When I was younger and I first came to this forest, timberwolves roamed these parts of Skydark. They were a constant nuisance, and attacked anypony they saw. I myself nearly fell victim to them several times over the years. At first, I did not bother with them. I was naive. I thought that I could set traps to scare them off, and that they wouldn't keep attacking us so long as we proved that we weren't to be bullied.
I was wrong. They kept coming. A lone timberwolf does not fear death, you see. It is not a living animal, like ponies are. It is a magical construct, one of many bodies which carries out the will of a single entity, an ancient parasite known as a screaming tree.
Once, the screaming trees were like the entfolk. They too were once woodchildren, blessed by the Woodfather with legs to walk with and minds to think. Yet they were perverted by dark magic, and became slavish, bestial things. Their minds grew dim, their limbs rotted away, and they took root in the ground once more, never to rise again. But they still had souls, and so there was still magic in them, and a will to control it.
They made bodies out of wood so that they could still experience the world, but it burned their magic too fast. Unlike myself, they could not restore it with meditation, since they now lacked the capacity for higher thought. So they began to suck the forests dry, taking magic from other plants, and devouring the souls of the forest animals and their fellow woodchildren. And in time, they took the essence of those souls into themselves. That is why a timberwolf hunts and kills. It is not because it needs to eat. It is because the screaming trees consumed the souls of so many wolves that many of them now kill out of some distant, instinctive memory. The wolves within them yearn to run and hunt again as they once did.
My knowledge of magic really began there. Those timberwolves assailed us constantly, and one day, they crossed a line that they shouldn't have. I gathered all the reading materials in the cabin, and found what I needed, a tome of woodland lore written by one of the first pony forest wardens. He wrote of his observations of the forest, and of all that he had learned from his mentors, the entfolk, who were the original forest wardens. He wrote of the screaming trees, and how to destroy them.
Armed with this knowledge, I ventured deep into Skydark Forest, the deepest I ever went, and I took my axe with me. I am a woodcutter; my enemy was a tree. What happened next was inevitable. In a grove, deep in the forest, surrounded by dead trees and the skeletons of animals, I found the screaming tree. I do not know if it called for help from its timberwolves, but if it did, they never came in time. I cut down that accursed tree, uprooted its stump, and then I burned it all. From then on, there were no more timberwolves in Skydark Forest.
I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake that day. Maybe the screaming tree was the only thing holding back the other monsters.
My cabin doesn't have much in the way of siege defences. The wards on my curtains are basically it. They're extremely complex pieces of spellcraft that are difficult to penetrate for an outside force. A unicorn with a special talent in enchanting wrote the book that I used to create them with, but he neglected to explain how to use his spells without a horn. As an earth pony, channelling my magic through a ritual is already a laborious process, but it gets exponentially more difficult when dealing with higher-level spells.
My wife was a unicorn, and she was very much into magic and the occult. She once explained to me the workings of unicorn magic, describing it as being mostly thought exercise. Magic is directed by the mind, and channelled through the horn, where the effect it takes then depends on the picture that one holds within the mind's eye. More complex spells require more abstract thought.
Of course, an earth pony cannot enjoy anything so simple. While I must also engage in abstract thought and draw these complex mental diagrams, I cannot channel magic through a horn. An earth pony channels magic through their muscle, and they direct it into that which they touch. For me, spellwork requires earthly materials as well. It is tied more greatly to the physical world. I must find the right words, use the right materials, arrange it in the right pattern... All of it is a great hassle.
As I pace back and forth in my cabin, my breathing becomes quick, and my mind is racing. All I know of magic, rituals, and the soul, and it's done me no good. It only gives me the insight to say for certain that I am well and truly dead. The creatures have already won, and my efforts will all be for nothing. I can only delay the inevitable at this point. Granted, that was always what I was doing, but my doom seems that much closer now. If they can sustain an attack pattern of this strength and frequency, then they will quickly outpace me. I cannot create magical wards faster than they can destroy them. I simply don't have the power.
I stop, sigh, and tilt my head back, staring straight up at the ceiling. I am not a great sorcerer. I am not powerful, or smart, or even particularly good at this. She would have been able to endure. She was always so much better than me. So much cleverer. So much stronger. I don't know why I deluded myself into thinking that I could do what she did. How does a stallion like me stand against creatures like those? It's hopeless. It had been hopeless since the day she died.
The faintest hint of a smile tugs at my lips, and I lower my gaze to the cabin floor. I resume pacing. There's a certain liberty in hopelessness. I think I know now what my final fate will be. This can only end in death. This will be my last winter, without a shadow of a doubt. I will die here in this cold. But now that I know what the inevitable conclusion is, I have the power to decide how I reach it.
Burning down my cabin had been my original go-to plan for when I knew that death was certain. I enjoy fire. But thinking on it more, I don't think I'd like to burn alive. After such a long winter, the idea of dying in extreme heat may seem appealing, but burning to death is also painful. I still wish to die on my own terms, but I need a new method of suicide.
I stare into my unlit fireplace, contemplating my options. I could use the fire-poker, positioning it under my throat and forcing it in. I could also try drowning myself; my cabin does have a water tank and a bathtub. I'd need to heat it first, though. No matter what, I don't want to die cold. Dying warm is also something I could do in bed, now that I think of it. Self-suffocation may be an option. But... I can't keep holding a pillow over my own face once I lose consciousness... Hmm.
This is a conundrum, alright.
Finally, I hit upon the one thought I haven't considered. What if I go down fighting? It hits me like a thunderbolt. It's mad. It's scary. Dying in battle with the creatures? That is the outcome that all the other methods are intended to help me avoid. Those things will suck me dry and leave me a husk. There cannot possibly be a more agonising way to go.
As well, if I die in a magically weakened state, drained of my very soul like I was for those two weeks of rest, I will be guaranteed a very dark fate indeed. Some ponies believe in an afterlife, but even they agree that it is a pony's soul that passes on. It is their magic that continues into the next life. If I die to those things, there will definitely be no next life for me. I will cease to exist altogether, or else be consigned to the black oblivion of the Great Abyss, if the old legends are true.
And yet, the idea is intoxicating. Imagine the damage I could do if I fought them head-on. To think of how much suffering I could cause them if I was truly unconcerned with the concept of death. In hopelessness, when death is a certainty, I am free. I could fight like I've never fought before. In the end, could there be any greater death? One final blaze of glory, in a very different sense to the suicide by fire I was planning before.
In this moment, I make my decision. I know what I wish to die for now. I will die for revenge. I will die for my hatred, and my spite. I will die with disgust and loathing for this forest in my heart, and I will relish the pain I cause those creatures. And I will die laughing, just as I always imagined.
I grin and go over to grab my coat. I'm heading outside. Just a few more days. That's all I need. I must make preparations.
It is late in the night when I reach the last of my traps and recover the final few animal carcasses. My traps are most often used when I need meat or furs for survival purposes. My last few catches, I'm afraid to say, died for a much less noble end. Truthfully, I do feel some measure of regret for that, but my disdain for this cursed forest is greater. I require several things for my plan to work, and none of them are pleasant to obtain.
As I heft the sack of dead creatures over my shoulder, I consider my surroundings. I placed the last of my traps near the northern end of the territory around my cabin, and I now find myself quite close to the forest's edge again. The Oldfield Moors are not a long walk from here at all. For a moment, I stand still and internally debate whether to go out and see them again.
I know not what purpose it would serve. I only know that I wish to look upon them.
I come to a decision, and head up towards the forest's edge. The winds of winter whip at my coat, which flutters behind me as I stand before the moors. Already the moon has risen, its baleful glow the only thing illuminating the land. In the darkness, I can't see much, but still I let myself sink into my memories, like old stallions do.
Then, in the distance, a light. I frown, tilting my head. It shines out from across the moors, bright white and small as a pinprick against the dark canvas ahead. It's like a little star broke off from the night sky and fell to Earth. Every few seconds, it flickers, its light waxing and waning to no discernable pattern. I take a cautious step backwards, turning my head either side and behind me to check that no other lights are coming my way. My eyes linger for longest on Grimrise Hills, but the silent watchers have nothing to add.
What is this? Something new?
This I do not need right now. Every night, the creatures assail my home. Skydark Forest is also crawling with feral beasts and animals that wish me harm on top of that. And Grimrise Hills and the Barrows are a whole other problem. That's already far too much for me to deal with. Now there are mysterious lights over the moors as well. I dearly hope that they are just another manifestation of the threats I already face every day, and not some new abomination crawling out of the woodwork. I've heard many tales of the dark things that supposedly dwell in these parts, but even in all my time here, not every old legend has been proven true yet. Some of them I still cling to hope are falsehoods.
There is that hope again. I detest it so.
"Hmph," I say, sneering. "Fine then. I will face what may come."
Hours later, and the inside of my cabin has been painted red. Animal blood is smeared on every wall, arranged in patterns to form peculiar runes that I only partially understand. Every room is filled with them. Some of them already glow softly. Others I have yet to activate. I will need time to build enough magic for them all. Either way, I have turned this place into a deathtrap for the monsters that hound me. Now I need to deal with the rest of the forest.
I sit on a small wooden chair facing the door, staring unblinkingly at the window next to it. I hold up a wooden walking cane in front of me. With a knife in hoof, I absently sharpen the bottom as I maintain watch. Under my breath, I mutter an old hymn, a song sung by Equestria's hunters in the time known as the Age of Blood.
"Silver sings a song of sunlight, lasts us through until the dawn. Silver rings the screams of dark ones; a hunter's vow we've sworn."
A hundred years ago, they say there used to be vampires, and other such beasts, remnants of the army of a demonic usurper who rebelled against her sister. In the shadow of an all-powerful church, hunters did battle with these monsters, until they were all destroyed, and the Age of Blood came to a close. Now the hunters are gone, and the old church as well, and even the usurper's true name faded from popular history. But us scholars of obscure lore never forgot Luna.
"The black and dark and traitor's hearts, the night is where they dwell. With fang and claw and bloody maws, they know us by our smell."
Sometimes I wonder if saintly Celestia wanted that part of history remembered the way it is. Did she intend for Luna to be forgotten, but for Nightmare Moon to live on in infamy? Surely, that was a cruel fate for a sister that she presumably once loved. But then again, maybe it was a just response. The sting of such a betrayal must have been great indeed. In such circumstances, revenge is only natural. Yet, how could a princess famed for her mercy be so vindictive?
"The Traitor Moon, she sees us hunt, burns red with seething hate. By hunter's creed, her beasts will bleed, as is the hunted's fate."
But maybe, such things aren't in the hooves of Celestia to control. Maybe what became of Luna's legend is just fate. After all, how could history ever remember Luna as anything other than a monster, when it was her follies that created places like the Barrows? Churches may crumble, nations may collapse, armies may fail and die and be buried in unmarked graves in murky lands, but some things are remembered forever.
I wonder if I'll ever be remembered when I'm gone?
Who is there left to remember me?
The knocking comes at the door. I look up, rise from my seat, and ready my sharpened cane.