//------------------------------// // The Gathering // Story: In Which SPark Attempts to be Slightly Less Verbose. // by SPark //------------------------------// There is a place beneath the moon, where shadows gather dozens deep. Passing clouds make the moonlight writhe and flicker across the dark ground, the shadows creeping and crawling wherever the light permits. Not all shadows there, however, are cast by such simple things as clouds. At the heart of this place stands a house. It has stood there for longer than equine memory. It has changed over the years as a bit is added here and a bit falls down there. It has been a piled stone hut, a pillared temple, and a fortified castle. Currently it most resembles a sprawling manor house, with grand columns framing the front door. They were once painted to look like white marble. The paint is now peeling and leprous. Most of those who pass between them find that look to be comfortable and homey. The house stands empty for most of the year. Yet there is a time when life and laughter fill its twisting halls. It is a time when cold winds rustle the dead and dying weeds that surround the house. A time when leaves crunch underhoof and the first frosts touch the ground. A time when the moon shines full and bright overhead, casting the deepest shadows. It never falls on Nightmare Night; those who gather here have other obligations then. It falls according to the moon's time, rather than the sun's. When the leaves have fallen and the moon is full, all who will gather there know that the time has come. They all bear the same ancient blood, though over the centuries they have taken many forms. Some seem entirely ordinary, mostly earth ponies with cutie marks one would never take a second look at. Others bear obvious signs of their ancient, shadowed heritage on their flanks. And still others show different, less ordinary signs. There are bat wings to be seen among the shadows that slip into this house as the moon edges above the horizon. Fangs too are common enough. A flicker of moonlight catches a cat's eye here, sending back an alien glow, while there it glistens on a slimed tentacle. There are no children here. They do not bring their young until they are old enough to know what they are. A cutie mark tells only one's talent, it does not show one's blood. The blood must run true, if they are to be allowed here, at this place, on this night. This year the Princess of Night is present, for the first time in many centuries. Her blood is not theirs, but she has been counted among them for eons all the same. They have honored her for as long as her moon has presided over their gathering. As Luna's light shines down upon the house, a bright speck of color can be seen, bouncing erratically towards its sprawling shadows. Three other shapes move beside it. One glides gracefully, the bat wings and vampire's fangs that she must hide at all other times now showing proudly in the silvery light. The moon touches her own coat to argent brightness and glistens on her steel-dark mane. Beside her marches a drab brown form, hat firmly on head, pickaxe firmly on belt, hooves striding firmly over the ground. He is not of their blood, but he is at least tolerated among them. They respect him. They respect his pickaxe more. It has known their blood often, until the day when the final strike was withheld, for he found the grace and beauty of the vampiric creature before him too great to slay. Behind that pair walks another mare, her eyes half closed in perpetual communion with the stones beneath her hooves. And behind, to the side of, and sometimes in front of those three bounces a pink mare, her coat like icing, her hair like candyfloss. The silvery moonlight barely dilutes her vivid colors. She is the brightest thing for miles around. Two more sisters are absent, neither yet having shown clear signs of the magic that may run in their veins. The oddly-assorted quartet vanishes inside the house, swallowed by the shadows within. Some time later faint hints of music can be heard wafting from the house, riding the breeze out into the night. Deep within the moldering pile lies a ballroom and now, on this special night, the Night Family is dancing. Princess Luna steps out in the arms of a well-wrapped mummy. She is the elder of the pair, but not by very many years. Pa Pie takes his undead wife by the hoof and they too join the stately dance. Maude cradles Boulder in her hoof and twirls around him while witchlight glows from his formerly drab surface. Dozens of others take to the floor as well; hoof in claw, tentacle grasping wing, hand holding hoof, they all turn in a stately gyre. The scene is lit by oil lamps, sending a flicking light over the dancers, cloaking the edges of the room with shadows. Pale blue eyes gaze from one such puddle of darkness, looking at the musicians who play the slow and somber waltz to which the dark things whirl. Pinkie Pie slinks from one puddle of shadow to another along the wall, creeping up on the players. She slips among them with supernatural ease, vanishing here to pop up there, whispering in each ear in turn. The waltz ends. The dancers clear from the floor for a moment while the musicians ready the next song. "Hey there, creatures of darkness! Are you ready to party?!" All heads turn to the pink mare who has suddenly appeared in the center of the ballroom. A moon-bright spotlight shines down on her, even though the house does not have any electricity. Murmurs rise as the band strikes up an old but sprightly—almost jazzy—tune. Pinkie Pie starts dancing, shaking her rump with enthusiasm. The murmurs grow louder. What is this? The solemn waltz of darkness has always been the only dance they do here, has it not? All the Night Family know that. Does this mare belong here? Has a pony not of their blood somehow crept in? Then another form moves out into the spotlight and a bandage-wrapped hoof grabs Pinkie's. "Woo yeah! Finally you whippersnappers remember how it used to be!" shouts the ancient who is the many-times great grandfather of very nearly everypony present. There is long a moment of stunned silence from all the others gathered. "Shake it Gramps!" says Pinkie, and the two start doing an enthusiastic, if sometimes rather inexpert, swing dance. "Ah, we have so missed the olden days, when this august event was a roisterous carouse," says the Princess of the Night. Pa Pie, who knows a little bit about how a party should go, offers her his hoof, and they join his daughter and Gramps on the floor. Suddenly dozens of others join them, while the band members grin and laugh as they play, and the ancient house swings and bounces deeper into the night. Thus the Night Family Gathering is restored, and all is as it should be at that special place, at that special time, in the shadows beneath the moon.