been heard near that hill, and some night-Watchstallions had sworn they had heard the audible sound of digging one late night during Winter Solstice. Afterwards, many a guard claimed that they had also heard strange prayers upon passing by the manor.

I decided to sit back and plan my next course of action with the knowledge available to me; I would continue searching for my friend in Timberdale until night began to set in. If I could not find him here, then I might find him in Trottingham, as I suspected he had long since moved onwards from this location. I still wished to find out the nature of the statue and the strange powers it was proposed to possess. Why was the Esoteric Society of the Silver Eye found wanting of such a thing as this? Perhaps they too were antiquarians, and were building up their collection of strange and curious artistry and artifices from the lost ages for their own private rituals. But something else told me that their reasons could only be more sinister than the mundane collective rights, I tried to shake off such superstitions, but couldn’t help the shiver that went down my spine at the thought.

I was still musing when I heard it.

That noise which I had feared, and which I had unconsciously dreaded since my entrance into this place.

The rattling of a locked door.

With a whirl, I charged to the boarded up window and peered out, fearing one of the degenerates had crawled from their farms to trace me for wealth.

But I could have never been more mistaken.

They were covered heavily in long black trench coats, covered the majority of their bodies and buttoned up to the muzzle. Tall top hats had been pushed down upon their head and further covered them. Their fur and dark coats were waxen in nature, slick and soft looking, causing my flesh to writhe at the utter repulsiveness of the abominable things…

And there were two of them.

I immediately realized who they were.

They were my midnight pursuers.

Almost as if sensing my presence, they halted their attempts to open the door and turned in unison to look at me peering at them through the window. It was vile, like some sort of uncanny movement that could not truly be of equine body, but that of a foul automaton.

What truly made me fall back from the window was not their united reactions, however uncanny that may have been.

It was the orange-ringed eclipse-like irises which stared into me like balls of maleficent hellfire.

I turned and ran into the hallway, reaching it just in time to watch in slow motion as the bolt of the door began to slide back under an arcane push. Quick as a flash I magically dragged a nearby dresser across the opening door and halted their progression.

The door jammed with a thud as it hit the dresser, yet I could see how it strained under the weight of my two shadows. I quickly gathered up what remaining documents I could find in the study and barely made it out before the window exploded in cerulean shards of timber, lit by the ethereal glow of potent magic.

I stumbled as the blast hit me, my form careering into the staircase from the force, my hooves flailed as I sought to get up from my spread-eagled position. One of the stallions walked through the broken window into the study, looking about for my position, at last locking on to me as I tried to get up, repeatedly failing due to my immense dizziness and confusion.

In a matter of seconds he would be on me, his long stride making the distance negligible.

By some form of reconnection, I managed to form coherency with my brain, and quickly smashed the wooden door in my pursuer’s way, locking it tight. I knew it wouldn’t hold long and the house already had begun to catch fire, years of dust and dry documents making it easy for the conflagration to spread.

I stumbled further into the house, moving swiftly through the dining room. I heard another explosion behind me, and the walls shook from the force of the blow to the building.

Weird-hued flames sprung forth in the hallway, and I noticed that both of my pursuers had managed to force their way through the limited blockages. Desperately, I searched for a means of escape but could find none which would not end with my swift death. The dining room windows were blocked by heavy wooden boards which I could not shift with my magic, while others seemed to have collapsed inwards and were full of tottering rubble, in one last desperate attempt I made for a nearby doorway.

I flung the door open and stared down, noting with a hideous chill that I was heading into the basement. I desperately looked around for another means of escape, but before I could do so my adversaries blocked my passage and began to close in on my position. I used my combat wards against them but with harsh counteractions they dissipated against these crooked creatures with nothing more than a wisp of residual magic. I fired again and again but to no avail, they were using some powerful counterspells to my limited magical abilities, many of which would outshine my own in an instant.

With no other choice, I was forced into the dark cellar, slamming and bolting the door behind me as I did so as one of my last means of protection. Enchanting the moist, warped wood with some defensive wards I backed away as the doorway shook.

Looking around, I noticed that this was one part of the building that I had investigated only sparsely. There wasn’t much in the cellar, some ancient bolts of cloth and various other archaic broken instruments of science scattered around in small boxes in the far corner. I had to light my way with my magical aura in order to see where I was going, yet only a cursory glance told me what I needed to know. I knew that I was trapped. There was no way out of the cellar.

Desperately I looked around, wishing for some small favor of a doorway that I hadn’t seen or some form of ventilation shaft which to escape by, but to no avail. The house was old, and the cellar walls were made of thick black granite which could have withstood even the most powerful of magic. I collapsed on the ground, dazed and riddled with fear, as I watched the door above buckle from magical blasts and the pounding of hooves.

With each wicked crunch, I moved further from the door, vainly attempting to strengthen its defense from a distance, but without success. I crawled into a corner, my mind fractured by the chaos, gripping the silver box desperately to my chest to protect it from my pursuers.

The door crunched inward again, I could see them through the splintered wood.

I thought it might have been my destiny to die here, in this small dilapidated hell of a shattered town, amongst the dust and ruin of a bygone era.

I wished I would not perish in this place, this horrible abhorrent town which suggestively implied such a vile history and current degraded loathsomeness.

But without a means of escape, my wishes were useless.

The door splintered again, and a large shard launched itself from the door, snapping against a small block nearby my hoof.

I retracted the endangered limb and stared at the long, jagged splint which was now caught between a small outward-projecting brick. I started and looked again, amazed at my find. All the walls had been solid, identical stonework, but this portion appeared to be loose, furthermore, upon inspection I noticed that it was connected with some metallic instrument. With this revelation my heart soared within me, screaming with relief.

It was a secret doorway.

I frantically dug the splinter out with my hooves, allowing the mechanism to loosen again, and launched it, javelin-like through the large, jagged opening in the door as it finally began to cave in.

It hit something with a vicious growl.

An ear shattering shriek emitted from beyond the door. It was unlike anything I had heard of that day and was utterly alien and foul. A scream so shrill and contemptible that it sounded like it had come from many voices, all howling and gibbering in unison like some collective repellent maggot spawn, birthed from some dreaded eldritch demon from the darkest most loathsome region of the lost void.

Maddened by fear, I crushed my hoof into the offending brick with such force the keratin cracked under pressure. Ignoring the agony that seared through my limb, I limped over to the center of the room and sent up a few more bolts of magic at my attackers. I heard a rumble behind me and I turned to see one of the huge granite slabs slowly extract itself from the wall and pull back into a cavity within.

Seeing my chance to escape, I did not question where it might lead, but ran instead, through the dark corridor before me, into the darkness of the deep as the granite slid back into place behind me.

Closing forevermore.

________________________________________

The darkness was absolute in the tunnel as I felt my way through that place. I lifted a hoof against the wall and realized that this was not a corridor designed with any professional builder, but rough stone, suggesting that it had been built in a hurry, designed for functionality rather than for long term usage. I realized that I had a few matches in my coat and lit one, unwilling to waste my magic further with even a simple light spell. I peered into the gloom with wide eyes.

My assumption was correct; the place had been hewn roughly from the rock around it, suggesting amateur tunneling. Wondering at this passages existence, I limped through the tunnel, deep into the Earth, hoping that it would meet the air outside the town of Timberdale. I shuffled along, attempting to traverse the narrow path whilst holding onto my baggage with my magic, my saddlebags uselessly ripped from the chaos of my flight. I cursed my luck and inspected its contents, damning my misfortune when I realized that many of the documents I had gathered had been lost in the struggle or burned by magic. The box and my tomes however had remained untouched, and most of that which had been lost seemed to have been the hastily collected data of Razorquill. I peered down at my hoof, however my watch had faired no better, and I could see through the pervading gloom the hands futile, juddering attempts to move across the shattered glass face.

It seemed as if the passage was on a descending incline and was slowly going deeper into the rock beneath the township. Could it be that this strange passage had been cut out by my friend for some mysterious purpose? Where did it lead and what would I find at its end? These were answers not easily given, the only answer seemed to be to follow the tunnel, wherever it may go.

The tunnel stretched evermore before me, seemingly lost in the darkness of the distance.

I paused for a moment to cast a light healing spell upon my hoof, biting my lip as the tingling healing magic began to correct the damage done to it by my rough treatment. Bringing it down once again, I tested the newly healed hoof and found that I could walk without much pain. With the regeneration of my hoof fresh in my thoughts, I began to walk in search for the end of the tunnel.

I trotted warily along the passage, the only way forward was through it, and I could not go back in case I encountered my pursuers.

Dwelling on them, I shivered at the thought of that eldritch howl that had rung out, and the powerful magic which they had both used. Clearly they were both powerful mages, but of pony race I could not be certain. There was something in the way they acted that I could not accept as our kind’s natural behavior.

Their repulsive waxen flesh and those foul eyes had strengthened such beliefs, and I knew that even ignoring the strangeness of their actions, they were not of our kind.

I wondered whether they could have been Necromancers or Dark Magic users, I had heard of changes occurring amongst those who delved too deeply into such topics. It seemed that those evil forces might have changed them to that of only half-equine status, much like that of King Sombra.

Yes, this seemed the most rational explanation, and I relentlessly hung to it, for much had suggested such principles being involved in their change in appearance and probable attitude. But still, I could not shake the feeling that there was something more to them than I assumed, and that something could have been nothing less than maleficent and terrible.

Suddenly, I felt an urge to peer at the statue once more due to the knowledge I had gained. I knew where it had been acquired, and had heard stories of the strange cult which sought it. I wondered now if these two dark practitioners were that of the cultic order. Indeed, it would seem rational for them to endeavor to recover their lost property. However, I was skeptical that they could have known about its position so quickly, but if I doubted that then I truly had no knowledge of where they came from, and why they followed me.

Ruminating on these foul beings made me increase my pace, anxious to leave the confines of this narrow stone corridor and escape from the evil which had shadowed me here. The only sound was that of my own hoofsteps, and it unnerved me to think that I was so utterly alone. I began to hurry through the dark passageway, unease and apprehension dominating my mind as the unsettling silence sought to break my nerves.

I never realized that I had begun to run until after several minutes of doing so, I could not stand this utterly noiseless realm which spoke so unnervingly of a dark void-like abyss beneath the earth. I slowed my speed, yet my nerve had already broken under the oppressive hush, and I soon found myself running again, as if desperately trying to escape an unseen foe, though I had heard nothing behind me to suggest anything of the sorts.

Suddenly, I halted in my tracks.

Something was coming.

I could feel it through the earth.

I crouched down, trying to make myself as small as possible as the earth began to shake; soon however, I realized it was not something living that approached.

It was a tremor.

The tunnel around me shook under the vibrations from far below; from a source which nopony or creature from any other race could know. The walls let loose a torrent of gravel and dust as they shook, and I worried they might collapsed under the disturbance. But by far the worst, was that hellish howl, a shriek which sent icy shards deep into my bones and froze my mind in a powerful surge of utter terror. The noise was like that of any other tremor, but underneath it I heard a strange call, a scream which twisted the farthest recesses of my mind, and which had been drawn upon by the repulsive, degraded chant of those cultists on that terrible night when the Town crumbled and burned.

“Lir As’kh-thanxzh!”

With a bellow of terror, I charged into the darkness, ignoring all the scrapes and battering my sides and hooves took. That dreadful undertone had driven madness deep into my mind; the only thought which now ran through it was to escape that hideous groan of insanity.  I ran until my legs began to buckle and I long-since I had begun to tire, but still the tunnel continued before me, deep and unfathomable with its tartarean shadows and deep silence that squatted in dominion over the darkness.

I stumbled and fell, scraping against the rough stone ground and sprawling in a jumped mess of hooves, hair and paper. My saddlebags and the silver box clattered down before me, and at last I realized that foul noise from the deep had ended its sonorous call, a call from the resonant subterranean vaults of creation. I gathered myself together and tried to rein in the terror which enveloped my mind.

What had made that call? What had made the earth tremble so? Could it be that there was a fault line beneath the town? This was becoming increasingly doubtful and the small voices of my mind suggested the screaming remnant’s that those poor Timberdalers had left behind.

What howler called from below, amongst the N’kaian shadows?

________________________________________

At last I perceived a possible end to the perpetual gloom which pervaded this place. Something glinted ahead and I moved cautiously towards it, careful in case it proved to be hostile or it was some abominable trap laid for me.

I almost laughed when I realized what it was, and shook with relief as I stepped out amongst the broken brickwork, into the long abandoned sewer networks beneath Timberdale.

I stepped through the shattered masonry, which could have only been caused with the usage of strong magic. It appeared that I was correct; the tunnel was a recent addition, and the ruined brickwork looked as if it had only recently been broken.

The deep water which flowed through the middle of the sewer looked clear, and I remembered that this portion of the sewer system would not have seen usage in over a hundred years. I was immensely thirsty but was unwilling to make use of the water, despite such assumptions.

Instead, I began to eat and drink some of the small things that I had collected from the shop in Oaksbridge. I chewed on some dried apple and washed it down with pure sterilized water, peering about in the gloom for the source of light which had drawn me forward.

After a moment, I spotted that one of the drainage holes was loose, a small crack of light falling through. Looking at it, I began to worry, for the light was faint and seemed to be a deep orange. I crawled towards it and up the hoofbars, raising one hoof to open up the hatch and peer into the street.

As I looked, my skin began to crawl like a thousand cockroaches had crawled under it and had proceeded to burrow further. The darkness of night was coming; clearly I had outstayed my intended visit and I would have to hurry to my carriage upon the hilltop before night hit the town.

I peered around, the drainage hatch being held up by my head and horn as I did so, and noticed that I was in an extremely damaged portion of the town. Crumbling ruins tottered and large portions of the remaining walls seemed to have given way under the recent tremor. Across the way, scattered mannequins lay fallen, the ancient clothes which had once adorn them had suffered from the rot of time, and were unrecognizable.

I would have to leave this place fast, before the township noticed my reticence and arranged other ends for me, it would be best to retreat before any other dwellers caught sight of me.

But as I thought this, I heard the crunch of hoofsteps upon the broken surroundings, and it forced me to lower the drainage cover. I peered between the slim section that remained and saw that it was not just one pony that moved up top.

A well-formed line of followers moved in unison behind a tall, yellow robed priest, who had attached to himself a tall standard, bearing a quadruple winged star with a silver orb within it. The other followers to this strange figure moved, hooded and shrouded just like the standard bearer. However they were dressed in tattered rags to the priests’ riches, and shuffled forth like those in a state of prayer.

Indeed, it would seem that the strange priest was muttering a strange chant in a low whisper, but even whilst straining my ears, I could not hear it.

There was something terribly wrong with the priest, whose gait was particular and whose facial features, whilst obstructed by the yellow robe, could have only been long, drawn and of an almost alien visage. I shivered to think about what might lie beneath those folds, and what uncanny facial constructs had resulted from inbreeding.

It seemed they advanced towards a set location, which could only be that of the Cathedral. I turned slowly and looked to that stone edifice which shone so darkly in the oncoming dusk, its obsidian walls towering high into the sky and its foul stain-glass windows projecting a mysterious beckoning like some primordial call from the depths of my genetics.

This brought forth a feeling of primeval horror within me.

I all-but dived back under the cover and into the relative safety of the drainage hole, already moving down the hoofbars into the sewer once more. With the ponies of Timberdale active now that the night had come, I stood no chance of properly escaping without notice. Indeed, if the happenings earlier were of any account, the residents would already be aware of my presence within the ruins and might attempt to hunt me down for diabolical purposes.

That was not a thought I wished to dwell on.

I moved along the sewer tunnel, careful to avoid the deep water in the center of the channel. I crept into the darkness once more and I began to move in the direction which I believed my carriage might still wait. I hurried along, noticing, even in my panicked state, that there was a distinct lack of vermin in the tunnel.

My theories earlier of the rats inhabiting the sewage tunnels now seemed tenuous.

I hurried along, lighting my horn with an ethereal glow in the dark, and continuing along the tunnel so that I might escape from this wretched town.

I moved quickly along the tunnels for what seemed to be an eternity, scrambling over fallen brickwork and rubble, often pausing in the almost silent sewage system to wonder if I could hear the sound of following footsteps, but each time I stopped to listen, none were heard.

I cantered onwards, the tunnels becoming increasingly inaccessible, forcing me to take diversions through other portions of the system. I was becoming hopelessly lost, and I could almost see my chances of escaping Timberdale, becoming ever slimmer by each minute that crawled past and each dead end I found.

I approached a crossing in tunnel systems and chose to turn left, only to be met with yet another cave in. Growing frustrated, I kicked at a mass of gravel and brickwork which lay at the edge of the channel.

I wanted to get out of this dank terrible place, but had no means to properly do so; the feeling of helplessness was overwhelming and distinctly nauseous.

I kicked at the pile again, even harder this time, but I immediately regretted my action as a large portion of the brickwork and gravel collided with the waters below, causing a thunderous noise and a terribly loud splash as it tumbled inwards.

It ceased as quickly as it had started, and suddenly all was silent again.

I stood there, paralyzed, and listened.

Tension began building in my limbs as I listened for any sound which might come from elsewhere within the tunnels.

All was hushed and noiseless once more, except for the occasional drip of the dank tunnel roof as moisture fell.

It seemed that this disturbance had not caused anything to follow it, and the tension in my muscles released and sigh of relief emanated from my lips.

Then I heard it.

A long and terrible wail echoed forth through the sewer…

A shriek like a banshee….

An Undulating howl of a unnatural hunter

Baying like a hound mixed with the tortured screams of a foal.

My blood froze at that horrible utterance even after it dropped off into silence.

Then the scream came again, and I truly began to comprehend the notion of fear as my ears picked up the shuffling and shambling of hundreds of hooves, or probable limbs, being drawn across broken masonry. More howls and baying screams lit the dark tunnels as if joining the hunt, providing me all the encouragement that I needed to flee with no conscious thought, the primordial senses within me pushing myself to my limits, to escape the foulness that lurked within the depths of Timberdale.

The hounds of the deep followed me as I fled, the tunnels making their constant calls and shrieks seem like they were everywhere and nowhere.

I was hopelessly lost, but knew only one thought as I rushed through the repulsive catacombs of a dead city.

Run.

I scrabbled over sections of broken sewer system, fleeing through darker subsections to escape the foulness that sought me. But no escape held them for long, and they were drawing ever nearer in their abhorrent swarm upon me as I dashed into the gloom.

Ahead, there stood a tunnel like all the rest, but this one had a large metal bulkhead door.

I charged across as I heard scrabbling and groping just behind me, in desperation I began to wretch the door open using the turning wheel.  Hearing a clank of affirmation, I smashed the huge door out with strength that could have only come from a heady mix of adrenaline and danger, jumping through and closing it solidly behind me.

As I did so, I unwillingly saw that which had followed me.

It was silhouetted in the darkness, and the horrible discordant nature of the thing set my throat ablaze with screams.

It was not natural!

It was an uncreature, an abomination!

There must have been thousands of those things crawling just behind me as I had closed the door.

Celestia preserve me! The floor had been alive with hundreds of writhing limbs!

That foul one had been lit by a chasm in the sewer which had let through a fading orange glow.

I cannot properly describe it; no equine could possibly describe it in any terms that might be understandable.  It was of equine origin, but was equally not so, like some failed transfiguration between the beasts of the wild and that of ponykind.

They had hopped and gibbered, launching themselves high in the air with fell leaps from warped back legs and contorted muscles. Their eyes had glinted alien colors in the failing light while their limbs seemed to be mixed with the solidity of a pony hoof, but with long talons like that of a dragon, whilst long webs had extended between the digits. Long spiked ears, almost vampiric in shape, had sliced the air like razors, and those horrible screams had lit the atmosphere like the truest form of terror.

Tears streamed down my eyes as I realized that all my rationalization of this foul town seemed to be falling through.

It was as I had always felt beneath all my logic and reason, amongst the primitive core of my essence which suggested so truthfully of the horrors of the deep.

The malign terrors of the deep had awoken within Timberdale.

________________________________________

I backed down through the small tunnel, crying and laughing as the hoots and screeches belonging to the horrors of Timberdale called forth, and those things crashed against the bulkhead. It began to bulge under a tremendous pressure, and I began to scrabble backwards with frantic haste.

I reached the end the section of the tunnel and encountered another bulkhead hatch, slamming it behind me, I heard the tearing screech of metal as the first section caved in under the combined strength of the things which gibbered.

I had to crawl faster this time, realizing that this bulkhead was not going to last much longer than the last. Halfway through the section, I heard the slam as the first of the horrors crushed and scraped against it, the sound akin to iron nails being scratched across steel.

My hooves groped and dug into the filthy tunnel as I attempted to put as much space between me and those hopping abominations, my frantic panting transforming into whimpers as the scratching gave way to the sound of straining locks.

I managed to reach the next section just before the bulkhead gave way. But again, I saw those virulent aberrations, with their huge slobbering vertical jaws which gnashed and tore the air in alien hunger and their long, suppressed hops that launched them far across the tunnel.

I slammed the next bulkhead in place and let out a howl of despair as the thunder of pounding limbs crashed against the metal.

It was only a matter of time before the eventually caught me.

I crawled through a section filled with broken glass and rusted nails. Ignoring the agony, I continued to desperately writhe across the floor, my hooves fumbling and scrabbling along the passageway as the blood began to pour down my sides.

It seemed as if the tunnel would never end and I despaired at what horrible fate might await me at those snapping jaws, that obsidian, pulsating flesh and those foul and barbed tongues.

The previous bulkhead screamed a morbid call behind me as, at last, it broke into the passage with a terrible wrench.

The screaming foal-like wail leapt forth once again as they caught sight of their prey.  I could hear the inchorous snapping as they moved forth in a many-limbed undulating mass, grasping and snatching with their long poisoned talons; this hopping unnatural perverted deviant spawn, which chose to mock our race with the vague essentials of equine construction.

I finally saw the last bulkhead ahead and crawled with adrenaline-filled haste to this last portion of the tunnel, and to my only chance of survival.

I continued to drag myself forward upon torn and bloodied limbs, I could almost feel the talons of the beasts tear at my back hooves and slice the metal flooring behind me.

I let out an anguished scream and flung dozens of combat spells behind me with desperate panic, causing those anomalous and malformed atrocities which gibbered and tittered to let loose hooting squeals and yelps.

I reached the final bulkhead, and crawled through, barely noticing a strange occult mark in heavy chalk upon the inner section of the door.

Slamming the hatch in place, I shut it tight and heard the shrieks and gibbers of the beasts become higher than they had been before.

They seemed almost pained before whatever strange symbol that had been drawn upon the hatch, and I sighed in relief as I heard the foul squamulose aberrations retreat before the sign.

I let loose a maddened laugh of relief as I stood before the hatch, my hooves pressing deeply against it as I prepared for a final feeble measure. I had escaped from those things, those horrible gibbering masses which had crawled and screeched in unnatural tones.

I backed away from the tunnel and collapsed in a heap, laughing hysterically in relief and utter terror, my mind broken by those things… those foul raging, wild, rampant tartarean horrors.

I crawled away from the bulkhead, my mind barely registering that I was in a huge underground room and that I stood on a slim upper walkway above an unseen ground.

I got to my hooves slowly, swaying from side to side, gibbering and speaking in tongues as I recited the prayers to those unnamable entities mentioned by the ancient journals.

I stumbled and fell once more, and felt the wooden planks beneath me give way under my weight.

I let out a howl of terror and I fell, deeper and deeper into the darkness below, my limbs flailing as I let out a final shriek.

And the darkness wrested my mind from my body once more.

________________________________________

Blinding light engulfed me. The light, powerful and golden, allowed me to see forth all that lay before me, the thousand pyramids of the Temple City of Ilithica.

Strange forests rolled before me as I stood on a sigiled plaza. Looking about, I saw alien creatures glide and roam through purple skies, and odd beasts of many limbs crawled or hovered across the strange fungoid grasslands of the strange world.

I turned and looked at the plaza I stood on, realizing that I was surrounded by many small pillars of white stone, for which I could not draw relations to any Equestrian rock.

In the center, there stood a throne of twisted branch like gold and platinum, and in its branches, he sat.

The strange golden god.

His flesh could not have been anything other than ethereal light, yet only a tattered crimson vestment covered him. He looked equine, but many parts of him appeared to be utterly alien in nature.

He rose from his throne and looked down at me, six ruby-like eyes scrutinizing me with strange curiosity, before advancing towards me. He stopped and he raised a hoof, which changed into a glowing tendril of light.

This was raised, whip-like, above me, before it was brought down, accompanied by a single word.

“Khai”.

________________________________________

I awoke.

I opened my eyes slowly and peered into the darkness.

I couldn’t feel anything besides a cold tingling sensation against my body.

Gently, I tested my limbs, wiggling first my lower left, then my lower right hoof. Realizing that all were functioning, I raised my forehooves in front of my face and waved them about a little, barely even able to see their shadows against the surrounding darkness.

Finally, I attempted to rise up.

My sense of feeling was beginning to return and I realized that my grounding was strangely uneven. I felt around blindly for my saddlebags, catching onto the corner of the metal box and statue after a moment, along with my other materials which all sprawled out in front of me.

My horn pained me terribly and I decided to make my way down this uneven surface, desperately trying to light my horn yet continuously failing.

My sense of smell had returned, and this place which I had fallen seemed to reek of some strange nauseous stench, the likes of which I could not describe. A foul odor permeated this place that revolted me, the cryptic fumes encouraged me further to endeavor to light my way via magical means, rather than by match in case the fumes were that of flammable methane.

I stumbled and tripped on the uneven ground, tripping and tumbing down what seemed a great height, ending up in an area where the debris seemed less collected and more passable. With grumbles and a pained grimace, I rubbed my sore neck and head, trying to relieve some of the pain from my fall, hoping that it had not done further damage to my horn.

I slowly felt my way through the high piles of rubble and other assorted materials, further feeling returning to my hooves as I did so, their previous injuries beginning to take their toll as I hissed quietly in pain. I padded forward slowly and methodically until my hoof touched something soft and almost gelatine in texture, as if some biological thing laid before me.

Curious, but also filled with dread, I made a final attempt at lighting my horn in arcane illumination.

A spluttering light leaped forth, and I was temporally blinded by the sudden flash amongst such prolonged darkness.

As my surroundings lit up before me, I let my breathing stop as I gazed around me in utter horror; the monstrosity of the situation could have not been more terrible, more ghastly, more utterly evil horror. It was sacrilege, the most terrible of actions enshrined in one insane vision of degenerate madness.

I stood before mountains of moldering flesh…

Monoliths of the dead.

Thousands upon thousands of corpses covered this place, some mummified and ancient, others fresh and bloody, all added to the sea of death that swamped the Hall. A tide of sightless eyes and lax jaws made it seem like they were all hideously alive necrotic lifeforms, many of the faces contorted in perpetual screams of pure, unaltered terror, and thousands of limbs spread out in stiffened rigor mortis, and to complete the picture, all around me, was the pervading stench of death.

I retched; emptying my stomach at the hideous sight, the utter blasphemy of the unholy mountain was not lost on me. The utter psychological fear of the dead in all ponykind was brought to life in this hideous landscape. As I watched, foul maggots and other loathsome insects wriggled forth from those eternally shrieking mouths and broken hooves.

It was a sight not meant for ponykind, a terrible crime against all that was pure and natural, a massacre of titanic and unforgivable proportions.

This was such a crime that I could not believe that it could have happened, even as the evidence lay before my eyes, such madness surely could not exist in Equestria, may Celestia protect us from this foul screaming detestation!

All the terrible rumors of the secretive cult had been founded on truth, they had been slaughtering those who came here for more than a century, and I could see the repugnant alterations in clothing amongst a few of the abhorrent specimens as the century had progressed. I had to alienate myself from the scene, and analyze the horror with the coldest and most emotionless logical thought patterns in order to keep whatever remained of my sanity at the loathsome sight. Even still, some of the more mutilated cases chilled my flesh until my bones felt like brittle glass. There upon these corpses’ facial features, their seemed to have been some sort of bludgeoning done, brutal indents carved into withered visages, and I noticed a horror which pervaded all such cases.

Their eyes had been viciously torn from their sockets.

What monstrosity would have desecrated the dead like this? Was the bludgeoning a result of how they had perished, or was there something more terrible? I could not look upon this indubitable horror much longer and started frantically searching for an exit. Anywhere would have sufficed, but a sudden inkling of light forced me to vanquish my arcane light source, plunging me into darkness as my eyes widened at the second visitor.

I crawled away from the encroaching light, desperate not to be found by the hopping gibbering masses that I associated with this dreaded place. It continued to advance however, and I was forced back into the farthest corner. Still it continued, its light bobbling through the deranged mass grave of the abominable pit.

I had nowhere else to hide, nowhere else to run, they had found me.

Then morbid inspiration stuck and a revolting thought emanated through my mind, normally I would have shunned such an utterly sickening task, but it seemed that I had no other choice.

I squirmed and writhed into the necrotic mass around me.

Easing into the stinking flabby flesh of the mound, I shuddered in utter revulsion and horror, maggots and other insect larvae pulsed across the moldering piles and over my coat, leaving thick, vile, slimy trails of mucus. I felt rustling all around me as the dead festered and breathed in the air of those departed, grimacing with detest at the heavy, noxious toxin of rot and embalming fluid. I had managed to squeeze into a nest of limbs like some sort of foreboding hatchling, and watched as a lantern on a high pole signaled the approach of the stranger that had been drawn to this pit of degradation.

They were robed figures which I had long since learned to associate with the deranged clergy of the Timberdale Cult. Long hoods drooped over their faces and their hooves and tails were hidden in their long flowing robes, but I could see they were unicorns from the jagged spires of horns on their heads. Where flesh might have been, long strips of blue silk now hung, like tattered rags of a once magnificent cloak. Across these vestments were runic messages in a forgotten tongue, and which I could only vaguely associate with some of the queer symbology within the Pannathic Scriptures.

Whilst they were completely covered, there was something highly disturbing about them. Like the foul priest who had led the Dalers unholy march to the high cathedral, their gait was utterly bizarre, shifting from leg to leg and proceeding in what could only be described as an almost bird-like bobbing motion.

What I could see from under their robes was even more peculiar. Misshapen hooves which seemed almost pointed in nature, were obscured in blue velvet rags, and the head of the priest seemed abnormally long. Whilst these figures were utterly repellent, they were at least of equine blood, unlike those hideous things which had gibbered and raved in the sewers.

These strange figures advanced slowly and methodically, dragging with them an ancient cart stacked high with the soft, fungoid bodies. They occasionally stopped and peered into the piles, picking certain bodies which they dragged out with care before pushing them on to the archaic cart to be delivered for some unknown journey. I tried to shrink further back into the sloughing flesh of the corpses, further away from those desecrating priests and their infernal cart, but limbs entangled me in their dead clutches.

I twisted about within the soft and dried flesh, trying to move as little as possible to not draw attention to myself. This proved to be abnormally difficult due to the utter silence of the priests as they gathered their morbid burdens. One seemed to be impatient, beginning to gather the corpses with increasing roughness. He peered about in the piles suspiciously, and my heart leapt at the idea that he might spot me. I began to slowly fall back, deeper into the limbs of the dead, making a desperate struggle to get out of sight before the foul cultist spotted the living amongst the deceased.

The stallion swung his lantern across the nearby piles and began to advance slowly and methodically across the dead wastes.

I wriggled through a nest of limbs, moving urgently to escape before it was too late. Suddenly a clang came as a portion of a horseshoe fell off one of the rotten limbs and onto the stone floor.

I stiffened, struck by a pervading fear which rung from that one mistake. The cultist turned and looked about, slowly marching towards my position as I lay there, frozen in fear. Slowly but surely, that abhorrent and sordid figure drew ever closer, stopping before the horseshoe in his path and inspecting it.

He slowly turned towards the pile I lay hidden in and raised a covered hoof to pull away the bodies which hid me.

Suddenly there was a noise and the cultist withdrew his hoof, starting at the sudden interruption. A ghastly babbling undulated forth and I recognized the abominable tongue of the mad creatures in the sewers. Through the limbs and bodies I saw one of the things which had squatted and hopped after me. Somehow one had gained access to the pit and now stood silhouetted in the feeble light, defiling a corpse with its coarse talons and gnawing on a limb in voracious hunger.

The cultist with the lantern let out a grunting exclamation and turned the light towards the demonic quasi-amphibian monstrosity; raising a hoof, he traced certain signs in the air before him, before uttering a strange garbled chant.

The sewer dweller let out an ear piercing shriek as the incantation finished. Its flesh seemed to bulge and stretch like some strange rotten fruit and it began to melt, its flesh sloughing from its bones in an almost liquid-like state, like lard in a hot saucepan. It stumbled down the infernal hill and collapsed, tumbling down the thorns of limbs and crashing with a terrible crunch upon the cracked stone floor.

The strange cultist walked towards the broken figure and loomed over it, beginning a whispered chant under heavily, seemingly labored breaths. He straightened from his position and began to shamble back to the corpse wagon; the two other cultists began to drag their necrotic cargo through the rotting tides, leaving my hiding place untouched.

I watched until they were lost amongst the foul spires of death before dragging myself out from the foul warren to the fallen creature, wishing to put to rest the maddened fantasy that my mind had made by observing the remains of the foul being which had terrorized me so.

I lit my horn and gasped, for there was no corpse! No fallen creature with its flabby limbs and darkly springing legs. Instead, all that remained was that of a queer greenish gray ash, then some tunnel wind was whispered eerily about the hall, spreading the ashes amongst the dead.

I recognized the magic to that in kin with the repellent arcane arts of Necromancy, but some evil portent suggested more than this simple explanation. I remembered a vague passage from the Pannathic Scriptures as the ash rustled away, and shuddered at the fables inclinations of more blackened magic that was known to our race.

‘Beware that which gathers them of the grave, for they are the workers of dark necromancy, in contact with the god of gates. They raise their victims by certain alchemical ways, using the raising song of Yog-Sothoth they might raise it using the Head of the Dragon, whilst banishing that which was raised with the Tail of the Dragon. Be cautious of those drawn from materials which were not of a pure quality, for they are of the most terrible spirit.’

I drew away from the resting place of the gibbering creature and decided to at least follow in the direction the cart had gone; perhaps it would lead me out of this utterly insane hellscape and allow me to reach the cart which I hoped was still waiting for me. lighting my small collection of remaining matches, I used them to follow the trail, holding them close to myself to minimize the light being noticed from the cart drawers.

I did not know how long I had been unconscious, but I doubted it had been long, something instinctual told me that it had been less than an hour. I padded after the cart, following the occasional hoofprint and the disturbances of the cadavers. The quantity of the repulsive crypt’s deceased was tremendous. There must have been thousands of the fallen within this darkened pit, and I found myself quietly whispering prayers to above for my continued protection from harm in this quasi-eldritch realm.

At last, I came to a heavy-bolted gate and gently tested it, realized from the resistance that it was barred. I could have forced the door open with some magical incantations, but it would have caused too much of a noise and might have alerted the others to my presence in this nightmare chasm. Thankfully, my luck seemed to be on the upturn as there seemed to be a maintenance tunnel which was present just next to it, and its rusted hatch would be easy enough to remove.

Pulling gently on the hatch, I managed to ease it out without much noise and laid it gently on the ground next to me. Crouching down, I proceeded to squirm through the rusted interior of the tunnel, painfully aware that if I made so much as a single sound, then I might alert the cultists to my presence, causing me to shiver at the idea of what they might enact upon an unwanted intruder.

Eventually I managed to reach the other side of the passage and pull off the rusted iron grating which held me from my goal. I peered out, noticing that no one stood guard in the corridor into which I emerged, shivering from a sudden cold breeze with flew through the dark. I saw the patterns of hooves and wheels within the dust, and proceeded to follow them, moving slowly and timorously towards what could possibly be my chance of escape.

I continued along and noticed increasingly elaborate and descriptive pictographs which were imprinted onto the wall with crude paints and tools of stonework. They seemed to be primitive drawings of various types of bear, wolf and other assorted animals. One even included the snapping jaws of what seemed to be a crocodile. I recognized this as the artwork of a Neolithic-era based equine culture, and suddenly realized that the stonework in this region was a lot rougher and less well kept than that of the sewer system. It appeared that this had been an ancient segment which had been uncovered by the Timberdale folk, and might have been the structures which the long dead miners had spoken of in their journals. Whilst I was disturbed by my journey through this dank place, and suspicious of the strangeness of the Timberdale folk, I still clung to rationalism to help me explain what was occurring within this place. Logic would likely be my only tool to fight my insanity in this place.

Perhaps the strange sewer creatures were naught more than the wildlife, mutated by magical energies gone wrong, rather than some fouler magic of an unknown source, still I put down the changes in the ponyfolk of Timberdale to genetic isolation and degeneration, albeit with a disgusting twist to the principle of it. It was growing harder to believe this. For every logical argument that I gave to solve one strange mystery of this blasted dead town, another two took its place. The Pannathic Scriptures had warned of the strange beings made from the dead and I wondered to whether it was simple black magic as used by Sombra and a few secretive Witch cults, or whether it was a force unknown to our magic and of an alternate strain of power to our own.

The idea, despite its lurid connotations and ghastly suppositions, intrigued me, I wondered that if through the darkened rituals of the ancient long forgotten magic, there might be a chance that I could reach heights unimagined in power and prestige. Indeed this magic might give me suitable insight into the nature of our own magic, and how power becomes apparent in the various individuals of the unicorn race. I might unlock the technique of gaining such power through these means, and thus could perhaps become equal in power to those of the Alicorn race. Once I had escaped this place, perhaps I might be able to become a prime figure like that of Starswirl amongst the magical research community.

Such was my thoughts that I barely noticed the insane change in pictures upon the walls. Glancing at them blandly I stopped, starting at the utterly bizarre change from what had previously been normal Neolithic carvings and paintings.

The change was extraordinary, and utterly horrifying. The beasts of the wilderness had been replaced by vile undulating things, pulsating things, made of strange shapes and with eldritch connotations. It showed these beings amongst huge stone blocks which I could only associate with some sort of city structure. These beings, which seemed to be only half present in the physical world, almost seemed like horrible vultures, with strange flesh which seemed to melt and drip like wax candles, drawing back into an unseen rift behind them. They had many scythe-like talons, long and crystalline, but no legs or anything hinting of them, while their long necks showed strange sail like constructs to them, like that of a Stallion-Of-War jellyfish . They gazed at me with innumerable eyes and even through the crude nature of their design I could sense an ever present feeling of malice and madness, divine glee in destruction and the power of an elder race far beyond that of ponykind.

The madness of the paintings could not be ignored. Could it be that the old miners of Timberdale had struck upon some ancient temple city deep beneath the earth? Perhaps these strange beings were that of arcane gods to the primitive people of Northern Equestria, and they had been worshipped with equine sacrifice. I gazed around, the luminescence of my horn unveiling more horrors to me. It portrayed the ancient dark arcane arts of strange ponyfolk which had lived before Timberdale. It seemed that indeed, equine sacrifice had taken place, and I winced at the graphic displays the ancient ponies had portrayed such arts. Could it be that Bannertail had suffered from stress related neurosis, and with the strange dreams had by pure chance, tapped upon the elder structure in his insanity? Had he struck an oath for an ancient horde of wealth in this arcane temple city, wealth which had been offered to the gods and which he now used to resurrect Timberdale? And when investigating this foul place had he, in his insane state, decided the ancient ways must be revived to appease the dark masters of the avian deities?

Had he enacted an ancient black magic upon the town to mutate the children of Timberdale, into the images of their dark gods?

It was wild, psychotic and utterly repulsive, this worship of demented gods had continued for nearly two centuries undisturbed, hidden beneath the fabric of civility. How many had died on their blades for their neurotic worship of the elder god race? How many ponies had been slaughtered and their carcasses been left to rot in that hell pit? And how had Celestia and Luna been unaware of this?

Perhaps it was generational and sporadic in nature? A few missing ponies here and there across the entire nation and which would never have been registered on a serious level due to the sporadity of each disappearance. I had smelt embalming fluid, and wondered to whether an arcane spell kept the flesh from fully deteriorating. Indeed, I had seen many corpses of the century which had birthed this grand evil, lending credence to the theory. could it not also be true that the cult had raided the tombs of ancients to attain their flesh and knowledge for their abominable devices? how many graves had they desecrated? I shivered. This was a sadistic place which the degenerates of Timberdale had formed a cult which would work eternal for their malign eldritch fathers, and would draw forth a dark future for Equestria.

It must be stopped. But who would believe me? Perhaps the locals might, their superstition ingrained by centuries of hate. However the authorities would likely shrug me off as nothing more than a deluded madman, affected with a temporal psychosis by some scare created by the residents.

I waylaid these thoughts and instead decided that it would be best to focus my efforts on relieving myself of this abhorrent nest of tunnels. I trotted along nervously, noticing the changes in the tunnel network around me. The pictures became more distinct and lifelike, the mocking abomination gods more hideous and dark, so much so, that I had to forcefully remind myself that they were not of flesh and blood.

The tunnels shape, which had once been an uneven crag, now leveled out into a strange triangular corridor, carrying on into the far distance and further into shadow. The consistency of the stone, which had once been just rough rock, had turned into a strange dark green which, upon analysis, was that revealed to be malachite.

The once cracked and broken floors gave way to smooth refined blocks and I marveled at the intricacy of the work and the definitively aligned details which could have only come about by supreme understanding of architecture, unknown to the ponies of the time. Was this one of the first civilizations to be born from ponykinds development into a civilized species? If so, the brilliance of the civilization was utterly astonishing and alien to all other works of the era.

The left of the tunnel warped into an indent in a previously completely regimented triangular tunnel and I peered towards it, wondering at what purpose it served. It was hidden in darkness and I could discern little, but it appeared to be an ancient mural. I drew closer and my light revealed more, and I almost screamed at the antediluvian horror, my bones and skin taking on the texture of brittle glass and I stood there, paralyzed.

It was a picture of the great stone city, a vast metropolis of huge malachite domes, pyramids and ethereal spires. The avian gods seemed to dance and wave their talons in malicious glee, but it was not they which drew my attention.

In the sky their stood a shape, an abominable shape, foul and dark and utterly alien. It was beyond my comprehension, even in its primitive status of a mural. I could never properly describe it, and any attempt would lead only to an unsatisfactory visage due to the limited nature of what words can convey. It consisted of a huge mass, that much was certain, and was covered in what could only be described as hundreds of thousands of wings. They stretched in every direction and every point of its form, sometimes massive, other times minute. They varied in type, many were avian but others seemed almost insectoid and others still like the membranous wings of those flying fish of the tropical jungles. Still others were completely indescribable and incomprehensible in their unknown qualities. The portentous number of wings was only equaled by the thousand eldritch fronds and tendrils which covered its fell being, all of which twisted and waved in what could only be described in the basest of terms as divine euphoric elation.

A head, shaped like a mantis, was beholden amongst the hundred wings like an abominable terror of all primordial fears. It had six eyes on each side which glowed with mocking, pure knowledge of the universe, and I suddenly felt small, miniscule before that elder gaze, which mocked me for my supposed importance in the vastness of creation. That hideous leering terror made me tremble in indescribable horror, as it portrayed as much care for me as I would for invisible bacteria, to be played with, and annihilated.

I found myself bowing toward the ancient mural in reverential madness, muttering frantically under my breath the queer chant that I had seen in the documents and journals. Groveling before the elder titan, I muttered the ancient chant in subservience, but I did not understand why I bowed, and it seemed as if my entire understanding of the world was crushed before those dark hideous spheres. Inside me, I knew what this creatures name was, of what ponykind had chosen to label it in order to give voice to its infernal insanity.

The Great God Lir.

I could not connect this name to any empirical evidence that I had gathered, but I knew within my primeval instincts that this was so. I could not comprehend this being, and as I gathered my thoughts, I knew that I would never truly understand.

I turned and fled into the darkness, my instincts for self-preservation, the only obstruction to me discarding my equipment and running, screaming in insanity into the void. Still running through my head was the final lines of the tale of the Fall of Thurim.

‘Of what powers Muurag had called forth none dare tell, except the lone survivor of the babbling mad who spoke of a great umber nightmare…’

I ran ever onwards, adrenaline swirling through my veins sending me dashing through the dark infinite tunnel, like an abstract painting by some insane painter who laughed hysterically at my folly. I ran until my hooves burned with pain and exhaustion overtook fear, causing me to collapse. I lay there, breathing heavily, terror running wild within my mind, but I could not gather myself from my prostrate position to flee once more from the hideous truths of reality. It was completely irrational, the fear which plagued my thoughts, I had much more to be terrified of by those hopping demons from the dark sewers or the repulsive cultists of Timberdale, but the image of the dark god Lir truly reigned dominion over my fears.

I crawled into a corner and wept in terror, for all my attempts at applying logical realities to my situation seemed like nothing more than a confidence born of ignorance. My mind had handled all the horrors with paper-thin resistance, and now it had been torn down, forcing me to face them all and crumble. Now all my doubts, my fears and irrational terrors were brought forth like a nightmare upon black wings, searing through my mind like the agony of a festering wound. I was crippled, and the only thing which drew me back together was the combined spirit of all my courage, determination and the necessary requirements to flee.

I dragged myself up and noticed that I lay before a great golden door, titanic and covered in thousands of runes and hellish demi-spirit beings of the avian titans. I wondered whether this was the final gate, that which lead to escape, or perhaps that which would crush my mind for as long as I breathed. I pushed that thought from my mind as I slipped through and was met by the sound of many boiling, hissing and dripping components, mixed with the strange smell of thousands of chemicals. This room was covered in thousands of types of alchemical equipment but appeared to be empty of pony life. Dark liquids and bioluminescent mists clouded glass containers in swirling maelstroms and small hisses floated up as the liquids were refined. I paced across the long cavern and marveled at the titanic antiquated industry that stretched into the distance. It was utterly bizarre and esoteric, a caustic industry which served an ancient acerbic intention, an objective hidden from me deep below in the darkest regions of the phantasmal labyrinths of this demented construction.

The ceilings were low and strange, huge triangular vents which tunneled upwards into a dark abyss and caused me to wonder just how deep I had gone into the strange earth. I believed I could make out a tiny pittance of light, like that of a dying star lingering above, but could not be certain that it was not my imagination. This place was made out of the same malachite which the tunnel had consisted of and was constructed as an extended triangular hall.

I wandered through the depths, amongst these curious apparatuses and wondering at what the degenerates had been producing amongst the fallen ruins an archaic civilization. The place had been recently occupied, and I wondered from where they had managed to gather such extensive amounts of chemicals for their sadistic purposes. Perhaps the ancient wealth which had been uncovered had served their purpose in providing for such things, through smuggling trades with Zebra pirates and smugglers and through the hidden guilds within Equestria.

I noticed all their working seemed to be bolted tightly to the walls or else provided with protection against damage through magical means. It clearly was designed so that the tremors beneath the earth would not disrupt their function. These archaic instruments and devices served some purpose of supreme importance for the cultists, a great scheme which they needed the required materials for some final act.

What this act would entail was hidden to me.

I walked towards an antique alembic and peered at the curious liquids and colors which misted the glass connection between both of the liquids. A small opening had been made in replacement to the  normal tap which would have been present; this opening seemed to siphon off a strange residue which I could put down to any known substance. It glowed an enigmatic blue of unfathomable contours and I touched the strange material with an enquiring hoof, marveling at the feeling of a crystalline substance, which bared much resemblance to some strange finely ground rock salts. It seemed to be completely non-adhesive, and not one component of the compound had remained on my hoof when I drew it back from the essence. I gathered some of the crystalline compound for further analysis and placed it within a small pouch within my longcoat.

I continued along and noticed a subsection to the ancient alchemical tools and strange liquids within several small cavities within the dark hall. These indents were filled with dark implements of a gruesome nature. Mediaeval torture devices and embalming tools, huge saws for decapitating a corpse and slicing away limbs, and new tools of recent invention used in the medical hospitals of the country. All were covered in the black stains of gore and giblets of flesh, and I shivered at the thought of what evil function they served to the darkened souls of the Timberdale cult. I knew that torture had never been implemented during Celestia’s reign. The rare pony would ended up within prison was dealt with by less brutal methods, to be returned as reformed character to our society due to the love and benevolence of our rulers. These tools of agony had been forged during the revolt of Nightmare moon, and I remembered from my studies on the topic, the vast removal of thousands of such objects, and their subsequent burning and destruction of them by the imperial armies. But it seems that once an idea has been born, it never truly dies.

Scattered about seemed to be hundreds of yellowed sheets of paper each written in an ancient pen style which I associated with the crabbed writing of ponies a few centuries previously. Peering at the scrawl I was able to discern some fragments from them which caused a cold sweat to form upon my body.

‘Y’sterday we did calle up ye ancient bodie of ye grande mage Achexilus from his saltes and made it speake of what it had founde in ye crypt of Akmun-Drah. Thee continue’d worke upon him when ye risen fail’d to answer in proper ways. More worke requir’d before ye secret path may be reveal’d to thy.’

‘Salte batch 0034 was of ye impure quality, was not that which thy expect’d. It was throwne in ye sewers with them other’s which gnaw.’

‘Pathe of Yggdrasil hath been reveal’d by mean’s which we knowe, open up thee book upon ye page of 342 and use thee summoning chant within, ask thee keeper ye three questions and the gates shall be open’d.’

The pages dropped from my feeble magic and I let out a manic laugh of desperation and terror, my mind racing and screaming in horrified abandon. I stumbled back from the foul texts and drew near an alchemical table, crashing into it with a horrified yelp.

I gathered myself up from the shattered heap of glass and chemicals and ran, no longer caring about any sound which I might make.

It seemed I ran for hours, and the hall ended before a grand plinth where an idol of the Elder God Lir, in its primordial fury, squatted. It held before it two platinum tablets in its eldritch fronds, the symbology of written text was wholly unknown to me. A tattered translation now hung from the edge of the elder tablets like a torn flag. I glimpsed it whilst searching for some form of exit in my frenzy; and through the hellish terror of portentousness it was ingrained into my mind.

Y'AI 'NG'NGAH,

YOG-SOTHOTH

H'EE—L'GEB

F'AI THRODOG

UAAAH

OGTHROD AI'F

GEB'L—EE'H

YOG-SOTHOTH

'NGAH'NG AI'Y

ZHRO

I hurried along a corridor to my left that led up a steep incline; hoping wildly that it would allow me to escape this hellpit that debased the sanctity of death. A portal in the wall opened to my right and as I glanced through I saw another hall where the demonic experiments were being acted out. However this was occupied by those I believed not to be ponies, for they had lost their rights to any allegiance with ponykind by their actions.

I ran and ran, never stopping, never halting, continuing on my ascent to the blessed open sky, hoping against hope that my carriage might still be waiting for me. But the sheer relief of being out of that oppressive tartarean abyss would be an ample blessing. I saw light ahead, and with this acting to inspire confidence within me, I charged forth in a massive surge of adrenaline. I reached the edge and the light sped forward like fireworks, and I blasted out into what remained of the dying sun’s rays.

My body clattered to the floor in a heap. Groggily I scrambled up and blinked rapidly, peering through the sudden light. I stood within the cathedral as the sun finally fell over the darkened horizon and I peered about into the blackened pews with relief, but that relief was vanquished by the realization that I was not alone.

I stood in the dying rays of light in the Cathedral…

…As the cultists of Timberdale surrounded me with in their dark robes.

One raised a hoof… no not a hoof, a blade, a talon, a scythe limb dripping with degrading boiled flesh. A horrible guttural chant spewed forth from its hideous necrotic lips and I felt my mind cloud and falter, I fell to my knees as my hooves clattered against the masonry.

One of them started forwards and I saw stars for a moment before retreating to my own personal abyss.

________________________________________

I awoke the sound of hellish chanting.

“Y'AI 'NG'NGAH,

YOG-SOTHOTH

H'EE—L'GEB

F'AI THRODOG

UAAAH”

I opened my bleary eyes and stared at the hell which I had been drawn into, the utter terrible abomination of the foulest elder pit. I was chained and my horn ringed with an anti-magic device before a great fire within a huge hall. Tall doors loomed golden behind me, and around on twisted chairs and stone benches, they squatted, elder and twisted like some foul avian beings, waiting for their prey to perish. They must have numbered more than a thousand in total, hundreds of blue robed horrors of various sizes and shapes, some afflicted with gigantism and grotesque mutations which bulged beneath those eldritch blue robes. Titanic statues of various sizes shadowed the hellish place between tall pillars and spires of malachite, seemingly positioned at random amongst the alien throngs of Timberdalian progeny. They too, were covered in ceremonial robes and I wondered at the meaning of such actions and wondered at the statues which must have stood close to twenty-five foot.

Their warped cultic bishop stood on a platform above me, standing behind a sacrificial altar. Within his magical grasp, a serpentine dagger was held, raised in the air with abhorrent elation for the sacrifice which would be soon to come.

So this was my final doom? To be sacrificed before the ancient gods of a primordial race of ponyfolk raised and worshipped once again by the degenerate spawn of Timberdale? I shivered, and wondered what they might do to me once my life essence had dissipated, would they leave me? Or would I be reborn and tortured from those horrifying materials in the alchemy halls, and feel the agony of the mediaeval tools upon my resurrected flesh.

The bishop halted his primal call. Despite the mitre, he wore the hood of the ancient cultic order and his face was only visible to my eyes through the flashing of the flame. I could see nothing of true flesh within it, for a silver mask hid it from sight. It was the mask of a vulture mixed with the primeval forms of those avian gods which danced upon the walls of the tunnels. It was hideous and I drew away in shock, tripping over the rusted chains which bound my hooves to the olden masonry.

I tripped, collapsing on the floor and stared upwards, upon which I let forth a scream of abject horror.

The ceiling held the eyeless and screaming corpse of Silver Rein.

His body had been bludgeoned by the same devices which must have been used in the death pit. I let out a whimper of terror as I realized that I too might find my end like my compatriot, killed by some technique… or some abominable thing, which the essence of life had in deluded madness sought fit to breathe into.

Silence fell after my primal screech, and I could hear my breathing, deafening amongst the utter quiet which followed.

“Ye hath brought us a sacred idol of He Who Walketh Amongst The Void”

I turned and looked towards the strange esoteric high priest as I heard that hellish cackle emanate forth from hidden lips. He gazed down at me from his high position with maleficent blue eyes, ringed with black that only night could have equaled. I saw within his grasp, my saddlebags and the elder sculpture of the Dark One. All my collected lore and evidence was held within the grasp of the foul magic of that monstrous abequine.

“We art pleas’d by this. Ye shalt die now under mine blade, but we shalt give ye the gift of beholding thy father above afore.”

A thundering noise rended the air, and I stared above as great tunnels opened before me and strange ash fell from above into the titanic bonfire below. I turned and looked towards it, noticing that the fire was held upon some substance which I believed to be a strange form of glass, held above a great abyssal well which descended into infinity. There were no logs or coals which the fire burned from, only ash which poured from the roof and which caused the ethereal flames to light up in an alien glow.

Once the ash touched the fire, it lit up brighter that any fire could have possibly raged, blue, green and red flames engulfed the strange powder. I felt icy cold despite the unbearable heat, for I knew that this could have had no other purpose than a final ritual. One prepared for the greatest and most terrible of risings.

The sound of cogs clattered forth like some hideous drum call from the abyss and I stared upward at an aligning titanic hole in the roof as a golden portal receded. Above, I could see in the faint distance the elder stars which heralded Princess Luna’s night, but where once joy would have been found, there I could only feel the dark touch or maddened terror which seeped from the blackest recesses of my consciousness.

I turned towards the blinding light of the fire again, and stared at the ash which had settled beneath it. I suddenly realized what it was, wailing and twisting in insane fear as the salts of the dead fell within that primordial firepit. This was a magic so powerful, so ancient and so decadent that it required the essence of ponykinds souls to bring forth its gibbering will.

What was coming would lead to our doom.

“The Stars are Right!” the bishop demon shrieked in terrible elation, raising the dagger high above his head and rearing on his blade like hooves like some foul upended insect. Beneath me I felt the masonry shake with terrible portentousness of the coming of an ancient doom which had once flown through the dark gulfs of space.

“The Great God Lir…”

“The God of Ten Thousand Wings…”

“The God of Sea and Sky….”

“Rises again!”

I heard the horrible chant once again, the chant which caused the fire to roar and howl as the souls of thousands fed its hungry all devouring flames. I watched in horror as the flames were suddenly… compressed… It turned into a titanic orb of constantly changing hues of an unstable color and for a moment, the room was utterly quiet.

Then a titanic scream tore the air as a maelstrom of fire exploded into the skies above in a terrible spire. I screamed as the floor shook erratically and stared about for something to hold to, reduced to a status of bestial fear, no longer even attempting to run from my inevitable fate.

I stared up and my mind flew into maddened howling as the bishop turned to the largest titanic statue and bowed, seemingly not even noticing the shaking ground which vibrated and thundered in insane power.

“Elder, speak forth the summoning chant of our father who rises to heaven.” He laughed insanely, spreading his tattered robes which flapped like foul wings like a hideous creature of the abyss.

A sudden realization dawned upon me and I stared at the ancient statue…

Stared as it rose up from its seat… and as foul taloned limbs and its crystalline beak unfolded from the darkness of an arcane hood.

It was abominable, a vulture titan of chitinous flesh and bone which did not walk, but moved ethereally across a pillar of fire. Its skin was alive with tendrils of glowing flesh, like some terrible leviathan from the darkest depths of the ocean. Twelve blazing orbs stared into my soul and I began to gibber in insanity and terror-ridden hysteria. Black fluid leaked from bioluminescent polyps of glowing green and a barbed, spined tongue drew forth from the depths of its jaws to test the air and feast upon my fear.

I knew now what had caused those marks…

And what had made the dead scream so.

It was a being only partly of our universe, only partly of our laws of physics and biology. It was from beyond; a spawn of a foul mind which was eldritch and alien to this universe, and which dwelled outside within the furthest reaches of ancient stygian spheres. I almost blacked out when I saw it, but fear and adrenaline maintained my awareness of my damned surroundings. And I tried to crawl away, screaming and screaming as the elder spawn raised its hideous blade limbs and spoke in a voice of repellent malice.

“LIR AS’KH-THANXZH SHU’ROTH JAA-OO’REG!

NAA-FHATRGH’AN XON CHA-REE SOTHOTH”

Deep within the earth, a putrefying song emanated, the chant was drawing a god from its slumber to hear the gibbering of its worshippers once more.

The Children of Lir were calling to their father.

There was nothing I could do, nothing truly which I could act upon, my magic was bound tight by the hellish band which ran across my horn and my hooves locked by ancient chains.

Now madness would reign over Equestria.

Suddenly a desperate thought formed within my mind, a thought which might have protected me from the horrors of the depths which rose to the siren song of its spawn. It was one direct and pure thought amongst a sea of turmoil and madness, and so I grasped to it in terror driven desperation in the hope that what would result might have a slim chance of saving us from the horrors of the deep.

Around me the hideous children discarded their robes and revealed their hideous flesh as they danced and screamed the infernal ritual. The titans thundered amongst them like arch-demons of the darkest recesses of Tatarus, and I, gibbering in laughing insanity as I began my own dark call to the powers of old, the call that might stop the madness.

“FA-UUR NEGAI X’OOS T’EM-RIS XHAVXHZAK!”

The dancers faltered and turned towards me as I screamed into the darkness.

“CKAHUK N’KAIDAH XEEMOS TA-JAARHA!”

They peered at me curiously as the ground thundered and howled as the olden god shifted in its sleep.

“UNDURRAI DAGKH MXAH- OOMIS FAZKH!”

Realization came and they began to move towards me in desperate haste.

“IA XHAVXHAZAK! IA XHAVXHAZAK!”

Claws and tendrils reached forward in malice-ridden attempts to silence me.

“NEGAALIS-DUR!”

An elder grasped me in invidious magic and raised a monstrous talon to impale me before the final words were spoken.

“UZHAKAHAI MA’ZX-HIR SOTHOTH!”

The blade came down upon me.

Fire engulfed the demonic horror.

The earth screeched in a final upheaval.

And I surrendered myself to the mad laughter echoing up my throat, greeting the darkness in my own mind as if an old friend.

________________________________________

I do not know how I survived the destruction of that hideous ancient place; it is nothing more than a blackened hole in my memory, lit by small sparks of kindling. I recall watching as the titanic stone masonry fell from above and began to crush the worshippers. I can recollect as a great stone snapped my rusted chains.  I remember dragging the statue and my esoteric knowledge away from the cultic bishop and watching as it burned alive. I remember running into the dark triangular halls of the foul city as a terrifying scream lit the air behind me in primordial fury.

But I do not remember how I escaped in time in my retreat through those titanic halls and broken spires as the walls tumbled down around me.

I blacked out.

When I awoke, I lay amongst the fine, joyously normal plants and wildlife of the forests beyond Timberdale. I had escaped, but by what means I did not know. The silver moon hung high in the sky and I laughed in nervous cheer at my escape from those below. Remembering those horrors, my mind began to scream and my laughter became uncontrolled and insane, those beasts of the deep had called something…

That thing had responded.

I turned behind me and saw the broken town was swallowed in arcane blue fire which raced from building to building in mad conflagration. It was a sight I had hoped for, but also brought with it a sense of terror, for it realized that without the ancient city and the degenerate cultists that I could never prove the existence of the horrors which lurk at the edges of our reality. If I spoke on such things, doctors would be called and I would be resigned to an asylum, not unlike high priest Larchak whom Thurim had banished into exile.

The very idea drove me to hysterical laughter and utter alienated terror as the madness of the universe opened its twisted gates before me.

Suddenly fear erupted in my mind as I noted the dreaded blue vortex still spiraling into the sky whilst Timberdale burned, spiraling and twisting from the central tower of the great Cathedral like a keening to the stars.

To what would the ancient power awaken, what would crawl through the cracks in time and space to bring their malice amongst Equestria? What had my own chant called from the void beyond the abyss? I knew a final truth from this terrible reckoning.

The Ancients were stirring.

Suddenly, the sky was alight with falling stars, and I screamed in horror as they fell towards me, crawling back in horror and clutching the Pandoral box which held the accursed Dark One. I perceived those screaming missiles of flame and saw that they were not stars; gods help us from those hellish monsters! The True Children of Lir!

They were beyond, terrible, powerful, eldritch blasphemous abominations from the void from which time and space has no meaning. Born in eternal servitude to that bellow which equines called Lir, brought back by their masters call to ravage the earth once more! Saints preserve us!

Suddenly the earth heaved once more and I saw that which drove me past the foulest reaches of insanity. For I had seen the eldritch fronds of a god spread forth into the air and speak with its Children once more! Celestia help the equines who ever saw those foul, undulating, silhouetted tendrils which blue glowing eyes did cover and stare at the world with abequine, malicious, abhorrent odium!

Our Lady saved us, that foul beast was drawn back to its infernal pit of horror and degradation, where it shall sleep once more. The ritual had raised it party, but it had awoken it only in half. The elder titan now slumbers deep within his abyss once more, for if he had not then would no Equestria be reaved in madness and terror as it brought about the end of our kind? It would have awoken the Other Gods and amongst their eldritch wills would have brought about the ultimate destruction of the world! We would be but dust before such unstoppable powers, to be shaken away by forms which would barely register our presence before exterminating us.

The Children could not live in this realm without their master’s influence and thus must have been drawn back into that nightmare which they had dwelled before. Those foul Vulturine horrors had reveled in the darkness and I fled in insanity and one truth now remains to be spoken.

The Great Old Ones are awakening.