//------------------------------//
// Chapter 1 
// Story: The Reach 
// by Gear Box 
//------------------------------//

	Have you ever gazed into the night sky, littered with its clusters of bright stars and scintillating lights, and wondered what's out there? Of course you have. Many ponies before you have, and many ponies after you will. But how many ponies have actually pondered what's out there? No, not space. Past that. Past the glowing stars, the chromatic nebulae, and the swirling galaxies. 

How many ponies have delved further than the infinite? Perhaps you may argue that such a thing is impossible, and that “further than the infinite” defeats the “purpose” of the infinite. You should dispel such thinking immediately. There was no purpose then and there is no purpose now, just as there will never be a purpose in the future. Every event, no matter the significance and no matter the scale, is but a speck in a larger scheme. 

And that, dear reader, is the razor's edge. There is always a larger eye looking down on you.

And what, as I'm sure you're wondering, is further than the infinite? The answers vary for everypony, but I believe they may all be condensed into one word.

Potential.

– – –

Darkness.

My mind is hazy, but coherent thoughts begin to form soon enough.

Had I fallen asleep?

I open my eyes. I'm sitting in a wooden chair, looking at a blank sheet of parchment on a table. A quill lies drenched in an ink pot nearby. It's dark outside now, and the only source of light emanates from a single candle's weak flame, barely clinging to life as it struggles to take in oxygen. I smirk at my personification for a brief moment.

How apt.

I can hear the pendulum of my grandfather's grandfather clock sway back and forth, keeping the time. Yes, the grandfather clock actually belonged to my grandfather. My family has an odd sense of humor; only every other son may possess the clock, so that it can actually be received from a grandfather.

Against my better judgment, I raise the dying candle to the face of the clock to view the time.

9:00.

I look back down at the blank page. It's been three hours, and I haven't written a single line. 

Writing has always been a fickle subject for me for many reasons. Everypony I know has always said I have a talent for it, contrary to my cutie mark, or lack thereof. 

Being a full-grown stallion without a cutie mark is definitely a rarity. I've spoken to many experts on the subject, including Princess Luna herself, but none of them have ever been able to yield any solutions to my problem. By this point in my life, I've begun to accept the fact that I may never receive my cutie mark. It's difficult, considering the society in which I live in is so fixated on everypony having a talent. 

That may be partly why I became an author. It's one of the few occupations a pony can have that allows him or her to be a hermit. I don't have to subject myself to everypony's stares and whispers out in public. Although I may not think so, according to my family and friends, writing is the talent of which I never received my cutie mark for.

Honestly, I'm quite surprised my books even sell. Horror literature isn't exactly a favorite among ponies, but I've seem to have acquired a small following. Dainty Quill, a Canterlot critic that absolutely abhors my work (frankly, I couldn't care less), has taken to calling my fans a “cult”. I find that ironic, considering a good portion of my work usually involves some kind of  demonic cult.

Truthfully, I'm not sure how I really feel about my readers. Some of them seem to have a few screws loose. A few fans in particular frequently send me mail asking if the various spells and rituals I sometimes include in my works are real, and how they might go about performing them. I never write back. I suppose as long as they keep buying my books and allow me to continue being a recluse, they're no trouble.

That is, of course, if I actually write anymore books for them to buy. As of late, I've been plagued with writer's block. 

I normally draw my inspiration from the few books on Tartarus Twilight Sparkle keeps in her library, but her tree burned down about a week ago, along with everything in it. Nobody was hurt, and although the cause of the fire hasn't been determined yet, Twilight is convinced the whole thing was of malicious intent. Actually, I think she's honestly pegged me as a suspect. She's never been a fan of my work, and when I first walked over to get a look at the remains of the tree, she shot me a glare the likes of which I've never seen. Saying I'm an unconventional writer may be an understatement, but I'm no arsonist.

Whatever the case may be, my only source of inspiration was destroyed.

I suppose I do have one other muse. 

My sister is well-renowned scholar in Canterlot, and as such she managed to arrange me a meeting with Princess Luna about my cutie mark condition. After hours of experiments and research, Luna was unable to supply with me any answers, and Celestia was far too busy preparing the Summer Sun Celebration at the time. However, I had managed to pique the younger sister's interest, and she asked if I would send her a few copies of my work. I obliged, and surprisingly enough, she became one of my most avid readers. We're still frequent pen pals, and she may or may not have influenced the ending of one or more of my tales. In fact, I believe she's the only fan I actually write back to.

Perhaps I'll ask her to meet me in Ponyville. Maybe she would like to help me with a few ideas.

I allow myself to check the time once more.

10:04.

The page is still blank. For the first time that night I actually pick the quill up, but not before tipping the well and spilling ink all over the page. I stare at the mess for almost five minutes before I finally manage to pick myself up and go to bed.

– – –