Book I - Chapter One: The Awakened Dreamer
Alas to those who search for the unknown, for they try to form light amidst darkness. Truth is hid from them by the veil of shadows. One day they shall find a torch, and brandish high this powerful light, but in madness they shall flee, for pony minds were not meant for such an abominable sight.
Al’zarith the Mad – Into the Abyss
What continues to disgust me about our kind is our susceptibility to mass ignorance. Since the dawn of time we have been aware of the darkness that dwells within the heavenly fold and the abominable evils that lie within those stygian dimensions; yet we continue to ignore the obvious conclusions that can be drawn from our history. We did so with the banishment of Princess Luna, with the years passing by she became nothing more than a fable, a story told by grandponies to their young, before eventually being forgotten as all but a legend of the past. Thus we ignored the truths of reality and leapt into the world of delusion, fully aware of the consequences. We continued to ignore the connotations of her imminent return until it was too late, only by chance being saved from the destruction by a band of merry few. But even these ponies had no grand revelation when they read about the ancient powers of the stars in that fateful encounter.
This ignorance continued into the days of Discords’ revival two decades ago. The Princesses who had banished him seemed to forget the fact that their magic would decay once they had transferred control to the elements. Preferring instead the petty ignorance of which all fools enjoy in their dream worlds. Only when forced to look into the chaos of their delinquency, did they act on the holding rites which bound him to his stone realm. Even after such activities, they continued in idle foolishness, like an opium riddled stallion in his drug infested stupor, oblivious to the cut-throats that surround him.
Ignorance is the fuel of this society, and ignorance is our bliss. I realized that during my experiences those many years ago. It is ignorance that binds this kingdom together. How else could it function with the things I have seen? The maddening realms that have been parted before my eyes have driven me to the extreme tips of my sanity. The visions and experiences I have had since my awakening would be enough to drive a lesser equine to madness, or preferably to death from the ruinous knowledge that they impart. The primeval and abominable have driven me to drastic action, some of which you have no doubt read in the news of our society. The mystery of Timberdale in the brooding swampland forests of Murkmire and the chaos of the Chatterhoof Rails to Arkmane brought limited fancy of interest into minds throughout the land. My branding as a danger to the realm and my unexpected pardon will have again most likely peaked your interest in this matter. But what I speak of now you will discard as an amazing fantasy, for who could believe such madness, such explosive reshaping of the perception of the world?
You will flee to a Dark Age delusion, fulfilled in the belief that what I speak of in these letters is nothing more than the rampant madness of an equine, faint of mind and lacking in sanity, ignoring the true terrors of which I tell.
It does not matter anymore.
Ignorance cannot save you from what is coming.
The dark stars of the sky herald their return, the prophesies spoken in the grim fantasies of ‘The Fall of Suul’ and the dreaded 'Libro Tenebris Mysteria’ will come to pass!
Their return is nigh!
All will feel their malignant touch as they descend to bring forth their abhorrent will, once again, upon the universe!
Some wise mortals have chosen another path. You have no doubt heard of the march of the faithful, those covered in tattered black robes and masks, who followed the ruinous banner of Archbishop Ironfall of the Esoteric Order. Into the high mountains of the Kothian peaks they moved, on a divine mission, directed by nebulous higher authorities. Some locals in those regions will tell you of the queer sights they saw that night on the mountain, but the majority of learned investigators will scoff at such local superstitions and inform you that these were the works of the borealis. Still it is true that Ironfall and his faithful disappeared that night, some say into paradise, others to the darkest regions of perdition, who can truly know for sure what happened in those dark, tainted spires of Koth? But there are sinister hintings of what Ironfall and his flock had in mind when overviewing the ‘Book of The Golden King’, which was all that remained in their collapsing prayer house, and which has so recently come into my collection in preparation for what is to come.
Resistance is futile to those who lie dreaming in the blackened abysses beyond the grasp of space and time. They are dead, but of course they are dead. However, that shall not stop them; the end has not been averted, only delayed. Soon they shall awaken to bring their terrible presence upon the universe again, which all shall tremble before as they end the life of this planet in gibbering insanity and genocide.
So I write this to warn those who will listen, those who will harken to my call and rally to my banner, for a doom will fall upon the lands of Equestria, and perhaps I have the silver key to our survival when those of the void awaken. I cannot promise you of my success, but what is to come will rend Equestria with such ease that even the heavens will tremble, so great are the powers of those who dwell beyond.
Perhaps I also write this to ease my own sanity, and to assure myself I was not pulled into some mad ploy of the actions of a few madstallions, and joined their own insanity with the chaos of the events that followed. But that has almost completely been vanquished by my later research into these matters, and this writing will help me instead to decide on a final step which is arrayed before me.
The beginning of my awakening came on a late Friday morning in my native home city of Arkmane, a city of ancient edifices which the industrial revolution had built around.
Arkmane was an odd mixture of the new and old and seemed to complement itself in quite a delightful manner. In my youth I had adored Arkmane core’s winding passageways and shadowy side alleys. Much to my parent’s displeasure, I ventured deeply into these twisting realms and antiquarian portions of the city, learning its hidden secrets like a scholar learning ancient history, enraptured by its lore. I must admit I garnered myself a bit of trouble in my adventuring, but I was young and foalish then and investigated, without restraint, the cities hidden pathways.
I had grown up amidst the long shadows of the city, and made friends with many in my investigations, building up a conclave of collaborators in my studies of Equestrian antiquity. I soon entered the prestigious halls of Arkmane University, and partook in studies fitting with my antiquarian mindset, investigating the eras before the rise of the Celestial monarchy and Discords dictatorship.
I left their halls with a fine result of success grasped within my hoof and proceeded to write on my own findings on Equestrian prehistory. Although I did not succeed in getting more than local notoriety for my work, my studies into the lost Empire of Skyflame were well received in the small establishments that noticed them. Later these establishments would seek to whitewash the memory of such things, as if they felt a deep shame over ever noticing my work before the incident, but perhaps the disappearances of my thesis are for the best, for such deluded ponies, and for myself.
With my work in academia progressing, I began for the first time to delve deeper than ever into the Arkmane Archives, even arranging a few trips to Canterlot in order to discover further mysteries of history. I was working on a final book on the complete history of Equestria, which I hadn't named at that time, and was still in the midsts of work when I heard its arrival.
I was writing a chapter on the Discordian Civil War when I was interrupted by the thump of a hoof upon my apartment door. When I opened it I was greeted with the exhausted sight of the wall eyed mail-mare who occasionally did my mail rounds. The cause of her strain appeared to be a heavy package balanced precariously on her back. I moved to help her, straining with the weight of it despite being aided by a levitation spell, as I carted the package to the table. However I realized it had no return post and no name attached to it apart from my own. Curious I queried the mare but she had as little idea as I to its origin, I asked if she could find out where it had come from and she assented, intrigued the peculiar delivery as much as I was. I waved her out and she gave me a smile as she departed to the rest of her rounds, wishing me a good day as she went.
Closing the door, I turned back to the package and proceeded to remove the parcelling. As I tore away the paper, a silver box emerged, a strange and splendorous thing which shone in the morning light. I unveiled it and the box laid there, graven with many curious sigils at its edges and a serpentine lever at the top, which appeared sunken into the metal.
I admired the silver box and the primordial sigils that covered the surface of the container. I recognized a few of the symbols as those that had been discovered in the disrupted archaeological digs on the Mountains of Theng in Northern Equestria. The warped design lit powerful fantasies within my mind and I wondered of the contents of the device, for surely it was ancient beyond measure considering the primeval symbols of the old world. Unless one had been a master of forgery and symbology, one could have known of the long ignored archaeological digs on the peaks of Theng, or the tragedy of which befell that expedition so long ago.
Once again I wondered at the nature of the device and the origins of its delivery, perhaps this discovery had come into the hands of a fellow historian such as I, who in their knowledge of the community had passed it to my hooves. Surely as well, one of my fellows would have given me proper insight into where it had been found before handing it over. But instead I had nothing.
Strange thoughts rose into my mind, of esoteric cults and cryptic chants of elder zebra shamans of primordial days, mixed with tales of fantastic lore and ancient events. With them came the visions of precipitous Theng that had risen high upon the mountains, and the magnificence of its ivory towers which were lit upon by hellion braziers of cerulean flame during the mythic moonlit epochs, before the dawn of Celestial History.
Eagerness overwhelmed my ruminations, and I hastened to open the strange container and discover its hidden stygian secrets of wondrous prehistory. I raised the contraption in a magical aura and attempted to open its strange locking mechanism. But when I twisted the lever I gained naught but resistance to my incessant tugging. I attempted further to breach the device and at last managed to succeed to some degree when discovering that the lever could be extended from the box. With this knowledge I attempted to move the device once again, this time with it fully extended from the container, however I lost again to its resistance. Further investigation eventually led to the reasoning that it must be extended to a point rather than to its fullest extent; eventually patience and luck solved the curious puzzle.
The next puzzle seemed to be that of a repositioning of the lever, it suddenly being caught at a permanent level which could only be moved from left to right. When moved the sides extended outwards in even slats of six, when each was in its required position a small click sounded and it moved no more, I stood in frozen patience, my ear planted next to the box as I moved the lever back and forth gently. It took hours, but finally the last slat clicked into place, I heard a whirring sound as the entire piece repositioned itself into the shape of a pyramid, by what means I could not tell.
This puzzle seemed not to be related to the lever, it refused to budge completely, I wondered for half an hour on what to do next, gently testing the sides of the thing for movement. Finally I raised the device in the air with a magical aura and gained a response. The sigils began to glow suddenly, the shape began changing in my grasp and suddenly I beheld a shining trapezohedron. The suddenness of the light caused me to drop the device, which clattered heavily on the floorboards, but was seemingly no worse for wear. I raised it off the ground once again, but the lights had dimmed and were fading, I realized where to go from this, and began to test it with other spells.
It took an hour, but finally I cracked the puzzle. The required spell caused it to be engulfed in astral fire and the box repositioned itself back into its original shape. This puzzle seemed to be a code, when each sigil was tapped it emanated light and a pure tone but it seemed they had to be tapped in a particular way. Eventually after much hassle I found that the basic combination was of hitting the right side thrice, the top twice, the back five times and once on the left. With this the box opened up at the top in six triangular pieces, extending outward like a metal flower which I approached and peered into.
I recoiled in disgust at the sudden stench, before returning once the foul odour had lessened, but with wary caution. The container hinted ominously of its contents, and temptation soon overtook my natural fear. I raised a hoof curiously but timorously towards its hidden treasures, towards the device which had known of times when the skies had heralded other sights than those arrayed in Celestial days.
Lo! I beheld it as the shadows drew back before my investigative hoof, and paled, my face as white as chalk as I stared in horror at its twisted form of abhorrent writhing. The hideous evil danced there on my counter, its leering demonic appearance and disturbing stone body whipping back and forth, almost as if the artist had caught in motion the gibbering creature’s frenzied prayer to those gods of forgotten, eldritch epoch’s and far off ages of sunken, antediluvian realms.
It was a statue, but it held such motions of fiendish, invidious, evil and distorted living horror that I could not accept it being of such normality of the carven idols of the Equestria of prehistory. It seemed it moved at the edges of my sight suggestively; as if it wasn’t truly bound to the dimensions of existence of that my race knew.
What madness had the forgotten epoch's of our history spawned this idol?
It reeked of must from the primordial crypt, when lost empires and golden clad kings had ruled in fragmented Equestria, and whom had spoken of forgotten things in elder tongues before the dawn of measured time.
The statue I beheld was of a figure with the upright appearance of our draconic elders, but held no other similarities beyond vague suggestion. Its head held a seemingly high crest, which to me looked like a horizontal crown of bone. Dark carved signs were etched to its crest which I likened it to some foul lizard from the lands of Zebrakind. Thousands of abhorrent tendrils and tentacles covered its upright body, its main limbs ending not in claws like a dragon, but in hell-spawned whipping blades and bone vices.
Within its grasp it held three cracked golden flutes and an orb of silver of meaning unknown to me, but I shuddered at its elusive and sinister implications of the symbolism. No mouth was bound to its hideous, blank face, but it leered still despite such lacking of the organ. Rancid gills lined along its long horned neck seemed to flap hideously despite it being impossible. But by all that is terrible of its nature, the thing which paralyzed me in fear was its three insidious, gleeful glowing blue eyes.
They glowed in knowledge of elder days when the darkened skies had told of occult truths in gleaming arcane stars. Such wild visions invaded my mind, and I had scarce ability to draw back from the obsidian creature before I was consumed within its maleficent gloating gaze.
Yet I managed to breach my trap and pull back from the device, I staggered to the kitchen to calm my mind before another revelation struck me, and I paled at the connotations. It had been late morning when I had drawn the necrotic statue from its box. But now I clearly saw that it was now far from being so.
For as I had gazed into the hoary statue for what seemed like little more than minutes, the darkness of dusk had been brought upon the world.
I reclined at my desk, worn and aching from my long voyage into the eyes of the strange statue of nameless eons past. I was disturbed by this newfound ability of the statue. However the warping of the perception of time was not uncommon in some ancient magic as the enchantments degraded.
I had packed the aged statue once again to the shadows of the silver box, but now sat musing on the disturbing nature of the thing. Never before had I encountered such a strange and mysterious object in all my studies of the Pre-Discordian histories. It seemed not to bear the hallmarks of any known styles of the past and I wondered, perplexed by it.
I had searched my tomes on the events and empires of the eras before Discords rise, but had come up with nothing which referred to a statue similar in appearance. Neither the thesis of Starswift on 'The Nature of Prehistoric Religious Deities', nor the workings of Dawnwing on 'The Artistic Styles of Pre-Discordian Architecture' illuminated its origins.
I drew the statue out again and looking at the obsidian terror once more. Soon I was lost within its hoary structure. It whispered darkly of the precipitous abysses, of gaunt citadels in the shadows of space and time, and I trembled at the idea of such things.
I avoided the eyes of the icon and finally had a closer look at its design. I noticed that it was not just a statued figure standing on its own, but that which perched vulturine upon an azure crystal plinth. Cryptic runes presaged its mighty form in a nameless tongue of forgotten primal origins.
The degenerate writing was truly terrible. Crooked and warped in strange signs and of a completely undecipherable runic text that would have poisoned any interpreter’s attempts to divine what it proclaimed. I wondered deeply if it was the name of the elder god of which squatted above, but its untranslatable nature made it a futile musing.
I placed the strange statue back in its puzzle bound box and sealed it tight once again, suddenly overcome with the sense of a presence as I admired the strange and decadent art piece. I shuddered in repulsion at the idea of a watcher gazing upon me and enclosed the device in my safe, to which only I knew the combination. Closing the door and engulfing the statue in shadow once again, only to return it to the light of day once a lead could be found on its alien history.
Late into the night I searched, prying into detailed crumbling tomes and modern histories that I had acquired for my vast personal library. I trekked into epochs before the Common Era and into the obscure elapsed ages, desperate for knowledge. I raked long through the antiquarian and modern texts for some sign of such a statue, but found nothing but dust.
It seemed that such a god, symbolic figure or creature had never before been seen in the vast annuals of reputable history. I searched long into those volumes, until the arched roofs of the antiquated houses in Arkmane core were lit by the crimson glow of dawn. No further finds on the source of the primordial icon were revealed and I was weak with exhaustion, the urge to sleep dominating my mind.
I lay back in my armchair and stared around at the mess that I had managed to make of my office. Lairs of dust and mythic legend were scattered in piles around the room, but I didn't care, a fierce fascination held jurisdiction over my sleep dredged mind. However even that could not resist the clutch of Hypnos and I collapsed into a world of dreams, dominated by figures clad in blue in preparation for the grandest of rituals.
I awoke to the bright rays of the noon sun as it breached my window with vibrancy. It was going to be a fine day, but I had not time for such musings, and hastened into the bustling streets, scarcely remembering to cover myself with my saddlebags and waistcoat as I charged, zealous, outside.
I trotted hurriedly to Arkmane University that I had studied at so many years ago, deciding that if anypony had some information on the statues origins, it would be in the University. Moving into the building and walking through the gothic marble halls to the titanic library, I felt small again between the pillars of books, just as I had in my youth. With strong relations to the university and maintaining friendships with the librarians, I would have a fair chance of gaining access to the restricted section of the library.
Whilst I waited for confirmation of my access, I dabbled in rumor with the old librarian Bookwise who informed me of recent news. It seemed the Chatterhoof rails, which had been a long project of Equestria’s main mass transit, had finally been completed. Now we had attained a direct line to the imperial city Canterlot all the way to the most northerly regions of Stalliongrad. Such a miracle of engineering through the dangerous interceding mountain range had never been attempted before; its success had opened the way for other forward thinking projects. Its’ direct route through Arkmane allowed a greater movement of goods and its appearance seemed to be bringing increased prosperity to the many small shops and aged stores of the city. It was rumored though that the princesses had not been in favor of this project behind closed doors, but such thoughts were viewed as nothing more than puerile slander.
Another interesting piece of news was the seemingly brightening star, Cerebus, which seemingly began to complement the moon in its luminosity. Few knew why it had suddenly lit up, but many had considered it the work of Luna as she dabbled with the night sky, others thought it the death throes of a star before its collapse; still others considered more arcane reasons for its sudden brightening. Soon the chatter turned elsewhere and I asked about anything in the archives having knowledge of the statue that had so recently come into my holding. Bookwise frowned at the description I gave and attempted to recollect any information that might be related to it, but with not much success. At that moment he received affirmation and passed a slip on to me, suggesting that I should do my own research in the archive whilst he had a think about the statue I had spoken of and would inform me upon my return if he remembered anything.
I left Bookwise to his pondering and descended deeper into the recesses of the Library. Few ponies were present, most deeply infatuated with whatever book or text they were attempting to read or decipher. As I drove deeper into the forest of tomes I eventually noticed the distant door to the left of me guarded by two of the royal guard. This was the door to the restricted and rare section of the library. It had always had the golden armored guardsmen protecting its doors in order that its secrets would be kept to a select trusted few. As I moved towards them the guards levitated their swords from their sheaths, giving me a hard stare as I passed my slip over. They stared at the validated pass for a moment before passing it back and bringing their blades back to their holsters. I nodded in thanks as I moved forward, opening the doors with a push of magic and entering the next room.
Finally I entered the restricted section and moved into the regions occupied the theosophical texts, cryptic histories and occult and fantastical readings. I paced between the shelves and delivered ever-growing piles of rare and restricted literature to a nearby writing table, until the desk was heaving with obscure volumes of yore and fantasies of maddened dreamers.
With many volumes before me, I began to dig deep into the dark literature on Equestria of prehistory, desperately scrabbling through the extravagant editions of Dunsneigh’s 'Dreams of the Olden Gods', The griffon Archfeather’s mythos of the 'Forgotten Kings' to discover at least some hint of what the thing was. I delved into the fantastical and the insane from lore, eons past, until the sun had passed its zenith in the sky and my mind warped by a thousand tales of strange things and unequine-like gods, but nothing was found on the mysterious statue.
I searched for information related to the elder structure, but to no avail, the insane statue remained enigmatic and nebulous, clouded by the lost knowledge of a long forgotten era of history. Disheartened by failure in a place I thought would have knowledge related to the device; I replaced the books in their worn shelves before departing through the ebony doors and the sleepy guards to the front office.
It was here that a new lead appeared.
Bookwise hurried over to me with wide eyes and grin which told me he had stumbled upon something in his reminiscing. He told me there had once been a book on what I sought for a great many years ago. A positively archaic tome many millennia of age which had mentioned in the primeval written tongue of Zebrakind the strange statue of which I sought.
The Book, he told me, had been filled with strange and terrible imagery, as well as truly revolting and demonic dreamscapes. Its binding was of no known form that honest ponies knew of and had consisted of strange, weird, yellow leather that seemed to whisper as the book was moved, but which had been as hard as iron.
Nobody knew how ancient the document was, some projected that it was over ten thousand years of age; others proposed that it had been made during the chaotic terror of Discords reign. Asides from the strange leathery bindings, the thing had another defining feature of which was bound to its covering. A vile sigil of indescribable origins, which appeared to be focused around an orb of blackness in the middle, whist tendrils of smoke or light moved around it languidly.
Hope surged within me. I asked rapidly of what had become of the book. Alas Bookwise said that after a terrible tragedy involving one bright young student whom had read and translated the tome, the book had been taken away by the Royal Sisters to be disposed of. It had either been burned or locked in the vaults of Canterlot where it would rot for all eternity, so was completely unreachable. Bookwise noticed my falling expression and then revealed what he had wanted to inform me of all along, for he had seen other variations of the hieroglyphic tome before. It was a rare volume of great price, but there existed other copies of the esoteric text, if I had luck on my side then perhaps I would find another crumbling copy.
With newfound hope, I thanked Bookwise, I told him if I could discover what the statue was I would inform him of my research. He smiled, bemused at my excitement and ushered me outside into the fresh air of the city, wishing me all the luck in my search as I hopped gaily down the steps and into the streets of Arkmane.
I marched through the antiquated city core, deciding to further my search beyond the library and into the many old bookshops which delved in theosophical texts and ancient histories.
I almost danced through the city, visiting shops here and there, trying to find the darkly rumored manuscript which Bookwise had spoken of. None of the shops had the book, but knew of it through hushed sources that it was a book of supreme mystery. A few of the shops I had entered had even in the past held such powerful tomes of lore, but they had long since been brought into the collections of lords and rich professors, monuments to their prosperity and far from my searching hooves.
It was not until late into the night that I found that hidden shop.
Half crushed between moldering buildings near Arkmane Quay, which stank of strange odours brought in from the sea, it had been half lost between the tangles of buildings in rotting alleyways near the wharf. Unlike the other shops which had long since closed, this one remained open with a lit candle near the dust covered window of the shop. The deep sea mist roamed inwards from the lapping ocean and curious curls of fog whispered over the broken cobblestones. Arkmane Quay had long since lost its importance many years ago, so the streets had fallen into uncared dilapidation, where only drunks and the impoverished now eked an existence.
I trotted to the cracked, grime-covered panes and peered through into the murky shop. The place was laired in dust and cobwebs, great stacks of books rose from floor to ceiling in necrotic piles, the texts festering from the moist sea air which crawled through cracked panes. I entered, drawn by the piles of elder knowledge and looked across the occult craft for the salespony, but could find not a trace of him in the shadowed edifice.
This did not deter me and I began my hunt for the tome which I sought.
I found much in that necrotic shop, alien sigils were painted upon the walls; dust ridden charms hung from the roof looking like miniature corpses, and a brazier burned low on a charred pedestal at the center of the shop. In my search I found the long lost texts of the 'Fall of Suul' and the rotted tale of the 'Star Prince', which I had thought expunged by imperial degree many centuries before. I wondered to whether it would have the elder tale which I sought, and continued to thumb through the crumbling volumes.
Finally I found the ancient tome.
It was held on a pedestal of twisted ebony, lit by crimson candles which illuminated document. Its archaic elder runes of proto-zebra expression filled my mind with unalterable sense of dread, but also of a strong sense of appeal. I carefully shifted each of the thin pages and saw on each terrible images of forgotten epochs before the rise of pony or Alicorn. I saw things of when forgotten kings had ruled from jet thrones, of times when dark powers had held sway over Equestria. Pentagrams and hieroglyphs lined the document and hinted suggestively of warped, dark magic. I shuddered to think of what the terrible words used in ritual opened, and I trembled in silence as I closed the book, as I could stand no more of it.
I lifted it reverently and added it to my growing pile that I had deposited in my saddlebags. A great sense of trepidation dominated my instincts, and I wondered what hideous answers I would have once I finished with the primal tome.
I turned to look for the keeper of lore again and yelled in horror as I was confronted with two dark malevolent eyes from the shadows, barely illuminated by a shuttered lantern. The figure stepped into the red light and I saw that it was an aged earth stallion, worn and pitted by a lifetime enduring the cold, wet, rough sea winds. He gazed horribly into my eyes with his maleficent black orbs and I recoiled at the stench of mildew that lingered around him.
He glared at me with demonic scrutiny and I nervously I told him I admired his bookstore, as it held texts which I thought destroyed or lost to time. I levitated out the books I wished to purchase with a tremble and asked of their price.
Quickly the glare of silence was broken by a crooked grimace of rotting teeth.
I apologized for the intrusion, but said he had not been at his desk when I had entered. He shrugged it off and spoke in antiquated terms that he had been in the backroom of the shop before I had entered, and had assumed me one of the vagabonds which frequented the streets. We moved through the tottering piles to his desk, but my fear had not receded, there was something terribly wrong with the abnormal darkness and the curious shopkeeper.
At last we reached the crumbling and woodworm infested desk, the ancient pony laid down my purchases, peering at them through broken and rusted spectacles. He nodded in amusement at my choices and complimented me on the selection into the important lore of the past. He told me that the Yellow book of which I sought was the prophecies of the zebra oracle Al’zarith whom, beset by a strange madness, had written of primal things, forgotten in this era and all but the furthest regions of Equestrian history.
As he spoke he moved towards the chair at front desk, placing the lantern down carefully at the side of the rotten counter. He murmured that Al’zarith spoke of things long forgotten by his kind. He had been removed his tribe and cast into exile for heresy, and during his wanderings he had written many books of lore and power. His most intriguing had been the 'Pannathic Scriptures' that I now sought to purchase, which had been written, according to Al’zarith, in the Veil of Pannath were the screaming dead dwell. Although not as knowledgeable as the terrible 'Libro Tenebris Mysteria' it was more accessible.
I had never heard of such a book before but the name brought terrible sense of crawling fear, like the work of subtle poisons. I did not like the way he looked at me predatorily and willed myself to be gone of this stagnant place before it became too outrageously late. I hurriedly asked what he requested for the books, the resulting answer was a trivial amount of which shocked me. He asked for nothing more than a few bits for the ancient tomes, as if they held no rare importance. I, not willing to spit in the face of good fortune, said nothing of this to the elderly stallion as I bought the lore.
I bid him well as I hastened to leave the place, placing my newly acquired cultic manuscripts into my saddlebags with the utmost care and consideration. I backed out of the twisted and rotting store and into the streets where drunken ponies stumbled, and strange figures lurked in the shadows of the night.
It was high time I left this rotting place and with a quick trot, I moved upwards to the better kept districts of Arkmane. My mane pricked in disturbance as I crept through the degraded alleys and streets, but behind me the wind whipped in from the ocean and brought to my ears the sound of which truly froze my blood.
On the easterly swell rose the whipping wind and I listened to the scream of the ocean waves, yet sensed something beneath it...
I heard the raucous cackling of the shopkeeper...
...And the padding of unknown hooves behind me.
I hurried through the filth strewn streets, my mind ablaze with primal fears that conjured horrible nightmares which overflowed into the midnight shadows. I twisted through Dockstreet and trotted rapidly across its cobbled roads, careful to avoid the blackened alleys. I moved furtively from lantern to lantern, watching tensely as I tried to reach my home before midnight took dominance over the sleeping city.
Primal senses told me that the padding behind me was gaining.
I quickened my pace in fear as I saw warped and elongated silhouettes crawl forth from the shadows.
I moved faster and the lurkers seemed to increase with my pace, shadowing me with terrible malignancy.
I was in full panic and hurried faster into the quite domain of Merchant Street in nothing more than blind terror. I hurried towards my house in the old portion of the city into Carthorse Corner and through the twisting alleyways.
The padding changed into a canter.
I shifted from a nervous pace to that of adrenaline induced flight of fear. Dark things dominating my mind as the sounds of the padding continued to follow my every step. I rushed through the streets, knocking over some rotten apple barrels in my frenzy, as I ran I watched the fungoid fruit splay in front of my hooves.
I ran faster and any trace of ordered consciousness snapped with a terrible rotten crunch.
I fled around a side route using street knowledge of the city. Behind a group of waste storage containers I hid, watching as two ponies stumbled around into the street. I shifted from my position, escaping the stench of the filth and moved silently across to the next alley on my left. I was frantic not to make a sound to alert them, as they had stopped and were peering into the shadows in order to discern my position.
The leading stallion brought his head back like lightning and I only just managed to move into the shadows before he caught sight of me. I cringed into the shadows, praying to the gods that he would not spy me clinging to the sidewall. I slowly edged closer to the side path, inching slowly and painfully towards the escape. The stallions drew back from the street only to return a moment later, lighting two torches, they began thrusting them in the corners of the alleys.
It was only a matter of time...
I pushed my patience to the limits as I inched frantically towards my escape route as the torch bearing ponies grew closer. At last I managed to pull myself around the edge of the street into the alley and darted in panic toward my escape.
As I hastened into the darkness a terrible event occurred.
I had not noticed in my fear that a certain obstruction had fallen in front of my route of escape, and with a terrible clang I tumbled over it, drawing the attention of the strange ponies to my means of flight.
Rising from my stumble I limped into a nearby street and dragged myself up a flight of stairs, desperate to flee as they closed in behind me. I stumbled forward to the stairs leading from the wharf. Some bins lined the stairs as I groped forwards urgently. In frantic fear I magically flung these at my followers as they advanced. However they did little to obstruct them, but gave me just enough time to limp through a nearby iron gate.
I slammed the bolt closed behind me and hastily moved through the alley of Innsbridge as my hunters rattled in frustration at the bolted metal bars behind me.
I darted through the filthy side lane, desperately making my way to my house in Shatteredhoof Lane. I ran in fear as I heard the sudden wrenching of metal behind me and a crash as the steel gate was forced open.
I did not tarry, frantically running alone through the silent streets as I was pursued. At last, I reached the main street and crashed through the traffic of automobiles and steamcarts, darting through the vehicles with inches to spare.
The obstruction gave little ease to my fears and two followers were once again only a hairs breadth from me. At last I caught sight of my home, its brightly lit rooms shining like a beacon of hope to my terrified mind; with safety in sight I made one last desperate attempt at flight, pushing my stamina to the limit in order to get a lead on my pursuers. Startled by this new pace they tried to catch me before I attained the stone steps of my house, grasping with magic at my hooves. But in the primal sense of panic I activated my own magical abilities and severed their grip.
With a rush of adrenaline I charged, smashing through my door and bolted it tight behind me. The solid oak frame groaned under the weight of the two ponies clashing against it. The door continued to buck and shake for a few more moments before my pursuers gave up. I heard muffled trotting towards the various windows in my house and felt deeply reassured by the fact that these were guarded by anti-magic bars, designed to withstand the strongest magical forces. Indeed I saw them try to press their arcane energies through the window, and flushed with relief as the jangling and singing bars held under the strain.
Still hidden under the black veil of the shadowed moon they began to retreat back into realms of shadows, becoming nothing more than the murky shapes in back-alleys of the city. I tremble to think of the malignant will of those silent figures, and was thankful that I had managed to escape whatever murky fate they had arranged for me.
I assumed at first they were one of the many vagabond groups which the old stallion had mentioned, it seemed reasonable that they would shadow a figure of reasonable wealth in order to extort him. But the whispering recesses of my mind truly knew that there was a much more malign reason for the attempted accosting. Had not the old stallion spoken of the terrible powers the book had known of? Who knew the reasoning of the silent figures, and whatever foul plan might have been behind them...
I moved up the stairs to my study and placed the heavy tomes on my leather bound writing desk, nervously closing the open curtains on the night, and whoever might be watching from the shadows.
I collapsed into a chair I began to ruminate on what powers might have sought to silence me. I tried to brushed off these ideas however, for who could have known of my search but a trusted few? Not only that but few knew I had in my possession the chaotic and runed statue. Still visions of esoteric cults whispered at the edges of my mind, I was disturbed to think that I might be followed for knowing too much.
I tried to distract myself and turned to the ancient tome instead, its black orb suggesting mysteriously of its contents. The salt mists of the ocean wind had warped the pages and run the ink from some of the hieroglyphs, but still it was in good condition compared to the other crumbling tomes I had seen in the putrid store.
I drew out my knowledge of ancient proto-zebra runes and started to transcribe the ancient tongue into Modern Equestrian. It seemed at first that I was successful, but the script that I received was incomprehensibly garbled. It was after I had written out the first page of the tome that I decided that it must have been written in a code that only the astute could truly interpret. This conundrum of language and cipher continued to deter my understanding and I tossed and turned with the code for hours, until I succeeded by using ancient tablets of the secret Zebra Shaman tongue of the Haaku. Using this as a basis of translations with a few minor alternations, I began to succeed.
The text finally broke into a semi-understandable translation, the preliminary tests in deciphering the ancient documents were positive. At last began to comprehend the first true source of information I had yet discovered on the abhorrent statue.
As I read it I was convinced Al'zarith must have been truly mad, what sane being could write of such lurid and fantastical things? I will write for you a translation of the first tale of the book, the one of which I consider the most profound and revealing.
The Fall of Thurim
In vanished continent of enigmatic Mu, amongst the primal swamps of Thu’rguth, the ponies of Kaldrim and zebras of Muur’kalia did meet in concord for the first time under the gibbous moon. Both equine groups had belonged to powerful coastal civilizations on the high emerald seas of Gu’lur, but as the tides had risen over many years, the cities eventually sank under the ocean waves like a sinister joke of some trickster god.
The survivors fled the raging oceans of the golden temperate coast and had traveled far across long forgotten inner Mu in search of a place they could form a newborn empire. They journeyed to where the hideous, putrid swamps and hellish, desert savannas ruled. Eventually they traveled to the midlands where the high peaks of snow coated Calldurak settled, like the esoteric palaces of beings who had lived before the time of pony and zebra.
It was here, under the precipitous towering mountains that the two races great civilizations first met, first in curiosity of one another and their alien features, then to share their cultures and traditions to one another once the barrier of languages had been broken. This was done at first by the usage of sign language, then in a tongue both comprehensible by them, which culminated in the common language of Hastar. The two groups shared their stories whilst learning the common tongue, and grew aware of each other’s similar plights, deciding it would be wise of them to band together in these hostile lands.
Thus was the new high kingdom forged together as one in from the ruins of their past, and the high city of Thurim born from the ashes of the old world.
The zebras and the ponies settled in the fertile regions beneath Callduruk, tending to their animals and creating small primitive fields and huts. Alchemy of the zebras cured many diseases of the swamps and magic ensured their safety from the beasts of the mires. However the harsh calls of winter approached, but they lacked mineral resources such as coal and iron to create proper instruments of mining and heat fires during the winter months.
Many froze during those long winters and the people suffered as they lived amongst the brooding mountains, but at least they away from the terrible marshes and the unbearable savannas of the lowlands, which were inhabited by the hostile tribes of the M’Uuruk. But here luck changed for the suffering equines, as they heard the fable of that ancient place known as High Paad’ka’lurum.
Of this place the less hostile natives of the region had spoken of to them in hushed and terror stricken tones, warning them not to visit the heinous plateau where it lay. They knew the evil history of the titanic abandoned city with its queerly shaped stones, crimson stained obsidian plinths and high twisted non-euclidian towers.
The shamans and elders of the villages remembered of such places and could recall the terrible times of when those altars had dripped of recent blood, and of the horrible chants and lights had called down dark things from above. Better that the high castles and strange citadels be left alone to crumble, rather than hear the tread of equine hoof in their unhallowed halls, and awaken things that should rest for eternity. The folk of Thurim laughed at such foolish tales of horrors within the broken city, they saw only a chance to exploit the ancient contraptions and tools of the lost people. So they waved away the superstitions of the primitive marshland ponies.
The equines of Thurim climb up the mountain to the forgotten city and delved into the hoary collapsed ruins of the elder beings.
What they discovered was of such strangeness that none could abide the structure afterwards.
Crude, malevolent carvings leered at them with pseudo-equine faces, committing terrible acts in worship to a great abominable figure on a stone plinth. One picture seemed to represent the crawling of a dark thing through some sort of rift as the equine beings danced in frenzy, feeding a captured primitive to its gaping maws. Other carvings portrayed horrible beings dancing in the moonlight whilst terrible and heathenish sacrifices took place, an orb of malign fury writhing in the sky before the horrors, devouring the souls of the dead.
These were not the only peculiarities, the strange stone of the city was not of the local region, and the masons of Thurim wondered greatly of which ancient lands it had been drawn from, for none could be found outside the city. Great bottles of blackened alchemical liquid lined the walls in tottering shelves near a great hallway of one of the pyramids and stank of a puerile necrophage. A great sigil was carved into the wall, and pictured the black liquid being poured into a large dank cauldron of some kind. The dark liquid fell to the bottom of water filled vessels and shined in an oily dank fashion which was entirely deplorable.
The equines did not profit from the sullen darkness and eldritch collapsed city. Its lore nothing more than the sodden ruin and its ancient technologies all but rusted and collapsed, they despised the hateful place but saw profit in the region as metal ore did glow temptingly in the caves and slopes of the mountain.
In rage against the cyclopean structures of the elder people they raised their primitive tools and destroyed the decadent monuments of olden Paad’ka’lurum, driving the obsidian stones into the marshy waters of the lowlands. With the destruction of the ancient city the Thurimians did celebrate, until the high peak of Calldurak was lit by the glow of golden torch and celebratory song.
The primitives of the marshlands looked up at the glowing mountain and the fallen stones which had tumbled from the primeval peak and shuddered at the blasphemy. The shaman’s dirge ruled the night and they spoke of a mighty doom which would fall over the equines of Thurim which no hoof could stay.
So did the equines of Thurim settle in the high mountain peak of Calldurak, and upon the spot where the ancient city had stood build high terraces and mighty houses of magnificence from the rich metals which coated the lustrous mountain. Their oracle, an equine by the name of Cal’thak said that for a thousand years the glorious kingdom would see prosperity and glory, all whilst he lay on his deathbed, but he spoke before his death, of a terror which would come from the lost and sunken ruins of Paad’ka’lurum for their desecration of the sleeping house of the elder race.
The equines of Thurim celebrated at the prophecy, for a thousand years the elder had said their city would be coated in gold! Few paid attention to the cryptic warning of old Cal’thak but even they could not contain their good humor at the prophecy of such luxurious connotations.
Only the zebra high priest Larchak heeded the ancients warning and paled at the prophecy, for he had known Cal’thak before the old stallion’s death and had spoken in depth with him during the excavation of the necrotic city. Larchak climbed upon a marble plinth before the celebrating people of Thurim and spoke of such things to the Thurmic folk, but they rose in protest against the hideous proclamations. They chose delusion rather than heed his warning and sent him into exile, banished with scorn from the city of high Thurim.
Thus the fate of Thurim was sealed in the ignorance of the high priests warning, and its doom cemented into the keystone of history.
After the exile of the high priest the equines of Thurim began to build the glorious metropolis on high Calldurak. High towers of platinum roofing proclaimed the shining city from afar. Beautiful curling engravings covered all the structures pure white marble that had been found in bounty in the high peaks. Ivory and obsidian roads cleared the way before glorious golden and silver gates of the city, the grandeur dazzling ambassadors and merchants from the cities of Kai and Uregg.
The houses of proud Thurim were clad in silver and bronze of magnificence and proclaimed their wealth and power in their extravagance. Tall towers crowned their corners and stood high and mightily in the mountain sky. The high court of Thurim was the joy of the city, its many domed and thousand pillared design showing the work of hundreds of artisans and the affluence of the nation.
It is here in the golden halls that they worshiped the chthonic deity Yeg, whom they praised for guiding them to Thurim and giving them power once again. Here the equine deity rested on a throne of engraved platinum and gold, bejeweled by the rubies and diamonds of the prosperous mines. He lay with such nobility and artistic beauty, that the equines of Kai and Uregg marveled that he did not rise from his palanquin of diamond, in a river of mercury, and walk with them, a god amongst his people.
But this was not all that mighty Thurim had gained in the hundreds of years that had passed since they had settled. The epic city now stretched from the highest pinnacles of the mighty mountain to the lowest regions near the changed marshland regions that had belonged to the tribes. They had long since built upon its rich soil a many canalled agrarian farmland of floating fields and terraces. With the destruction of the marshes the primitive tribes had been enslaved and now farmed the land for their masters, as the equines of Thurim lived in opulence at the tribal equines expense.
The slaves loathed their new masters and often strove to escape their clutches, but magically enchanted bands of gold maintained their forced loyalty to the decadent people of arcane Thurim. They had not forgotten the days of freedom and slave elders spoke of the ancient prophecy of their shamans, and the proclamation of Larchak and Cal’thak, speaking with glee at the coming destruction. But still they feared for their own tribe-stallions at the hands of whatever forgotten evil the equines of Thurim had awoken and began to grow fearful as the growing city moved further towards the broken, shattered ruins of Paad’ka’lurum.
For a thousand years the equines of Thurim had gathered at the shattered remnants of the fallen city and danced in mocking victory before the broken structures. They had reigned supreme over the pendulous monuments and defied the ancient prophecy of which Cal’thak had spoken of, for had not a thousand and more years passed since the fateful prophecy? They drank and were merry, lounging on barges guided by the slave equines of M’Uuruk. They dozed in opulence, enjoying the soft silks of their embroidered robes, the fine wines of the farmland planes and celebrated the destruction of Paad’ka’lurum. They laughed at the queer hateful curses delivered by some of the slave barge-ponies and danced and sang until the morning woke them from drunken slumber.
It was during the one thousand and third celebration that the ancient horror first reared its head. In signs of which the tribal ponies viewed with premonition, the great jet ruins of Paad’ka’lurum glowed in a bright terrible light, disturbing the equines of Thurim from their languid resting and black lotus educed stupors. They stared in confusion as the glow continued until it finally died down to naught but a trickle of light of which emanated from the structure. Some more analytical figures swore that a dark stain spread from the old ruins and into several deep caves, seemingly like crawling black protoplasm, but when they looked again it had vanished. Some strange music lit the night in pealing mockery of true joviality and a high strange whisper rose on the sudden winds coming through the murky swamp.
“Uru’gkai Mu’graa’reg Qu-lu-un'grh Yugroth De’jaa-aal'n-Gu-ri'ek”
The equines of Thurim wondered at the strange light and message. But when famed Chen-rah, the high alchemist spoke of the marsh gases being the cause of the light and the movement of such gases causing the queer sounds, the Thurimic folk receded back to dance and song amongst the ruins of the cyclopean structures.
But from that day forth an evil had settled on the ancient city of proud Thurim, and naught would be the same again after the strange call had sounded.
It came on during the high winds of winter.
The city was coated in the light dust of snow from the northern winds of Uregg when It came. The water which had long been tapped from the high mountains turned to a fated blackened coloration. Of this liquid Othur-Theg, the High Priest and scientist, compared to the ichorous blood of a god, further studies showed that it seemed to have magical qualities of extreme potency. Eager followers of Yeg, believing it was his divine gift, drank the substance and fell into a deep slumber which no outside force could awaken them.
When they awoke the stared blankly into the fearful onlookers with eyes as black as coal, they opened their mouths and an alien accent spoke the syllables of Thurimic language, not unlike those of a dreamer who had understood the words from far off places.
The ascended dreamers spoke of paradise within the heavily folds, of ancient gods from the times before the land of Mu rose from the sea. They prophesied that these gods of the lineage of Yeg wanted their worship to be greater than before. Certain pivotal sacrifices must be made at certain movements of the stars for them to walk amongst their children again.
The dreamers were greatly wondered at, but none of the Thurim thought fearfully of them for they knew that the dreamers had seen the gods in heaven, which explained their queer nature of speech and thought. Instead the proud and opulent people crowded around these dreamers and as they spoke of their frightful will.
They were accepted as divinely touched prophets and they replaced the high priests of Yeg. The high priest Othur-Theg was beheaded by the crowd of the faithful as he protested against such blasphemy, fearfully preaching that he had found the origin of the substance in the archives of the high library, and the dreamers must be destroyed.
With Thurim mesmerized by their strange qualities, the ascended dreamers slowly began to integrate the heinous worship of a vile and malevolent new deity called the Dark One amongst worship of the Thurim. Once-pure Yeg was twisted into a mockery of his noble self before they discarded him from the pantheon and had his statue beheaded.
Those faithful to the ascended grew and grew until all but all equines of Thurim forgot pure worship of noble gods and turned to the darkened tales of the ascended. The slaves once hateful of Thurim and gleeful for their destruction now wailed because of other reasons, they were trapped with the now decaying Thurimians by the magical bands of service as the ascended numbers grew. The ascended now demanded a sacrifice of slaves to fulfill the need of the most powerful master, the Great Dark One. A hideous statue was carved from the fallen obsidian stones of Paad’ka’lurum by the sleeper Gaahrag-Rai, and the slaves wailed at its unveiling.
Gaahrag-rai sculpted the strange and eerie statue of the Dark One into the form of a nightmare god of fear. Its body was of whipping blades and terrifying vices and its head proclaimed three eldritch eyes, which gazed malevolently and sadistically upon the strange and maddened followers of its vile cult. It was said that through this statue, ancient magic was weaved of which no unicorn could comprehend and which could reach out to the stars, communing with and summoning a terrible power. Of this statue the ascended prayed and gibbered in maleficent ritual and insanity until the dawn of the sun. The rituals and worship of these evil entities was of such shocking and vileness that merchants and ambassadors of the other cities drew away from the city. They shuddered as they looked back at the fallen citadel and the rise of the decay of the mighty society. Thus without the guiding hand of sanity, Thurim began its descent into decadence and foulness.
Great rituals and sacrifices of the slaves became the work of the city, no more was there the inspired artisan to paint fair murals, no more was there the hardworking laborer to draw out the ore from the mountains, no more was there the craftsmen to turn gold into wondrous statues. As the chants and prayers became wilder, the city drew forth the repugnant stench of thousands of maggot ridden corpses as they lay piled before the obsidian sacrificial altars of Paad’ka’lurum, that had been drawn up from the ancient ruins of the marsh.
The people chanted, frothed and gibbered terribly as they worked themselves into frenzies for the coming of the Dark One. The few left to protest against such travesty sighed in resignation to the coming storm and fled into their houses until the end had risen or else were slaughtered.
But most disturbing was the change in the high ascended sleepers of the priesthood, they began to warp and twist abominably and of such vile nature that they scarcely seemed to be ponies. This change was increased by the drinking of the foul waters and great power was bestowed upon these twisted mockeries of nature. It is here in the last years of the truly ancient city of Thurim that they feasted upon the sacrificed and rotting corpses of the slaves in ghoulish banquets, waiting until the great stars aligned.
The summoning ritual was being prepared for the Dark One to descend from the higher planes and walk amongst equines as he had in the past.
All would bow before the Shadow Emperor.
The slaves wailed in misfortune and beat themselves for allowing the brief chance of hope to enter their souls. For now they were bound to the evil will of the undulating, gibbering and flapping horrors whose slime ridden, degenerate bodies oozed from the blackened pits of Thurim during the full moon. On such days they danced, maleficently at the night sky and the rising stars for his coming.
Thurim was a twisted mockery of itself, where pleasing columns once stood, now the collapsing halls were covered in the long dried and crusted blood of the slaves. Where beautiful and primeval gods of Yeg and his kin had once posed, now the vulturine statues of the vile insidious beings did squat, sinister and malevolent before the chanting, gibbering, hissing, horned and tendril ridden creatures of the abyss.
At last the alignment came in the thousand and thirty second year of the destruction of Paad’ka’lurum and the twenty ninth year of the fall of the ruined city of Thurim. The slaves had been all but destroyed by the immense sacrifices of the ascended dreamers and the lands had been left to rot and degrade, the once golden fields being sucked once again into marshland. Kai and Uregg had long since abandoned all hope for the equines of Thurim and now decided it was time the horrors burned alongside their rotten city.
Together the two great kingdoms marched toward the putrid city, drawing with them great dragons to reap the skies and shining plate armoured warriors to cast the abominations back into hell. Lances and steel spears followed in legions behind these shining warriors as they marched upon the decaying city.
Realizing the great awakening of the Dark One had been stalled by the movements of the other kingdoms, the warped Thurimians spat and hissed in fury, crashing unhallowed gongs and cracked bells in a furious tempo of prayer as they prepared to unleash their master’s fury upon the intruders.
As the armies of shining steel advanced so did the prayers grow louder and fiercer, until a deafening wail rose from the broken pillars and rusted gates of blood encrusted Thurim. The city was under siege as great cannons and siege engines battered the crumbling walls of the degenerate city, and dragons brought fire upon the once marvelous houses and monuments of the once glorious nation.
Great siege stones and dragon flame crushed the flapping, gibbering, abominations as they spat evil magic which burned the bones of the dragons and brought them crashing to the ground. Great king Marius of Kai, dressed in battle armor, cleaved his way through the foul things of Thurim but fell before Gaahrag-rai, being ripped asunder by the ghoulish strength of the creature that had once been an equine sculptor of a beautiful city.
But the power of equines is not so easily defeated, and from Marius's death came greater loathing for the hideous Thurim. The armies moved forward despite the horrifying sights and shocking casualties, into the broken and stygian halls that bared all the hallmarks to being the incarnation of Tartarus on Mu. Rotten bones of millions of dead slaves covered the surface of the cracked and broken rooms. The hideous terrible sculptures of leering gods were so lifelike that the stallions of Uregg cast them on the floors and destroyed their hateful forms in insane desperate frenzy.
At last they reached the high throne room of the golden palace of Thurim where stood Muurag, the high priest of the ascended, leading his abominable brethren in a hideous chant before the statue of the Dark One. Terrible cerulean orbs devoured a pyre of corpses and blood crisped and boiled in foul cauldrons as a powerful magic poured forth. Discordant chants sundered the desecrated halls of the throne room, while the demonic abominations shouted out the rancid prayer of
“Qu’lu-ungr Yugroth De’jaa-aaln-Guriek!”
With a powerful surge the kingdoms forces pushed into the rotten halls of the throne room and began to smite the evil priests which whipped and twisted before the dark god. A great slaughter began as the devils fought and chanted in greater frenzy, blood staining the floors and drenching the broken tiles in crimson red. But the hatred of the equines was strong and they smote the aberrations before finally impaling Muurag upon a blackened spike.
But the chant had been completed and foul Muurag laughed maliciously at the darkening of the fiery skies and the hooting and howling of cracked flutes. The warriors of Uregg and Kai saw something in the darkened skies which scorched their souls forever, and fled in maddened abandon to the deep caves and dark places of their homelands. Here they hid away from the frightful sky message of the strange gods in gibbering insanity, becoming nothing more than cannibalistic wretches. 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. Of great cities of Thu’rguth, all disappeared that night under the sign of Muurag, leaving nothing but a great carven statue lying in the blasted waste of the land.
The great figure of the enigmatic Dark One.
Thus fell the great kingdoms of land of Thu’rguth in lost Mu….
As I read the tale I became more and more uneasy, but I remained incredulous of its factual nature. An insane tale of lost continents, broken cities and evil gods it seemed to me so much delusional nonsense. I thought it clear that author was naught but an ancient insane hack attempting his hoof at writing false elder lore. I pushed the book across my desk in distaste, ready to remove it at the soonest convenience. But a small part of my mind spoke out, I wish it hadn't for perhaps if I had ignored it then I would still be in blissful ignorance of the dark realities to this day. But I paid attention to that subtle little whisper...
Perhaps… perhaps some of the ludicrous tale was true. Even if I ignored the foalish idea that the statues were used in communing with astral planes, I could accept that they were some form of idol of worship and that powerful magical enchantments had been bestowed upon the sacred images. Such idols used by the kingdoms of old Equestria would be a vital in the understanding of the lives and practices of Equestrians before the Celestial monarchy. But the problem of origin still troubled me.
I needed to locate the source of the statue to unveil its true history.
I had not received word from the mail-mare I had spoken with a few days ago, but I believed that it had been adequate time to discover the statues origin. If she did not come to inform me of her find by the morning then I would seek her out.
I leaned forward and grasped the cover of 'Pannathic Scriptures' and closed the book with a resounding thud. I opened my safe and placed the lore next to the silver box, planting magical wards over it to protect both from intrusion and then clicking the combination back in place. I turned to the other tomes in preparation to decipher them, rubbing my sweating forehead with a shaking hoof. The strain of the horrible tale and the midnight pursuers had laid a toll upon my mind. I felt exhausted, unready to delve into the fantasies of the others, but a strong urge forced me back to the desk to read through the decayed volume of the 'Star Prince'.
For many hours I read through this other tale before departing to dreams of nightmarish quality. The fable told, gave me other insights on the statue than the Fall of Thurim. I realized that many tales had been told of the ancient statues origin or the origin of its forbearer's at least. With this conflicting data confusing my search, all that could be construed from the ancient texts was one vital and pivotal point, one point of purity which always remained consistent.
The statue was transcendent.
I awoke sweating and panting in horror at the terrible nightmares that had clawed into my dreams.
I stared fearfully at the darkened room before ripping open the curtains and allowing the benevolent light of the sun to shine down on me, easing my distress with its warm light. I paced around my room to ease the tension in my body before dressing in my shirt, waistcoat and tie and descending to the kitchen to eat my breakfast in sullen silence.
For the past few nights the dreams I had been having had been getting more and more surreal, so much so that today I wished not to sleep in order to avoid the horrors of the night. I moved to my drawing room and stared at the black steel metal safe in my wall with a lurking sense of doom. I dared not open it and stare at the horrible devices now; it was too soon and my mind could handle neither lore nor statue. Instead I relaxed in my living-room whilst reading of the frivolities of the nation to ease my edgy consciousness after the escapades of the days before.
A loud knocking woke me from my leisure.
I moved to the door and I felt an extreme sense of dread at the possibility of the shadowed stallions planning on taking me away. But it was only the mail-mare with her rolling eyes. She brought news of the discovery of where the statue originated from and my eyes widened in shocked realization as I finally discovered who had sent the statue to me. She told me the package originating from the swamps of Murkmire from a small township called Timberdale in the northern most region of central Equestria.
It had been from Razorquill.
Razorquill was friend and compatriot in my research into the past during my studies into ancient Equestria, he was one of the supreme authorities of my expansive social circle or collaborators. An emotionally withdrawn and quiet antiquarian, Razorquill preferred to communicate over long distances than in person. We had before had long discussions on the old tribal gods of the Earth ponies, and the rising of the first civilizations in Equestria. He always took the side of the fantastical in these matters, but of which he expressed himself most eloquently and ably at countering my logical arguments with his own sharp wit and foreknowledge that I could not help but admire. Occasionally he had been proven correct in small matters, but other times he had failed to deliver substantiating evidence on why he supported such wild theories.
I first met Razorquill four years ago at a local conference on previously uninvestigated history in the Pre-Discordian era. This cold, gaunt shadow of a Pegasus stallion portrayed the signs of civility and intelligence, his rhetoric perfected and his responses to those who questioned with sharp wit of assured intelligence. His coat was a dour grey and he always wore a suit, which suggested formality of an ancient highborn family. His archaic usage of vocabulary astounded all my fellow historians in the strange and vivid ways of which he described his findings. The only fault in this dark, intensely knowledgeable stallion seemed to be his enduring fascination with the fantastical and occult.
From his fascinating words, I drew towards him, he had always been the most intriguing of my many acquaintances and had been familiar with the strange mystical lore that I had so recently dabbled in. It could have only been he that had sent me the package and brought me to this queer investigation, for I knew of no ponies of similar fancy and understanding of primal Equestria in Northern Reaches. Now I understood where it had been delivered from, I wondered greatly at the lack of letter with greater curiosity, for Razorquill had always delivered the packages he had sent me with a long winded and detailed letter.
This terrible delivery however, had contained nothing.
A dark and brooding feeling of fear descended upon me and I worried greatly for my friend, wondering at the lack of letter and remembering the initial terrible stench of rotten blood the idol had reeked of when first delivered. The region of Murkmire had always been a nebulous, decaying place, filled with deep marshes and curious blue marsh lights above the deep waters. Timberdale was of no exception from this. Dilapidated and dating back over a hundred years, the township had been built for the excellent supply of wood once found in the region, but had sank into poverty as the trees of which the economy had been built upon disappeared due to deforestation, leaving only expansive vile swamps to remain. The ponies of the region had degraded too, turning into shiftless degenerates which skulked in collapsing remains of the shattered town. All of this had been delivered to me by the news of Razorquill in his weekly volumes from the rickety manor that he lived in, peering out into the gloom of the township and writing of the thoughts and visions of which clouded his mind. In The past few weeks he had been becoming reticent and secretive in his letters. He had said he had found something important that required all of his available time, so he had less time to write to me, something of which I now understood with the arrival of the idol.
Once the mail-mare had left I drew out the puzzle box and the 'Pannathic Scriptures' and gazed in fear at them for the first time. A small part of mind screamed at me to bury or destroy them, destroy all of it and go back to the times of peace.
But it was not to be, I decided to visit my distant friend in the marshes of Murkmire, and whatever wise primal intuition was buried under a stony resolve to discover what this ancient statues purpose truly was.
I hurried into the streets as a storm brewed in the sky, lightning flashing and thunder roaring as I trotted in paranoid haste to the new railway which had been built, carrying the tome and statue with me in a black leather case. I bought a ticket at the booth and climbed aboard the train, sitting down on the leather seats near the window as the steamer moved to chug away into the north. I sat there unprepared for what would await me in the shadowed and terrible town of decay.
Since that event my mind has never been the same again and my cracking sanity opened a frightful abyss of terrors unknown to happy, ignorant and carefree ponies.
The nightmares of my dreams were reborn…
Within the mists of Timberdale.
Book I - Chapter Two: The Children Of Lir
"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.
Book I - Chapter Three: Dreams of the Abyss
"Oily waves lapped in laughter,
On the black river Styx,
And on the horizon we saw the gleam,
Of the Festival, of Orchids."
- Dreaming Song - The Festival of Orchids
The red mist cleared before me and I saw my path.
It rose up into the highest peaks of this terrible black mountain; a mountain of which no earthly creature was designed to perceive… let alone traverse.
Yet walk I did, upon a silver path which warped and twisted in hexagonal steps; made not of metal, but a queer stone which no equine will ever see upon our primitive planet with its feeble notions of normality.
I walked this foul path; a path which was ever winding, but which had but one destination unto which no other route could be taken.
The destination in the form of that white-robed thing.
It stood amidst the crimson mist whilst an inferno of colours raged in the heavens above, beckoning me with elder portent, and with the promises of arcane mysteries to be unveiled. Its movements were hypnotising and I could not resist the alluring call; incapable of escape on my terrible journey into the unknown; drawn to that figure that mesmerized me, like the eye of a furiously maleficent storm above, turbulent and uncanny.
The white robed walker stood there upon high, surrounded in an aura of the crimson mist which boiled and frothed like the lifeblood of titans. Once more he beckoned forth, like a wizened master of the ancient mysteries of the primal spheres, calling silently from his throne of scarlet vapour.
Above, the mists swirled in a terrifying enigmatic mass, stretching further than the horizon, crossing into space in a never-ending vortex of cosmic power, whilst below it, only the faintest light of stars could be seen. To my terrible speculations, it may have stretched across dimensions, past galaxies and across all space and time. It was an eternal hurricane of the elder times, which had undulated and surged since the dawn of creation, and twisted and heaved in incandescent, indescribable colours when Thurim was nothing more than the primeval hopes of primitive tribes.
Up higher and higher I climbed, through the mist of crimson to that figure, that form, which clutched by soul and which all equines might bow to, although they would not know why. The figure which sat amongst the mists, contemptuous, sinister and strange, and knowing that which would have driven Al’zarith to the furthest depths of insanity, knowing that which not even the strange elder races might know without shuddering in horror.
I arrived at the summit and stood before this ancient monster of the dead stars. Around us the ever present mist rolled, its scarlet tendrils and hideous vortex’s reaching everywhere in nightmarish abandon. As I stood upon this high peak, I could perceive a great flat expanse of land which surrounded the spire in every direction. That which was not covered in the enigmatic and obscuring mists of red showed the ruins of a vast alien civilisation stretching as far as the horizon, A remnant of a dead past, now tattered, forgotten, and left in terrible decay.
The hideous leprous terror beckoned one final time with a hoof or paw or claw, I could not fully tell. It had partly taken the aspect of equine, perhaps in some mocking jest towards a doomed race of which there was no hope of survival. It welcomed me, this strange monstrosity which sprawled across an eerie throne of disgusting white obsidian. It was a leering aberration of noxious repulsiveness which could not be described by any written means, but as a sneering face with foul decayed teeth. It received me in this shattered dimension, and when I asked from whence it came, out poured a noisome and scornful laugh which caused my flesh to crawl like it was infested with a thousand insects; writhing and oozing underneath my skin.
“I am it who dwells beyond the furthest reaches of time, he who walks the veil, she who is of a thousand forms and nightmarish apparitions. You feeble creature of blood and flesh, you cling to nothingness, incapable of comprehending your own irrelevance. You are nothing, equine; you are bacteria.”
This primal monstrosity squatted before me like some foul degenerate ape from the most terrible reaches of the Zebra Jungles. I stepped back as the pallid horror leaned in and opened its cavernous and porous jaws wide in maleficent glee.
“You think above you is a vortex? Fool! It is so much more than that, your feeble senses are incapable of perceiving it! So I shall show you.”
Then the true horrors engulfed me and my mind was turned to a static of maddened shock… and a never-ending screaming.
Hideous and profane horrors and abominations unveiled themselves… I- I- I… I could not look away from it; I could not close my eyes. Every way I turned I was confronted with the foulness of oblivion and the stygian dimensions of the outer spheres!
May the gods have mercy on me!
The foul leper half-breed cavorted before me and let out a screaming answer which blasted my mind with an endless horror that thankful few have witnessed. Above me a black void opened in the heavens and engulfed the ever twisting centre of the maelstrom…
That nameless chaos which I now knew was no vortex!
“Behold!” that profane demon had shrieked.
“The eye of a God!”
May Celestia save my soul…
THAT THREE LOBED BURNING EYE!
***
I woke half of Oakbridge with my primal scream, thrashing and twisting in psychotic terror which no stallion or mare should be forced to bear.
My gods that dream!
It had scorched my soul with nightmares which tested the bounds of my decaying sanity. I wept and flailed as strong farming ponies restrained me to my bed, yelling and grunting with strain; demanding that the poor doctor put me back to sleep again.
I felt the needle go into my neck and howled once more, desperate to escape the clutches of Morpheus and my infernal night terrors which further fragmented my already-shattered consciousness. But, at least sweet opium acted as medicine to the horrors of my night delusions and brought about a dreamless sleep.
When I finally awoke, sluggish and aching, I realised the extent of my situation.
I was covered in bandages and my whole body twitched and burned with the foul sensation of crisp flesh and blistering, flaking skin.
It was only through the administrations of a highly skilled and professional doctor, who had arrived on the last train from Arkmane, that I had survived. My skin and burnt flesh was being repaired with magic, but they informed me that there would be serious scarring despite their best attempts.
I had been burned, they said, with no flame which any natural source could conjure; I had been engulfed in the blisteringly furious heat of supremely powerful magical energies.
They probed me over how I had come to be in this situation, but as I was forced to recall that nightmare beneath that crumbling abyss, I could only unleash a phlegm-choked and hysterical giggle at those… things which had dwelled beneath… and that abominable deity which they had almost unleashed.
The giggling turned to moaning, and the moaning to screaming as I was forced to remember those terrible things once more. Those hideous, titanic eldritch, rubbery, amorphous fronds which had sprung from the ground like abhorrent, profane, perverse protoplasmic fauna… Oh god... that thing from the deep had unleashed itself to greet its eternal children of the sky…
Once more, they were forced to restrain me as I bucked and twisted, once more pushing me back into that dreamless world which was the only balm to my broken sanity.
As I resurged from my dreamless sleep and the terrible truths reality inflicted every time I awoke, I learned to what had become of me after that foul realm of abhorrent putrescence had burned with purifying flame.
I had stumbled onto the edges of town, terribly scorched and mutilated by fire. Delirious and deranged, I had screeched about demons and sacrilegious monstrosities from the gulfs of space. The folk of the town first thought me a monster from Timberdale and had rallied a force to remove me, but the young shop keeper saved my life. Once he had seen beneath the burns and tattered clothing, recognising the face that unearthly fires had ravaged, he calmed them down and brought me to the only doctors they had.
They had tried to save my burned and ruined form, but to little avail; none in the town had the medical experience to treat such injuries.
I would have died there if the train from Arkmane had not brought with it the elderly doctor and his wife. Out of their generosity and kindness, they had tended to me during my recovery, tolerating my terrible outbursts of screaming, which had driven all but the most curious watchers away; pale-faced and frightened.
I had mentioned in my delirium of how Timberdale was no more; something that appeared to have caused much speculation and inquiry into the matter. It was discovered that it was true however, after some timorous investigations by some of the more courageous townsfolk.
Half the town had sunk into the marsh and the other half was nothing more than a blackened, skeletal corpse upon the horizon. Not one creature seemed to have come out of the blazing inferno alive; none but I had returned from that town since then. There were vague mentions of burials and a mysterious disfiguration of the corpses which seemed to have either been formed by the flames, or proved substance to the rumours of the demonic nature of the inhabitants.
There was nothing of any real value left and no undamaged creature ever turned up from the blackened pit that was once Timberdale. The things that they buried were nothing more than charred skeletons which were only vaguely suggestive of the things which I knew Timberdale had truly hid.
When I learned these cautious rumours, I let loose an uncontrollable laugh. What simpletons they were to think that demon worship and degeneration had caused such things! I knew what had come from… above. What the limitless epochs of time and the infinitudes of space had moulded to shape from the clay of creation. The villagers with their simple superstitions could have never comprehended that these things had always been, and were subservient to no god they knew, only that thing which… which groaned and gibbered from the deep, in its subterranean vaults; which none but I now lived to tell of.
But I would not tell – I could not – my mental state was already under question, and any mention of these foul alien throngs would have only driven them to deliver me to the Trottingham asylum. No, I kept silent on the matter and only through my brief outbursts of hysteria did they ever perceive that there might have been something more; some other detail about what had occurred within the town.
Thankfully however, the villagers did not press questions upon me; neither did they attempt to take me into custody on suspicion of being the cause of Timberdale’s destruction. The fires had been too fierce to be sprung from a simple attempt of arson, and even if I had been responsible, they did not care. Those disfigured mutants had long since eroded any sense of compassion the townspeople had for them. Even for Equestrians, there were some groups too monstrous to abide. Even if they didn’t consciously think it, I believe each of them thought that I had done them a service in the decaying city’s elimination, and were unwilling to bring me to justice for the perceived crime.
It took me a week before I finally reclaimed some stability within my fragile consciousness, but even then the doors of knowledge which I had opened could no longer be closed. I still shivered oddly in the cold breeze that sometimes came through the window of my room, remembering the chill of the crypt beneath and the rotting cadavers which piled and rotted within.
As my body and mind began the slow process of mending, I kept my ears open for new information to keep my mind off the things I had seen. Even mundane and everyday life events such as a talk about a broken pitchfork became precious, and I craved the normality which had been denied me since my searches into the unknown and abominable.
The doctor and his wife had boarded with a local family whilst they had cared for me and I occasionally saw the rough farmer folk which I had seen only sparsely in my brief visit before I left for that… hell-spawned place. The owner of the house was a heavyset stallion of middling years called Aldercolt Apple; a northern offshoot of the large Apple family which seemed to find itself in every city there was to be. Although he had put up with much of my midnight howls without complaint, I could see that he had begun to grow impatient with me, and was glad I had finally begun to show signs of recovery.
Once the bandages had been removed from my face, I was able to speak clearly once again, but found that I could no longer do so without a stutter in my voice, and a continuous stream of nervous twitches and spasms. The Oakbridge ponies did not question me about the town, but to my distress, the doctor and his wife from Arkmane did. Thankfully they did so with care, knowing that my mind was frail; only asking of me the occasional question whilst asking about the events before those fateful days.
I could only answer with grave caution and intense restraint however and could only shake, whimpering, when they asked more than I was willing, or able, to tell. If I began to dwell on what had happened there, my voice became higher, more maddened, and my stutter more severe. When they asked about Golden Rein, I could only tell them that he had died before breaking down into a mixture of sobbing and maniacal tittering. It was clear to them that whatever had happened within that place had broken me completely, and my responses to their polite questions seemed to show that I had not been responsible for the blaze that had engulfed the town… I wish that the doctor had been correct.
Still they clung to the rationalism which I had once purported, and my vague hints that there might have been something worse, something terribly wrong with inhabitants of the town, were lost on them. The principle that there might have been an ominous nature to that harrowing place, other than genetic degradation sounded like so much nonsense now. Instead, they drew their conclusions on the books and ancient lore which I had gathered, which had been delivered with me in torn and cracked saddlebags, and argued that such occult notions of frightening beasts had imprinted primitive superstitions into my mind.
Yet they wondered deeply about the spire of light which had been launched into the sky during the height of the ritual. Thankfully however, they did not ask me about it due to my condition. Besides, they argued, such magic would have required an advanced piece of machinery or numerous expert magicians to produce, and it was clear that I had not had any close relationship with the Timberdaler’s before.
I listened to them muse about such arcane mechanisms and giggled at their folly; remembering well those cerulean fires and the thousands of horrifying, screaming faces which had been hidden within.
The one thing which drove fear into my heart and mind however, were rumours of the mysterious strangers who had arrived many hours before I came stumbling out of that abominable hell which stallions had once named Timberdale. Queer in looks and cloaked in heavy cloths, these strangers had asked many curious questions, first on where I had fled to, the second about a mysterious idol which I had in my possession, and finally to report any news of my return to them.
The folk of the town however, had found their strange ways of speech, which lurched and changed, to be utterly terrifying. Beneath their waxy hide, it seemed as if something rolled and seethed, and the silent sound of their gliding hooves was utterly hideous and almost ghostlike.
A passing mare on her rounds to deliver the daily newspapers had a frightful experience with them when she stumbled on the path. She had accidentally fallen to the side of one of the mysterious strangers, and as she had moved to apologise, she suddenly went cold and rapidly backpedalled from them. She had said in hushed and shaken tones however, that whatever she had felt beneath that waxen skin was something repulsive, and beneath that clammy flesh, there was nothing solid, she hadn’t felt a single bone in the body of that leering figure.
The locals talked almost as much about these characters as they did about the ruins of Timberdale. They did not trust them however, and despite the strange creatures later claims that I had stolen the statue they refused to say a word to them. They knew that there was something deeply unnatural about these queer folk, and they were willing to hedge their bets with a colt obviously of flesh and blood than these silent, mysterious figures of neither.
The two had returned and asked if I had done as such recently, and the townsfolk hadn’t told them anything of my plight. As far as they were concerned with these people, they hadn’t seen a thing. They had hissed something terrible after that, in a brooding dark language which caused the pious to make holy signs, and others to shiver.
They had at least left thankfully, and I was free enough in my time of recovery from those things which I knew were no true-blooded ponies. The idol which they had inquired about also caused some discussion, but none thought that it might be in the hands of me. As far as they could see, I held nothing more than a strange and highly antiquated puzzle box, although it was of curious size.
The doctor and his wife had thus left it well enough alone, obligingly overlooking the box in their attempts to analyse how I had received my injuries. I doubt very much if they could open it, even if they had tried, and I knew that they would be aghast at its contents.
Now relatively free from my bandages, I could sit up in bed and made some halting steps for the first time in a week of magical and non-magical healing.
For all this time, I had avoided looking at the mirror, but the grimaces and flinching of the honest farm ponies might as well have told me that which my reflection could only convey. My face was a ruin, some people might weep about it and call out that it wasn’t fair, but instead I felt cold and fell silent, unable to focus on the idea that the damage was irreversible and I would see that face I knew no more in the flesh, but only in blurred grey pictures.
I remember I sat out in the sunshine sometimes on an old bench propped up by a couple of pieces of sturdy wood on the porch. I sat there, dazed, cold, and uncomfortable, and just watched as village life passed me by. But this caused me to being thinking about what I had seen. I could remember it all so clearly, and that had been enough to cripple me for the first half of the week of my recovery.
Soon, I began to think about the infinitude of the cosmos, I doubt many ponies have wondered about how vast and unexplored the gulfs of space are, and the infinite chaos in which the universe eternal spirals. Some have speculated on the nature of such things, but most have been based on the rudimentary logic, and empirical notions of science. The only others would be the pulp writers who fill the heavens with nothing more than little strange green ponies, and write such nonsense so extravagant that one can barely restrain contempt.
Neither of these had considered the possibility of life being utterly alien from the shapes and forms of the Equestrian species, and the notions of science were ultimately restrained by convention rather than wild fantasies.
Within the queer blackness of this strange world, I wondered at the sleeping titans which might lurk, hidden away amongst the stars. Waiting for a time in which the cosmic changes might allow them to spread. I imagined their thoughts gave rise to the secret cults and societies, who, following the modes and rituals given to them by dreams of the first equines, would lead to the carcasses of gods waking and arising once more, and the fall of all the cosmos.
Shivering oddly at a sudden chill, I felt my soul turn to ice at the thoughts of these things and vainly tried to return to the ignorance I had once held, but to no avail. The gates of doubt had since opened with a mighty gust of wind and blown out the candle which my fellow Equestrians held, and which I had once championed. Now nothing remained, only the assurance of our eventual destruction and the cynical nihilism of a prematurely aged and pessimistic stallion.
I wondered deeply on this idea, even if the cults existed in scarcity amongst Equestria, they were there. I had seen enough in Timberdale to realise the true power of these terrible associations, and what they might bring down if we did nothing to stop them. I wondered also to whether the Celestial sisters knew of this terror in the darkness beyond the stars, doubtless they had lived long enough to know of it, as I now knew of it.
Were they keeping these operations a secret from the public, to protect Equestria perhaps? Maintaining the traditional order whilst expunging the decaying leftovers of foul and ancient decadent cults?
I did not know.
I could not know.
I did not want to know.
When I was not considering these morbid things, I was staring listlessly into the deep pond before me. Since my experience a profound sense of powerlessness had overtaken my spirit. I felt like nothing more than an insect in the cosmic infinity of the stars.
I was overwhelmed by a sense that I was nothing, absolutely nothing; I would go through my life and not achieve anything of note, I was less than a grain of sand on the winds of a mighty storm of the history of this universe.
With this came the terrible isolation, and ultimately, suicidal inclinations. I could not bear what I had seen beneath that horrifying town, in the pits of decay and amidst those vulturine horrors which once stalked the world. Neither could I bear the thought that if I ever tried to tell anyone, that I would be sent to a madhouse or spurned as a fool or deluded neurotic by the ponies I knew. This process had already begun with the doctor and his wife, and it would continue throughout my existence, to the last breath of my life.
So I stared wishfully towards those deep waters, occasionally sitting on the bank and staring into those murky depths. A few times I waded in and wondered how long it would take for me to drown. I almost took the step one day, but something restrained me from doing so. Whether it was the last pleadings of a rational part of my mind, or some lurking fear of what might lie beyond, I cannot explain.
I think the doctor and his wife had grown suspicious of my sojourns to the pond, and the despairing looks I frequently gave it. I was no longer allowed to walk towards those still waters and sit at the edge of those deep, safe, underwater worlds. Instead they attempted to restore my spirits and often read to me of the literary classics of the past eras, trying to occupy my mind with other leisure activities too, but my mood could not be lightened.
The dreams also persisted now that I was no longer in the dark hold of narcotics, leading me to hideous far-off realms which all equine-kind should never have to see. I tried to withdraw from sleep, but each night I failed, and was forced to a terrible red-covered realm, where masquerading creatures dined and howled and gibbered. Once, in a truly terrible nightmare, I saw those craven beasts praying maniacally to a terrible statue carven out of abysmal basalt. A statue which twisted and leered horribly, and heard the far-off chants in a language so loathsome I tried to silence it with my screams.
Each night I awoke from these dreams with startled cries of fear on my lips. My hide drenched in sweat, and tears running down my cheeks as, once again, I was forced to contemplate the things I had seen.
Finally I decided that I could no longer bear to be in this town. There were too many memories… recent… horrifying memories for me to bear.
I proceeded to prepare for my departure, and for the first time in a week, began to clip off my patchy stubble, which had grown slightly long since my recovery. This however, forced me to look into the face which had been ruined by physical scars and my poor mental health.
Staring into the mirror at that gaunt figure with puckered whiplashing scars engraved in his flesh by the intense heat, was utterly alien and unsettling. Furthermore the shock of seeing how quickly my once shining coat and mane had turned into nothing more than straw like hair – bleached pure white at the roots – caused me to stand there paralysed for what felt like hours.
Running a hoof through my mane I felt something strange, and only once I pulled my hoof away did I realise that my remaining hair, which showed my true colour, was falling out.
What stared at me from the mirror was another pony; I could scarcely believe that in less than a couple of weeks I had changed so hellishly, so severely that I could barely recognise my own reflection. Nevertheless, I began my grooming, and soon began to calm down and enjoy the small luxury of this task which I set my entire mind to.
I could no longer bear to look at my current mane, so I set about cutting it short and functional, tending to the rest of me, I began to scrub off the remaining hair in the bath, watching as large clumps of it began to coalesce on the top of the water. I was careful around my scars; the skin there was new and not all-together perfectly healed and could still easily be broken.
Once I seemed to be more presentable I began to inspect the long, mottled scar tissue which covered a large portion of my body. Magic, thankfully, had been able to restore much of the damage inflicted on me by backlash of that chant. Still, it could not repair everything, and I had been left with long streaks of yellowed and hairless flesh across my body. A v-like scar ran from the left of my eye with one point, twisting my mouth into a lopsided, cold, and horrible grin with the other. It only served to emphasise my prematurely aged, cynical, and sunken eyes.
Now that I appeared to be showing signs of recovery – if not entirely in health but instead in mind – the doctor began to give me more leeway with what I did with myself during the days that followed.
I remembered how jovial I had once been, how happy… Now I realised I bore a mask of silent foreboding, a grim coldness like winter’s ice which was accentuated by my new snow white fur, making me appear like some icy windigo half-breed. I doubt even my parents would have recognised this forlorn creature which stood in a black suit before the mirror. It was as if the very act of peering into the unknown had re-forged me into something new, something different.
Something dead.
The doctor had quietly insisted on a few more days of rest and recovery, and with nothing else to do, I busied myself in my tomes of lore. Despite seeing the accursed things which dwelled at the edges of the world, I still felt the dreaded pull of that ancient knowledge. It was not a rational urge, but instead an incessant illogical calling which drew me back to those cryptic pages of archaic knowledge. Surprisingly, they had not been damaged by the fires, and not one page of any of the books was blackened by those terrible, ravaging flames. So I sat there in my room, caressing their paper and feverishly scanning the diagrams and signs which crowded every surface.
For hours on end I sat, engrossed in the knowledge which was arrayed before me, flicking through pages and half-speaking the elder chants which crowded the margins in crabbed scrawling. This new knowledge both terrified and allured me, like the fabled sirens of ancient myths. I learned about equine-kind and the lost epochs of time, the origin of the degenerate Wyrm beasts of the deep sea, and the chittering terrors which acted as foul swineherds to their primeval cattle. Still more I learned of the foul things which lurked in dark places amidst the cities of ponies, the hideous throngs which hold court beneath the earth, and laugh at the naivety of equine-kind.
Strange allusions were made to that mad emperor in the ancient past of the Griffonic Imperium amidst the writings of the mad zebra Al’Zarith. The one only known as the strange M’onos-Gyphic’yn – the first and last of his name – whom had entered the primeval pyramid tombs of his forefathers with his most experienced warriors and returned, alone and mad. The insane emperor had dabbled in sorcery and rumours told of stranger things which he whispered from his steel throne. Finally his madness and his consorting with evilly-willed changeling warlocks lead to the country rising in a bloody civil war with the cultic throngs the emperor.
The forces of the rebels were many and they finally deposed the emperor from his throne after a year of war. However, they could not kill him, for he disappeared in the twilight of the morn in a miasma of abhorrent purple fire, never to be seen again. What they had found within the Imperial palace was so dreadful, so abominable, that all those who entered swore a vow of silence, and sealed and burned the palace. Still, rumours were told of how the mad emperor had painted across the walls with images of the foulest demons from the voids beyond. This strange emperor was attributed four terrible black tomes of evil sorcery, which none but the chosen could read from.
I read also of the strange beings upon the towers of broken Theg-N’kha, who spoke with the things from the dark, and who built terrible, looming nightmare-temple cities of alien-white obsidian. Such things I recalled in some of my night terrors, and others I remembered from descriptions of things like Theg-N’kha, from stories whispered by the survivors of the tragic Thorn Expedition in Antarktos.
Amidst this cultic history was the murmuring of the strange folk of the forests, the lingering death in the Changeling wastes, the Lotus faces of the sea of decay, all of which was melted in with hushed fragments, whisperings of things which had learned to walk when they ought to crawl…
Sometimes, when I was alone and assured that no beast nor pony would disturb me, I did a reprehensible act. I took from its metal cage the terrible old statue and spent time peering into its strange geometries and hideous limbs… Sometimes… in the dead of night, when all was silent, I thought I could hear it pipe its flutes within the hellish prison which it often dwelled.
Since my return to pseudo-normality, something had changed within me. That which I often would have found to be irrational, degraded and degenerate before was startlingly refreshing. The ancient magics whispered in my lost tomes called me like a siren to a sailor. I began to draw upon the walls strange sigils and maddened signs which Aldercolt Apple baulked at when he first saw them, paling even more when I giggled coldly at his quailing.
My nights were visited by nightmares as usual, but something else disturbed me even more in the waking world. Often, I would be unable to sleep and would toss and turn in bed. Something caused me a deep unease in the quiet, ancient, and dark pine woods around me, I often sat there in the dark, listening for strange noises.
Once I heard them terribly clear, and their connotations opened new vistas of fear within my mind. Those noises! Oh those noises! My flesh crawled at the realisation, gods damn my warped mind!
Something terrible was now beginning to stalk me… No, not stalk, but hunt… hunt like a predator playing with its prey.
I could not sleep that night. Instead I crawled away from the bed and stared at the window at the far end of the room with fear bordering on outright hysteria. I lay there till morning, and just before dawns rise, I thought I saw something… seep from the shadows with oily putrescent flesh! I could almost hear the chittering shrieks of those abominable creatures again! Oh the foulness, the evil that had come to claim me!
I could no longer delay in the township and pressed for my release into the world again. My seeming stability of mind and the progressive healing of my burnt skin convinced the old doctor to let me go. So I commenced to organise my remaining possessions and stitch up my torn saddlebags for the journey ahead.
I bought a ticket from a diminutive teal mare at the station and waited for the train to arrive later in the day. My journey was not back to Arkmane as one might expect, but instead deeper into the mysteries of the loathsome statue. Drawn by the rumours of that abhorrent cult in Trottingham, I knew that I might find whatever was beneath the mound of the society known as the Silver eye. To turn back now would be to leave open something which must be closed and halted at all costs, and despite my feeble condition, the burning call of the statue still drove me to continue.
The old doctor and his wife had decided to come with me, to ensure my good health and the continued healing of my scars, but also to continue on their own journey. The doctor patiently advised me that I should perhaps visit a psychiatrist in order to end the continuous nightmares which I often had. Finally he gave me a small bottle of laudanum which he cautioned against using too often, lest I become addicted to the substance.
I waited for a while, sitting on one of many of the wooden benches nearby the rails. The doctor had gone into the grocery shop to arrange for some food on the way and I was alone but for some other passers-by who trotted about with infrequency. Sometimes the less restrained of them could not help but stop and stare aghast at my terrible burns and ghoulish appearance, even as I returned their curiosity with bitter scowls.
After a while, something terrible, lurking and foul drew my attention…
Some time ago, a cold wind had rustled through the branches of the trees and through the pine woods of Oakbridge, and I had paid no heed to it, too engrossed in my thoughts. But slowly my ears pricked up at noises which were not of the rustling of the wind, but of stealthy movements.
Turning rapidly, I scanned the dark brooding trees for anything that might be there, and amidst the gloom I thought I perceived certain shapes which caused me to almost let out a shriek of terror.
I could not catch them fully with my gaze, they were too quick! Too monstrously fast and cunning! Using the darkness of the shade to hide those abysmal forms! But I was almost certain that there were strange watchers in the undergrowth around the town. I thought I saw them flitting back and forth, always just out of focus and as hidden as stealthy black shadows, but… They…. Were…. There!
With a cold terror which could not be restrained, I finally whispered that dark truth…
Something… or some things… were watching me!
I almost babbled out my fears as the old stallion returned, but I managed to restrain myself from doing so. I doubt his old rheumy eyes could have caught anything amidst the shadows. He would not see those decrepit, soulless vessels of zealous bloodlust, those avian monstrosities of the unnatural… but I knew, I tell you! I knew! I could see them… I could smell them.
In the far-off distance, I heard the distant wailing of some dread pipes and clenched my eyes against those piercing notes.
Turning to my seemingly-unaffected companion I asked him a question which had haunted me throughout my travels.
“How can you stand that infernal piping?!”
He turned, staring at me in bafflement…
“What piping?”
Suddenly I knew…
The piping was coming from within my head.
When the train arrived I promptly locked myself within my room with vague reassurances to the doctor. He had grown worried about my edgy nervousness, but I could not restrain myself with those things lurking in the dark, those fiendish aberrations of nature!
It was well that the train arrived so swiftly, for much longer out there I believe I would have been incapable of maintaining my senses. I shifted heavy furniture across the door and blocked the windows of my carriage. Once I was sure I would not be disturbed, I huddled myself within the lore of the past and buried myself amongst the cryptic hieroglyphs of lost ages, the only illumination coming from my torch.
It seemed hours passed in this state, reading feverishly and copying down copious notes of the ancient dark magic and mysteries of the past. A new interest in esoteric intrigues controlled my thoughts and actions, and I could no longer constrain it to the abyss within darkest recesses of mind. But through my ruminations into the lost past, I came upon knowledge which struck me like a bolt of lightning and lit up my world with hope.
Within the book were the strange and unearthly sigils of the ancient past, but amongst them were the arcane magics of the elder spheres and the symbols which bind and banish that which might seek us harm. Still other signs whispered of stranger things, of the horrifying Red Sign of the Crimson Mare, The Te’ycho Ward which fell from the stars in the age of Mu on a silver meteorite and drowned with the continent in the final upheaval. I learned of the nightmarish symbolism of the books of black metal, which hold the prayer to Xhav’xh’azak, the titan of madness and devourer of knowledge, and I even read tales of the things which tunnelled and festered beneath the earth, guarding an ancient black sphere which could reach out into the gulfs of infinity.
But beneath it all I heard tell of that sign, a lost sigil of portentous power and unthinkable strength. It was gone from equine memory, and the last remnants of such a symbol in the vestiges of equine consciousness were eliminated with the fall of Thurim and the destruction of the lost continent. In the hooves of mortals it could wreak a deadly vengeance on the malicious abominations which clung at the edges of reality, it could act as a shield against the sleeping gods which rolled and turned in uneasy slumber, but they would not be checked by it when they awoke. In the hooves of good it could do much, but in the talons of the demoniacal entities, it could wipe the world of life and wake the elder gods from their primeval dreaming.
What this sign was and how it came to be was only hinted vaguely at, and despite all my searching, I could not find more than scraps of details regarding this thing of considerable power. It was said it was what Muraag, the High abomination priest of Thurim, had attempted to use to bring the great Dark One into existence in this temporal plane. Thank the gods that his madness had been brought to a close by the brave warriors of the past! Who knows what greater evils that eldritch sorcerer might have brought down upon the quaking citadels of equine-kind?
If I could find this sigil, perhaps I could be safe. Perhaps we all could be safe from what screamed and flailed at the edges of reality? But something else also forced me onwards in my decision that I should find this lost artefact.
The tomes of knowledge told had told me that it could be used for both good and evil. What then, would occur if it fell into the wrong hooves? So much had happened to me already. Too much. The memories were almost unbearable and the knowledge excruciating, but I held on to the vague hope that somehow we might yet survive as we had done before in the face of these primordial terrors.
Visions flashed before my eyes and I relived the horrible dark memories of that place, deep beneath Timberdale, a place of festering necrotic flesh and mouldering corpses, of avian things from beyond comprehension and their abominable children. Gods, what madness might be wrought by them if they gained such a power?
I did not know if it was my mind which had conjured up those sounds and sights in the forest, but neither could I be sure that it was not reality either. The others… they had not noticed, but they had not learned to see with true sight; they could not see the horrors which lurked just beneath the natural threshold of existence.
Maybe I was mad, but was not the gates of madness also that which led to the brilliance of discovery? The aberrations which lurked within must be halted in whatever way it could be done, they must not succeed!
My task was futile, but it would give some meaning to my shattered existence, something to hold on to and keep me grasping at the tattered hems of my degraded mind. I would find the sigil, destroy the cult of the Silver eye, and hope that my maddened floundering would maintain the existence of our idyllic species, if only for a few more moments of our universe’s history.
I stared at the box which lay, strange and mysterious before me, the nightmarish statue and its infernal casing which had seen and known too much for our ignorant realm. It held a vital key to this hell-bound mystery, I knew it was so. I would plumb the insane depths of the waters of the void and bring back knowledge to fight the evils which had spread their fetid shadow over this world.
Perhaps it was the sudden revelation that the universe was nothing like our planet. That we had survived merely by a freak chance of nature. Lucky in our own way, not to have fallen to the innumerable tides of burning terrors, but suddenly a vision opened within my mind.
The universe was one where weakness meant extinction.
We are weak.
Centuries of peace and harmony had brought about a terrible stagnation, we had ignored the truth of reality and fled into fantasy, our idle peacefulness had no place within this world. It was all a terrible delusion.
It had made us ripe for destruction.
Our ancestors, in their flawed ways of warring with one another, with their visions of a dangerous world, and their superstition and objection to the strange, had been right in their own way. It had allowed our species to survive the true terrors which had lurked at the precipices of this mundane sphere. What horrors had grown beneath the surface of the earth during our thousand years of peace?
It must have been deep into the night when I finished with my research into the tomes of knowledge, for when I pulled back the curtain and looked out the window, the stars were gleaming in the heavens. I knew which ones belonged to the princess of the night, for they were brighter than the others in the sky, but even she had once conceded that some of the stars were not hers. The immovable glittering lights in the sky which glowed but dimly upon our fragile realm opened new wonders in my mind. What queer dreams and elder wisdom did they possess? They who had seen all, even before the rise of the Celestial Diarchy… What hid amongst the stars? Ancient races, decadent and mad? Hideous nightmares of the elder spheres? Or were they but empty realms of cold death, showing the skeletons of a thousand lost empires and a billion extinguished races?
Only the strong survive.
The train was rushing onwards in a blur of steam, crossing the brooding landscape of the north with amazing speed, but still I did not feel at ease within this place. The forest and lakes all hinted at repugnant things hidden below. Those tall trees which had seemed so strange before… all of which hid a horror which I now knew. Within that dark night, I thought I saw something move amidst the trees like oily shadows of an eldritch beast and shuddered in utter abhorrence at the worrisome thought. At the edges of my vision, I thought I could see pale blue lights amidst the stygian woods, and I was filled with a lingering sense of dread for a coming terror which brooded and bided for now, waiting for the right time to strike.
I curled up under the bed and hugged the ancient volumes which I coveted to my chest. A dark and terrible night loomed ahead, and I gazed at the laudanum tincture with longing. I could not take the drug. Gods knows what might happen if I did. It would only make my capture more likely in my drug-hazed stupor. No, I would not take it, not even the ease the nightmares which haunted my dreams and waking hours. I decided to pack everything away into my saddlebags for a hasty flight into Trottingham in the morning and I closed my eyes. I imagined that I could not hear the ever-present ghoulish piping… or of the chittering of things that should be dead.
Deep into my nightmares, the dreams took me, through the void of unnameable colours and clashing howls which split the night. Deep into the dark realms were the ancient cults dwell. I rode on the back of a foul winged beast, not of any known race of this world. Its flesh was slick with leprous oil and its body seemed rotted and cadaverous to my eyes, its wings were of thin membrane which glowed dimly in the weird light with horrible suggestions of nightmarish properties.
I was robed in a curious white fabric which rustled on cosmic winds, containing symbols which would make even the hardiest soul screech in horror at what it suggested of the realities beyond. Around me, more of the nameless, flying things soared and swept. On each of their backs knelt a robed figure, covered in white.
For an eternity, we swept ever onwards on the barbed winds of hell, and I saw many of the things which had been hinted of by the elder tomes. The black pyramids of the Griffin Emperors, the ancient labyrinth of Tezin-Kebash, and even the lost, crumbling spires of the palace of Fallgorn, which glowed green with ancient magic and mysterious life. Each opened new mysteries, but also new terrors, and I bitterly gazed down into the strange places which had been there before equine-kind became sapient; onto boiling seas in dead realms, where monstrous beasts lived in a cycle of blind, endless carnage below a fractured, gibbous moon.
Eventually, we flew towards more earthly shapes and forms, and I beheld an old city which I knew was Trottingham. The lights of a thousand lamps gave the land below a visage of nightly stars which had descended from the heavens, and I was awed by the display. Then a sinking dread filled me, for was this not the place of the cult of the Silver Eye, and their manse upon the mound?
At last I saw it, and tried to flee from the looming turrets and ruinous decay of that broken citadel on the mound, yet my dreams would not allow it, and I was dragged there on the back of that winged horror which had no name.
The dream cut and I was left floating in the darkness of a silent void, but at last I was torn from this cold realm, back into the dreadful realities of the grim and hideous dream. A circle of a hundred equines crowded around an oily lake in some dark recess beneath the earth. Within its depths, tints of gold and other, more inexplicable, colours bloomed, and I was filled with the lurking dread of that which was abominable and unnatural. A tall, dark stallion stood on an ancient spire of jutting stone and howled into the night, reading from a warped and twisted volume which I knew was the dark Libro Tenebris Mysteria, written by the black wanderer, and the volume I had once sought to gain.
I could not hear what was spoken, nor anything else within that mouldering chasm. All was silent. Even the craven beasts which flapped and gibbered in the high stone cavern’s roofs, made not a sound. I knew that the crowd and the figure I inhabited all spoke as one when the high priest finished his esoteric mutterings, and saw from within the primal lake of oil, something glow and grow within.
Waves began to lap at my hooves and I saw that from the centre of the lake, a powerful surge emanated, causing the waters to rise and clash against the jagged stone basin of basaltic stone, a bright light shone through the murky shadows of the oil and I knew that something had been drawn forth.
The waters parted in a perfect circle and all the oily waves around spiralled like the arms some portentous turbine. Suddenly, everything seemed to stop for a moment, the waves continued as if in slow motion, and the cultists and animals stood as still as statues. It was as if the world had stopped for that brief moment and held its breath in horror of what was to come.
Suddenly, there was bright light, a towering spiral of otherworldly flames, and inside my head, I screamed in horror, for I had seen from whence those flames had come. Within the fire grew thousands of screaming faces, and I felt my mind almost snap once more at the sight of those equine souls, all burning in agony.
My host shielded his eyes, and it seemed as if the cultists stepped back as if overwhelmed by what they had done. But now it was completed and could not be reversed, there was no returning from this abysmal nightmare which they had raised.
From within the flaming pillar of light and howling souls, there came a shadow, a form dragged from the outer realms into this one, a titan beast which would bring about the end.
There was a blaze of blinding light, a searing moment of agony, and then….
Darkness.
I awoke with a start, unleashing a horrified scream as the full terror of the dream hit me. Oh gods, what had they done? What maddened depths had they visited and brought with them that dark prince of destruction?
I found myself huddled in the darkness, whispering to myself in endless repetition, a mantra which I knew could be only truth, whispering and rocking back and forth in mindless terror.
“This is the end… the bitter, bitter end…”
I do not know why I did what I did next, it seems my senses left me and I must have lapsed into a maddened hysteria.
I found myself sprawled amidst the insane work of my fractured mind. I knew I had blacked out, for my dreams were always tainted with the monstrous visages of beyond, but this was something else.
Across the room, were scrawled thousands of sigils, languages and the ancient runic texts of the Haaku. Diagrams and pentagrams, symbols and drawings, all covered the room in white chalk, and amidst it all, I stood within a fourteen sided symbol, which I knew from memory was that of the raising symbol of those lost souls deep beneath Timberdale, and which had been recorded in The Fall of the Star Prince.
I backpedalled wildly, flinging my forehooves against my chest, looking in horror at the white dust which coated them. I sought to find something to remove the symbols which covered the entirety of the train carriage, but could find nothing. Then, staring at the shuttered window, I hastened forward and threw the blinds open.
Midnight.
I felt around in my pocket for some cloth or handkerchief to wipe those blasted runes of dark magic from the walls and floors, but could find nothing. Suddenly, as I felt around in my breast pocket, my heart froze in horror.
Beneath the fabric… I felt the essence of that which I had taken below. I raised it before me with my magic and stared at the monstrous crime I had committed… the very crystal essence of a dead soul.
A horrible thought struck me and I almost recoiled at the very notions of such a blasted idea, such an abominable principle… but the words… the words repeated endlessly within my head, and I could find no way to escape them.
How it had found its way into my new suit, I did not know. Perhaps one of the Apples had found it and sought fit to pass it onto me once more, or maybe the doctor or his wife had found it and thought it some strange memento or charm, and placed it within the new pocket, quite oblivious to its true, monstrous nature.
But one thing was certain… it was here now.
I had taken the very body of what was sacred from within the cryptic labyrinth of the nightmares of Timberdale, but one question remained.
Who or what was it that lingered within these luminous salts?
The reprehensible idea struck me again and I gasped at it. I knew the old tongue; I had heard the ancient eldritch horrors speak it…
I could raise it up into the land of the living once again.
Suddenly, the ground shook.
The windows shattered.
And some stygian horde of evil screeched in victory.
A roaring sound blasted forth from ahead, and the entire train seemed to heave like some titanic beast struck by a mighty blow.
Screams lit the night and the sound of tearing steel screeched forth like a dreadful cacophony of terror.
I tore open the shattered window and stared out into the blackness of the night.
The train was an inferno.
Already, more parts of it were being hit by those flaming green orbs of awful black magic. I could see the stygian fiends that swarmed over the roofs of the carriages, killing with blades, mutated scythe-like hooves or with antiquated muskets, those who they saw. Above, the sky was filled with them, hundreds of nightly shades from worlds of ill, born from a blasphemous alliance with things from beyond this dimension in the foul realms of space and time.
The children had come for their prey.
Along the roofs ran huddled forms, abhorrent silhouettes of nightmares spawn, misshapen and mutated and screaming and killing with revelry those who sought to escape. Gory carcasses and blood flew into the night, and other things feasted amongst the flames, chattering and cawing in vulturine-abysmal shrieks as they dined upon fresh meat.
A pony tried to escape to the roof and jump off the carriage, but before he could make the leap in full, a dark form swooped down from the midnight shadows and cut him in half with one of its hideous scythe-like limbs. It speared the dead pony with its claws and flew into the sky, its long beak already tearing long strips of flesh from the corpse.
It seemed as if there was no escape from the nightmare that night, those titan blurs brought fire and death wherever they landed, and the train was a holocaust of chaos and slaughter.
Within several carriages, the winged death entered and performed horrible magic, causing screams to rent the air apart; twisted and horrible, no screams an equine voice should ever make! Yet they did! They did I tell you! It was madness, it was monstrous, it was… evil! An evil void-filled nightmare of hell on earth belonging to the carnal dreams of the insane!
Were these the abominations of my dreams? Or reborn… in the flesh.
The roof exploded into flames, windows cracked and a thousand shards of glass and splinters rained down like barbed daggers. Already I could see those things lurch forwards, ready for the kill, ready to kill me!
What choice did I have?
I raised the crystal up.
Howling into the maelstrom of the tempests of hell, I spoke those black words as I cast it into the circle. There is no prayer holy enough to cleanse me of that act on that night, that night which the inferno reigned.
“Y'AI 'NG'NGAH,
YOG-SOTHOTH
H'EE—L'GEB
F'AI THRODOG
UAA-“
When the last utterance came, I was blasted from my feet. A howling monstrosity, twenty-five foot tall, descended upon me with all the qualities of the abyss. Its scythe-like talons gorged deeply into the wooden floor and it raised its six eyes to align with mine, its rotten flesh falling away in hideous slime.
Its eyes… those eyes leered at me with eldritch madness and unspeakable hatred. It opened its black falchion-blade jaws and let out a scream which sounded like the damned! Gods, that scream! It was pure anguish.
Its blades descended on me, and I knew there could be no escape from this. I rolled in desperation, but one of those horrible talons struck true, slicing through my back leg and pinning me to the ground like an iron spike as I let out my own shriek of agony.
It raised its head and jutted it towards me, terrible green vapours erupting from its flesh as it sliced into my hooves which I had raised in defence. It tore through the flesh like wet paper, gorging a terrible, slicing line across one and nearly breaking the other. It screamed again and I regressed into aguish once more, both in body and mind.
I cast spells in desperate frenzy, but the abomination dispelled them with a wave of a talon. It raised its blade high above, and cast it down upon my chest.
Or so it might have been.
A roar ripped forth from the side of me, and a monstrous shadow smashed into the beast of hell with immutable force, and I howled as the scythe-like talon was ripped from my side with tremendous speed.
I crawled across the floor, my fear-driven adrenaline muting the pain, and grabbed my saddlebags. Turning in desperation, I stared into the roof and the tremulous heavens above and lit my horn.
The floor exploded behind me as I was rocketed into the night sky, landing heavily and almost collapsing as I reached the roof of the next carriage.
I dragged myself forward, stumbling with pain as I tried to reach the front of the train. Behind me, the titanic battle between the thing – the thing which I knew I had brought forth – and that terrible child of Lir, raged.
Hundreds of the lesser-changed Timberdalers swept below, uttering bellows and screams of delight as they revelled amongst the flames, killing and destroying with glee. One of them raised itself onto the roof before me and let of a shriek of joy! That foul, evil, and mutated face! Those crumbling, rotting teeth!
Its delight turned to pain as I lit my horn and set fire to its gibbering half-formed face. It fell, screaming, into the throngs below and I did not turn to see what occurred afterwards. Ignoring the pain, I charged onwards as things from the night swooped behind me in terrible violence, howling and blasting with orbs of flame as the speeding inferno howled ever onwards.
It was then that I saw them.
The followers.
They stood before the train, uncaring of the speeding arrow of fire which shrieked towards them, and eldritch magic played within their hooves…
The rails lit up in a mad aurora of white light.
The train buckled.
The flaming carriages exploded.
And I, I flew into the land of the unconscious as the inferno bloomed behind me and the force blasted me from my place.
Blackness consumed me… and I knew no more.
