//------------------------------//
// Bone 
// Story: Feyspeak 
// by WritingSpirit 
//------------------------------//

One could not say when was the last time they had a bright morning in Equestria.

He faced east, to where the black pearl sets, crested between the bald, windswept mountains where the darkest storm clouds were gathering. Benighted as it were, he had made a guess, though that was easily affirmed when he came upon a tuft of fescues bending eastwards as they would anywhere else. The assiduous squinting of his eyes did little to help, nor did the waning candle in his lantern. His hooves ached from all the trotting, as did his back from carrying around his worn saddlebags, filled with a chateau's worth of possessions he had regretfully considered beneficial for his journey.

He turned to the path ahead, only to glance back to those eastern mountains once more, dormant beyond the clumps of marshes whereupon laid sullied banners and derelict mangonels, all floundered in gaping maws of mud. He paused, if only to view this blighted land and admire the bereavement, rife between the splayed claw, hoof and talon rotting and reeking in a mangled mess. He even counted the many slant masts of pollaxes and ahlspiessen, rusting crimson and proudly sticking out from land and limb. He stopped at number thirty-six.

All that was left after awe was consternation, for so much death to have come from so much life.

Pondering, he hoisted his lantern higher, hoping in vain for a better view. Reason was quick to overwhelm sentiment. With the festering shadows around, however, he need not waste away his time over contemplation of the local scenery, especially not one he may never see again. His brows curled with vehemence as he lowered his luminous solace, his ruminations of the past returning to haunt him once more while wading through a gruesome lake of blood, sand and mud.

It happened almost a decade ago.

The indisputable first: there was a shatter in the sky, heard around the world.

After that, the tales that follow were awash in ambiguity: rivers flowing upstream, lightning striking the clouds from the ground, forests setting themselves alight, blizzards of volcanic ash. Among the myriad of tales, what everypony could agree upon next was the coming of the black sun, leeching away what little of life that remains. It still hangs there, defiance in its blazing, blackening uproar, pitting those foolish enough to try and tear it down with all their magical might. None can do that, not even the most powerful of the court mages, as everyone found out.

"From those mountains thereupon our venture, comes hope."

Falsehood after falsehood.

A band of them, once profoundly popular and thought to be the last hope for this dying world, gathered from all the corners of this wretched earth one day. They made a proclamation of freedom, of being the saviors of this day and the next day and that day henceforth. There was a celebration, rowdy and vigorous as such common establishments tend to be, and this plague of triumph soon spread from town to town, this famine of hope. He wasn't particularly subservient even as a young colt, so he wasn't susceptible to such hysteria, particularly not one that would rouse him from his slumber. In fact, he found it amusing the next day, on the day the sun was said to return, the rain did instead.

He remembered all too well the uproarious screams that echoed through the winds.

He remembered how joyful his own sounded, finally drenched with a shower after such a long dry spell.

He remembered standing there in bliss, smiling when everyone else was shrieking and crying as the sky spilled nothing but blood.

He could only hope the sun had made a quick meal of them.

Journeying across these rusted lands, he was due south, for he had read about it in some letters he found in a long-abandoned bethel in the western provinces, inscribing hushed rumors of a land free from the clutches of the obsidian rays, of bright mornings, told only in tales of yore. Quixotic as such rumors tend to be, the child in him remained willing to lay his eyes to the majesty of a true morning. It was all the encouragement needed for many, he included, to migrate south, never knowing what unspoken treacheries await at the end of the road. He had known many of those who made the journey before him, yet he was not graced with a reply from any of them. Whether it be that they were too enthralled in their festivities to bother or that they never had the chance to send out a word of warning, there was only one way for him to find out.

Hooves wading across muck, he finally emerged into the cadaver of what was once a lush forest. One more glance at the glaring darkness vanishing in the distance, he quickened his pace. Horrors wandered here, some he knew of, some he knew not. Stories of those who had roamed these curious parts being devoured, of those that were whisked away, those who wander too long in the dark, played in his head. Hopping over and tumbling over blemished logs, stopping occasionally to gouge out the tendrils of moss clasping around his hoof, the paltry, foggy whispers in his head guided him across the undergrowth, up until a telltale glimmer drew his eyes away.

Water.

Synthetic in texture, umber in color, murky in visibility— tainted certainly, though it will have to do. Seizing his canteen and filling it up, he was quick to soothe his unyielding thirst, squirming as clod by doughy clod slumped down his parched throat, before he began hacking and wheezing from the aftertaste of mildew and hints of blowfly larvae trapped between his molars. It took a little more resolve to have his second and third helping before he relented into the growing pit goring his gullet.

Putrid.

Delectably so.

Ambling further down the coastline, his weary eyes spotted something that resembled the decayed spine of a beached whale, stained with splatters of residual fluid still dripping down from the tip. With a resigned sigh, he trudged into its osteal embrace, tossing his damp saddlebags aside and hanging his lantern upon the tip of the bone before settling down in a cushion of flayed blubber and ambergris, back resting against one of the curved stanchions. Craning his neck to the sky, he watched as the darkest of days turned into one of the more brighter nights, for the full moon, in all its crimson glory, finally peeked out from its nimbus veils, bringing much-needed light into this world, however despised and accursed it may be.

"Beswyrd," he whispered the first words of many, his horn lighting up a pale blue.
"A'Ilhver... Paluum... B'nnrah... Rv'liif..."

The dreadful moon was at its highest when he arrived at his last incantation. The world around him, mostly bereft of life, was silent this unholy night; usually, he'd hear a shadow or two scurrying about that he had to scare away with a burst of light, though he quickly convinced himself that one atypical night wouldn't hurt. Taking one more reluctant sip from the canteen, he gave one last glance around the bleak landscape, before he finally closing his eyes as he began drifting off along with the first tides of slumber, heralding him towards the prospect of a brighter morning.

"You will get there soon..." he promised himself as he would every night with a yawn, "Soon..."





"M'hatila!!"

"Ey'crus!!"

A gigantic crash of gold and cyan, accentuated with sparks and fizzles, tore through the tranquility, stirring up eddies across the murky lake. The serrated streak of gold ruptured, rippling across the curvatures of the barrier he had conjured just in the nick of time. Wide-eyed, he gritted his teeth, reaching back into his saddlebags while he fixated his stare on the silhouette of his attacker in the billowing smoke.

"Pel'hatil tyns'Ghru!!"

"Beswyrd'nnrah Devin! Anh'Novus!!"

Another magnificent clash of colors, sending loud explosions across the forest that would've drawn enough unspoken horrors to overrun the whole place were it not for the several sound-dispelling incantations he cast prior. A dark chuckle escaped his mouth, for it would seem that his adversary is formidable as much as she is female. To know, much less perform such complex amalgams was no simple feat, what with the extreme requirements of concentration and perseverance. He had seen too many tearing their own horns apart in their hapless attempts, with most of them perishing as a result, yet here was one whom he would consider, with certainty, of equal aptitude. He could only laugh to himself; he needed the practice anyway. As soon as the smoke cleared, he braced himself to counter with a powerful spell of his own, his horn already lighting up and ready to strike before she would even know it.

That is, until he laid his eyes on her.

"Spli'ign'te dyb—"

"Wait!!"

With an ephemeral crack, the spell ricocheted, the red beam barely grazing past his ears as he ducked down, striking the ground behind him with a deafening boom and sending a volley of flaming pebbles flying across the coast. He turned towards his attacker, to which he could only cuss: a young unicorn filly, panting and sweating from what was a laborious display of magical proficiency, her coral mane tousled and frayed with strands of it sticking onto her alabaster coat. Her magenta glare, directed at him, was vicious, though like many such glares, it came with a quivering shimmer of fear, one easily quashed with the right decisions.

"I do not wish to harm a child, particularly not one so adept in the arcane arts," he stepped backward. "It would be low even for one of ill repute such as I. A filly like you should not have any matters with me, so I suggest you should carry along, tarry not. Go now. Leave me be."

Much to his chagrin, her glare remained.

"I'uwe Th'murgan, hva?"

"I'd much prefer you refrain from speaking in that tongue. This world has enough calamities as it is."

The filly remained wary, perhaps with good reason. He was no less dubious himself, for it was a little curious that a filly like her would be wandering alone in the wilderness. The stories of beasts that trifle with polymorphy circulating around were aplenty, pushing the idea that one can never be too careful around even a foal like her. Benefit of doubt crossed his mind, however, as he cautiously reached into his saddlebags, his hoof shuffling about its contents, before taking out and tossing a pitiful loaf of bread.

"This is all I have on me, now begone with you," he growled, the foodstuff splashing about as it rolled towards her hooves.

A deadpan stare.

"L'gnaria."

"This is a world of liars, young one; to not be a liar is to not be alive."

"Ther n'sinnan es."

"A more nonsensical notion is your overwhelming, unrelenting use of Feyspeak," he scowled darkly. "Speak not the tongue of the Awyrgorn, young one. Such a language only taunts misfortune to arrive. Were it anyone else with a lack of patience, you'd be garroted before you know it."

"Hwae?"

"Why, comes your pitiful question? Because many believed the Awyrgorn to be the harbingers of this New World, false as it may be. Many were raised to think that the Awyrgorn dragged the world into its current state of dissonance, so they treated its cultures and heritages as an insult to their lives. You should know of it, unspoken as it may be. Unless you are one who had not mingle long around the common rabble."

The filly sought nothing in his words.

"Well? Do you know of it?"

She finally flinched at his impatience.
"I-I have heard of it."

"So you do speak the common tongue," he sighed. "Common rabble be damned... it would seem you are, at the very least, not from around here. Your aptitude to deceive is disconcertingly insubstantial for the sake of survival."

Stiffening up, she opened her mouth to speak, only to falter with scarlet cheeks.

"Where do you come from?"

Her answer was brief, juxtaposed with a show of reluctance.

"Twinlight Glade."

Fortune was on his side, for him to have stumbled upon one from the southern border town of Twinlight Glade. He was to head there to spend his next night, hopefully in the comfort of a tavern this time instead of making do with a torn and trampled cloth draped over some dilapidated frame of rotting wood. To consider the filly before him as an incentive was debased, yet he had done worse things to carry his life onward. Plus, if anything, her family should be grateful that he brought her back safe and sound, however neglectful they can unutterably be.

"Filly, you must know that fate has favored you this night," he rumbled, crossing his hooves. "I intend to arrive at Twinlight Glade come next dusk. If it does not ail you, you can rest here with me for tonight."

"I can't go back."

He raised his eyebrow.

"Why not?"

"I... I just can't..."

"What happened to you?" he paused, frowning. "Young one, I don't suppose you were involved in anything considerably... felonious now, were you not?"

"It's not like that."

He could see her jugular wavering and writhing as she struggled to clutch onto her crumpling voice. In her eyes, he caught sight a stigmatic flicker, brief and somewhat ethereal, if not familiar. For such a sight was common in this New World, where scorn, squalor and savagery run afoul. It was especially poignant across the miens of the guilty, as he would be able to see their falsehoods leaking out from the seams. When she said that, however, there was no manner of filth or feculence in sight, which could only mean that what he was looking at was that one rare expression, so much that among the olden ponies, it once had a most peculiar name.

Grief.

"I made a promise..." she quivered. "I... I have to look for them."

"Them?"

"The Awyrgorn."

"You wish to commit heresy?!" he blurted out, only to stop and sigh when he noticed her shirking form.

"Listen and listen well. Know that any dealings made with the Awygorn would only bring undue harm upon you. They are not to be trifled with matters of us mortals, trivial or otherwise. One so young such as yourself need no involvements with them, especially when it concerns their spellcraft."

"But I already learned their spells!"

"And you have used them, and you mastered them well, indeed, which I will admit that you have showcased a rather impressive and elaborate display of your corniculate energies, but the Feyspeak is only used by the depraved to bring nothing but suffering. As such, I would advise against using them in the future."

"You used them as well!" came her pointed accusation. "How come you can use it and I can't?"

"That is because I did not use it with the intention to cripple and maim. Had I not deflected that last spell, I'd be left a burning carcass of your making to be framed and put on display before this lake of cruor and grime, and had I not enchanted this very ground we are standing on with a muffling incantation, we would already be overrun by the Verblassenein, the Saurhjarta or whatever bloody creature stalking these bedeviled forests that could be hearing us right now. If anything, I find myself inclining to throw you out and feed you to those lovely little things, if it would so spare me from the insufferable presence that I currently have to fumble with right now because her parents did not know how to bloody have their damn daughter in their crippled sights!"

That was when she scowled.

He never thought he'd live to see the day he discovered how irritating an insubordinate filly's scowl can be. With a gruff sigh, he retreated back to his makeshift camp, folding his hooves as he settled down. His cooling nerves, however, quickly boiled once again when he saw the filly slowly making her approach, her horn beaming in aureate aggression.

"Gegin!" she snapped with a firm stance. "N'garde, Th'murgan!" 

"Language," he hissed grimly, his temper jolted. "First, I do not want a rematch. I specifically mentioned that I do not wish to hurt you. Second, do not call me that."

"Th'murgan?"

"I am no thaumaturge."

"Yes you are!" she insisted. "You know Feyspeak, so you are a thaumaturge!"

"The nerve of this... listen, I really do not have any patience reserved for your unneeded obstinacy, especially when it concerns something that you have no knowledge of. If you wish to spill more of your sewage and slander, head elsewhere for the sake of your budding life! I am no thaumaturge and I never will be!"

The filly finally cowered, as fillies were supposed to.

"Now," he breathed anew. "You shall stay with me for the night. Come morn, we shall venture back south."

"But I wanna—"

"South," his tongue clicked, his gaze wary. "No filly should be seeking for myths or monsters at night. Rest now."

Reluctantly, she complied, head dipping meekly in her approach. Watching her curling up against the slanting rib, his hawkish eyes softened as he settled down below the bone across hers. It wasn't long until the contented purrs of a foal reached his ears, such dainty sounds of innocence in this den, that he deemed himself rightful for comfort. Amid the burgundy night, the shadows of vultures were cast upon them, and he watched as they circled above the shivering, spindly crowns of the dead trees, gracefully waltzing around the bleeding moon.

"Awyrgorn..." he muttered the word, forbidden because of how hopeful it sounded.

For what is hope if not a lie?

"Embrace me."