//------------------------------// // Chapter 42: Here the Songs of Madness Ring Eternal // Story: Favorable Alignment // by Ice Star //------------------------------// Sombra: There may not have been any light to see by, but it still felt like äerint was beneath my hooves when I walked; I could feel something unmistakably tangible beneath the soles of my metal boots. The air around me may have been still, but even under my cloak I could sense almost overwhelming latent magic. The sheer amount of it caused me to raise an eyebrow as a silent gesture of awe... and suspicion. I should be feeling crackling waves of distinct presences here, not some heavy, subdued and blended-together weight that sends small shivers down my spine when I stand in one place for so long. When magic could be felt like this, it was hard to call anything empty when simple things like pressure could be warped and other hidden sensations that nopony else could feel were brought to light, subtle arcane taps that never ceased, but were as typical as a wafting breeze or the hum of rustling leaves to me. Of course, that always hadn't been so. The first few years, before I could read, the ability was raw and even a bit strange. Sometimes, I managed to avoid feeling things in a way that doesn't happen anymore, but then that wasn't so. My reactions - despite that I was able to sense spells, I couldn't read each one clearly - were either delayed or too soon and there were times I imagined magic that wasn't there at all. There were times when everything wasn't so bad, but they vanished quickly, the time between them growing farther and farther apart until I learned how to properly manage such a complex sense while remaining largely unaware of many of the technical workings and methods to magic. If anything helped contribute to the hallucinations of crystal ponies in my earliest years there, it was that. Reaching up to aimlessly brush a lock of mane away from the side of my face like Luna would do - I'm certain that I've already done this, but it's not like I care - even though the gesture is mostly pointless. It doesn't matter if my hood doesn't hide all of my mane. I'm not going to be needing a disguise and Umbra won't be recognizing me. "I'll make him remember me," I whisper. Under my hood, I prick my ears and listen to the echo spread farther, rippling out and fading. This place isn't infinite, but under the almost-numbed magic, I can sense that the borders of this place might be twisted - the flow of magic is ridiculously heavy. If the sense of pressure saturating the air here weren't anything that would actually hinder me, I would have a hard time moving. I walk on and continue to peer into the dark, trying not note any subtle changes in the magic here. Inside, it's even darker than it was on the surface, where the Isle's gate first led. I may not have Luna's night vision, but I've spent a fair amount of my life in the dark as well. The magic in here may be odd and scramble the way I'm sensing things considerably, but I can't find many obstructions to sense beyond one or two crystalline clusters. Yet, this place wasn't empty. Magic was entrenched in this place, forcibly shoved and anchored here by what is likely to be none other than Umbra. This kind of magic matches the one lingering on the odd skeleton, but this isn't trace aura - it's been forced to remain dormant here. This magic once came from some kind of creature. Or creatures. I can't tell in this storm of static that ripples everywhere, like wrinkles in a paper that lacks any other creases. Instinctively, I let my gaze dart from the corners of my vision. There's no movement. I shoot a look of disdain into the abyss for not being as interesting as I would have liked and debate flipping off my hood. Just as my forehoof traces the hem, I decide against it. I want to see if there's anything in here and I don't trust any magic in here beyond my own dark magic, even if it isn't used to make werelights. A floating orb of dark fire is all I need. The silence in here is surprisingly uncomfortable - it's almost annoying too, but what stands out far more is how unnatural it is. I've both heard of and have known death-like silence and the eerie quiet, but this is so forced and I can't help but fidget a bit with all this weight pressing down on me. Gah. After huffing and shrugging my shoulders, I light my horn with dark magic and feel the signature purple smoke pour out around my eyes, knowing they no longer look equine. As soon as my flame leaves my horn, the silence is broken and I feel myself slammed to the ground by something that merely flickered in and out of the magical pressure that blurred any kind of distinction in the mess of magic around me. The candle's worth of flame that I conjured dies within seconds as the wind is knocked out of me. Despite that, I'm able to see that whatever is holding me to the ground - 'holding' being an understatement - is also invisible. Oh joy. ... The weight pinning me down to the crystalline ground was immense and violent. I could feel it writhing just as I writhed below it, gasping and wrestling to free myself as well as get some sense of just what was attacking me. Laying my ears flat, I directed my now-baleful stare to where an attacker's face would usually be, pulled back my lip so my fangs were in full view and snarled. In the heat of everything, there was a brief reign of silence at the sound of my rumbling growl. The entire place ripples with an unmistakable weight woven into the warped magic - fear. Then the noise resumes - a dozen or so voices that cried out, screamed, and wailed gibberish laced with words that I could just make out through the chaos and the headache as fierce as my frantic thoughts. In the gods-awful wailing I heard names and pleas as well as a word - demon. These - whatever they had been - were tormented and broken beyond repair, doomed to be anchored to this Tartarus-forsaken place until its destruction. Achlys... Anarchy... Strife... Mayhem... There were others names in there too, but I was only able to pick those ones out before returning my focus to what I was struggling against after those few seconds of observation, now that I'd managed to catch my breath. I needed to be able to get an idea of the phantom I was fighting. That wasn't to say that I hadn't figured anything out. Through the symphony of dreadful noise, those names proved to be a telltale clue to something I hadn't realized. Two of those names... they were a dead give away, as was the scenario. These were the souls of draconequui, anchored here and shoved away in an indistinguishable cluster of broken minds and magic, doomed to remain stagnant when they weren't forever struggling against one another and forced to meld into one another so their individuality rang hollow and they could feel themselves deteriorate as they only managed to fight one another. And I had no doubt in my mind about who did this. The draconequui were an old race. I knew they were the rivals of the Alicorns and very common in the southern countries as well as the western continents, but not the north. I didn't find many records of them that instructed me in anything beyond their habits and how to combat them - and what they were, of course. There wasn't much of a culture to record - they were the champions of scavengers, borrowing and stealing things for their own purposes and refused any form of intellectual gain beyond passing down legends and bizarre attempts at art. They couldn't even count. Draconequui had all sorts of pidgin and dialects they used to communicate with one another, mashing as many languages together as possible at times, but they still had no words to communicate the exact amount of things. However, I was not a draconequus. I knew immediately that this was not going to be a fair fight. There was one of me and far more of them, and one of me is all it's ever going to take and all that will ever be needed. It took one second for Luna to teleport her and I - as well as Fish - out of Styx. That's simply not going to cut it here. I use my first second to have my horn light up with dark magic, and the shattered soul of the draconequui hesitates, apprehension flowing in the space between us. This second - the second - of wariness leaves the near-formless creature unguarded and I roll over, so I'm the one pinning it to the ground... ...But only for a moment. I feel it stir for an attack, only to quiver with shock when it realize that I have deceived it and used the fourth second to shift myself to shadow, which it cannot grip, and drift away, only to reform a few paces from where we were. I'm up to seven seconds. My horn still glows with dark magic that makes itself known in my eyes, purple smoke curling from under the hood. I draw a shaky breath and flash a momentary half-smile, but it is not filled with any of the sly kindness I offer to Luna or the begrudging warmth for Mac. It is grim and sardonic; so very, very me. It vanishes when the tenth second ends, as does any bit of mercy I might have been considering. While the noise continues to ring out, growing louder with each passing second, the intangible feeling of magic burns through the abyss. I refuse to show anything beyond barely-reined in temper and cold hostility to the thing that dares to antagonize me, red aura weaving its way into the purple smoke in trace amounts. When fifteen seconds have passed and none dare attack me, I let the translucent crimson engulf my horn entirely and watch as the world shakes with violent, miserable quivering of the draconequui - especially the one who messed with me. They know the magic I have is unfamiliar and can hurt them terribly if I want it to, their horrid existence being deprived of any proper form allowing them further clarity with sensing magic in a way almost was like how I do. As the seventeenth second rolls around and the energy that makes up the draconequus who decided to attack me roils in terror and spouts something splintered, ear-splitting, and incomprehensible with its disembodied, harsh voice. I stop playing so nice and re-light my horn with the glow of dark magic and rush forward with a burst of speed lent from refusing to relax my stance and remain balanced and vigilant. I charge forward, and - thank Luna for all her sparring sessions to help my eyes readjust - stop in just the right place in front of the magical presence of the draconequus, transferring all the force I used to run into a pivoting kick to what would be the creature's neck. My left hindleg blazes with the dark fire and small traces of my own personal inferno as the metal-clad limb makes contact with something that - for a moment - is solid, with a sickening and booming crunch as distorted as voices. The thunderous sound ripples through the abyss. I whirl around smoothly, having remained balanced throughout the entire duration of the move, even as everything explodes around me. As soon as my kick had made contact with the shattered form of the draconequus, the entire chamber imploded from the magic I had placed in my attack, the dark fire swarming and hungrily outlining the lingering energy and making the aura of all the draconequui visible long after my kick had passed through my assailant. Wavering purple silhouettes in vaguely draconian shapes burst to life, each swarming with an array of raging threads of colors flickering within the swirling purple. My horn lit up with dark magic once again and a cluster of äerint sprouted into existence. As soon as it did, I pulled it apart and carefully maintained control over the thrashing fire that was gradually becoming more willing to work with my every whim, but still stayed wild enough for it to suit me. Just as the shapes my spell highlighted began to dim and the pure pandemonium of the intangible aura, my magic's aftermath, and the draconequui I wrapped the one in the fire of malicious, burning aura that was once äerint and began to recrystallize the tormented soul of he creature... ...the thirtieth second passed and the chaos wore down and fragmented voices that formed no words subsided to whimpers that could drive no mortal to madness. I stared at the most macabre thing in the room: the living, feeling soul-forged statue of a draconequus' blurred shadow. The true form was long gone, leaving only a bleeding and muddy outline, like an eroded cast... or melted statue. The creature's soul and last traces of magic were now anchored into the very essence of the dark crystals. To say it would be fucking agonizing would be far too merciful. I personally don't care what would describe the experience of the creature at the moment. I can feel that my work was a bit sloppy. This isn't going to hold for more than three hundred years, give or take. The fear radiating in the room is no longer so overt, but it will not disappear. This one attacked me, it payed the price. The others don't know much, all their senses are basically gone. Yet they know I am powerful and that I am a demon. They won't mess with me. In fact, by second number fifty they try to ripple their presences and recede further into the abyss. The effort fails and their invisible magical presences overlap and tangle each other violently with the pitiful effort that is unseen by all and detectable only to me. Wails resume as they continue futile efforts to untangle themselves and prevent themselves from wounding the aura of another in their hopeless, endlessly injuring effort. They continue to make hopeless wails that echo mournfully and occasionally turn into screams that barely manage to distinguish one from the other in their hellish agony. Only the one I crystallized has the chance of knowing anything like solace now that he or she is alone - something like that can't be achieved in the constant pain that is the company the rest share. "Tartarus is other ponies," I growl, turning away from the sight - or rather, the concentration of energy in an 'empty' portion of the room from where most of the wails spill. It's awful to listen to. I've heard the dying screams of ponies, the begging, the weeping - I know it well. But this? All this is worse? I feel myself shudder involuntarily under my hood and cringe at times, but I can't leave. There's still things to investigate here - not these miserable creatures, doomed to the company of others like themselves. I've never been one for what's called nostalgia. There's next to nothing for me to be nostalgic about. I've found lots of things familiar, but nostalgia... there's liking something in nostalgia and there's little to nothing to like about anything in my youth. I like the prospect of my present and future more, but I'll never forget where I came from - I'm not a fool, after all. Tyrants. Terror like this... There's nothing to be nostalgic about there, but there's some truths I learned so easily, if they weren't ingrained into me. "Tartarus is other ponies," I repeat, glad to have the indisputable wisdom wherever I go and the chance to hear myself again. It's a favorite of mine, and on the occasion it can have its own kind of peculiar comfort that only I'm likely to appreciate. "Are they really?" A voice asks, yet there is no curiosity in the question. I blink and gulp for air. My heart starts beating faster before I feel the first rush of his magic. "They are," I say, keeping my voice level and dimming my magic. My posture is almost always watchful, so I didn't need to worry about that. Any signs of me hesitating, observing, or showing any emotion are concealed by my hood. The only spell I dare to cast in the dark is the one to conceal my fangs and give them the guise of normal teeth - both for comfort and so it hurts less when I bite the inside of my cheek. I draw blood anyway. "You must be strange then," the voice from the entrance says. There's little to no inflection to anything he says, except for a light tone. Not conversational, or at least not quite. It's not calm either. While it's unexcitable, it's not tranquil or serene either. A bit bored? Hm. I think I'll go with 'placid'. His voice is placid and unflappable, but also hollow and cool, so it has a dull quality as well as merciless one. There's no accent to it at all and it's higher than mine, but he still sounds older. If he were a mortal, I'd say he could pass for somepony in their middling years with his voice alone, the eerie quality to it aside. There's a lot missing in that voice. I don't need to guess. I don't want to guess. The back of my mind doesn't care, it goes ahead and starts thinking whatever it pleases along with possibilities of escape and the lovely mental field of red flags every little behavior of his is setting off. He's an open book alright, but a bit of a difficult one. "I am." My voice is a little quiet, but it betrays nothing. I shift my gaze over to the entrance slightly, where I can hear his voice and feel his magic. It's an awful magic. Celestia, Luna, the draconequui - his magical presence dwarfs theirs, so I know he's far older than both Luna and Celestia, even though that was given it's different to feel it. His magic doesn't feel fluid, it doesn't flow around things or cloak them. The path it follows feels like a straight line, or an unseen wall that smothers and sits unmoving. To me, it's the most horrifyingly artificial aura that I've ever felt. It's just there, with little to no nuances that make it feel like it's from a living thing. He feels wrong. "You feel rather strange too. Sometimes you burn and sometimes you are cold, no? Fire and ice is what you feel like. Well, not fire and ice. Something like them. Something purer, more primal, yes? Yet, you are still near unreadable..." His voice is coming closer. He's coming closer. I stand in place, but not so that I won't be able to run. The sound of my heartbeat clogs my ears and makes them feel itchy. I stop trying to tear the inside of my cheek apart - it's not that bad, really. Really. Really, really. It's not. Once I swallow the mouthful of blood and spit and ignore the stinging it feels a little better and breathing isn't as hard; I feel like I'm suffocating. In order to avoid drawing a deep, nervous breath and gasp for air like I wa- feel like I have to I swallow the second mouthful of blood and spit even though I'm sure I'm holding too much air in. I feel sick as I force the stuff down my throat. Damn, my cheek stings. Just what did I do to it...? Umbra moves outside and the crystal gate - it's to my right, thankfully - expands so he doesn't have to duck his head when he walks in. All I see is the aura so far - no Umbra. The shrieks of the draconequui are at full force as they try to cooperate just enough to make their collective presence slither away, deeper into the dark. As always, they fail. My head is fucking killing me and one of my ears - urgh what's wrong with it? I lift up a forehoof, but don't look at it, instead, I bring it to my eyes to see what- Oh, it's just a trickle of blood... "They have hurt you with their screams?" The way he said it made it clear it wasn't a question, but he still asked as though it was. My lack of a response still displeases him, but I don't care. "Very well. Stay silent." ...Up close he's tall. That's my first thought when I see him. He's an Alicorn, so I expected him to be tall. I also don't apply a physical appearance to an enemy since it's not important unless I'm personally seeking them out. Since I never bothered to imagine what Umbra looks like, he looks exactly how I expected him to. His coat is white - not a rosy white like Celestia or a snowy white, just pure white. Dark outlines seem to dissolve against him with the ugly brightness of his coat like he's trying to erase things just by being near them while his coat radiates how blank he feels. In contrast to his white coat, his mane and tail are dark and flow like any mature Alicorn's. They're even darker than a starless night and the abysmal, dim void he lives in; all other things have the illusion of being outlined by him. His height isn't like Luna's, who is tall and lithe, but also strong. He's not tall in the way I am either, where I was somepony who started off a little bit on the lanky - but thankfully never awkward or too out of proportion - side and just kept growing until I was, oh, nineteen, I think it was? I've never met any pony taller than me, but I've never felt small next to an Alicorn until I saw Umbra. He isn't even next to me yet! But by my fire, his height is unnaturally imposing. Umbra doesn't feel like an Alicorn or anything alive, or even a statue or a tower. Every little trait of his adds up to make him absolutely creepy. As the feeling of his magic comes closer, I try and suppress my shivering to the best of my ability and my nerves are hidden from him. Umbra doesn't walk right. His back legs and hindquarters are encased in äerint that digs into his flesh and tears up his skin, from a distance the wounds could have been mistaken for burn scars. I can see the past ones being continuously reopened, though gradually, with each awkward and stiff step he takes. His face conveys none of the horrendous discomfort that should be expected from the way he's wounding himself, so I can only imagine that he doesn't feel it. At all. Just like me, he doesn't have a cutie mark. Had his hindquarters been covered in any more äerint, I wouldn't be able to see for myself. Why were they covered in it? Well... I looked up to his horn, or rather, where his horn should be. The tip of his curved white horn was broken off, and not cleanly. The agony from that kind of a wound - and the sheer magic that it would take to inflict that kind of injury... I feel myself swallow at the thought. The crystals are there for him to channel his magic now that he doesn't have a horn - not only are they virtually unbreakable, but they don't grow back. Depending on the extent of the break, a unicorn can die from being de-horned. I look at his wings - even folded I can tell that his wingspan would exceed Celestia's, despite them being roughly the same height. Only differences in build made him appear taller. He hasn't been using them to fly in a long time; his feathertips are singed and blackened. So he uses those for magic too... When he approaches me, I stay rooted to the floor and look up at him through my hood, but don't allow him the pleasure of viewing my lovely face. His eyes are purple and his forelock has long since grown into the rest of the mane, so he has no bangs or any mane at all in his face. "You are one of my creations, demon, and the first to ever return to me." He cocks his head to the side in a way that reminds me of an owl, but far creepier, with his dull eyes staring at me as if I were something to dissect. I don't say anything. Until I know more about him, I can't risk letting anything slip around something so dangerous. This is a game of knowledge and power and there's no way that I'm going to lose. His face remains expressionless as he looks over what he can see of my form. Under my cloak, I can feel my legs shaking. I want to run. I want to drive a sword into his chest and spit in his eyes. I- "Which of my works are you from? My amulet, my tablets, the spell books... or perhaps my masterpiece?" I have the amulet, I don't know what the tablets are and the spell books must be what caused the transformation of the Wraith. "I'm from the Book, now lost." Umbra makes a thin frown of some very mild form of displeasure at having been inconvenienced. "I see. We shall have much to discuss later, then. For now..." He grins abruptly, revealing an unsettling maw and a leer that gives me chills. Unlike me, he does not have fangs - his teeth look like the creature at the Pantheon: jagged rows forming some saw-like maw... way more than any equine should ever have. The look in his eyes makes my stomach drop. I want to shut my eyes and disappear - I don't want to remember blood and crowns or the colt who ate birds- Or maybe I do because this look is far, far worse than Onyx's could ever be.. Worse than Onyx... Umbra lights his horn with dark aura and tears off my hood in a split-second while I try to ready myself to run- He lifts my face up to meet his by jerking my bangs up. I resist spitting in his eye, growling, setting something on fire, running... anything at all as my thoughts keep racing, as anger and more mingle in me needing and burning to be more and spark into existence... I resist spitting words of acid in his face as he leers at me even more, tail lashing - I note a flicker of disapproval over my bangs. He hisses his words through those nasty, gritted, wide-grin of his, with his head still tilted to the side to give him the perfect touch of deranged, mechanical heartlessness: "Welcome home." I stubbornly continue to maintain silence since I don't think anything else is holding me together. My heart is stumbling in its race, my mouth still stings, traces of blood can be tasted, my mind is screaming, my legs need to run- Maintaining as much of my stoic facade as possible, I watch as Umbra turns to where the draconequui souls linger. "Consider this your homecoming gift, demon." His horn lights with dark magic, but I stay sensing he doesn't intend to use the powerful waves of magic flooding his horn against me. Right before it dies, unable to be properly channeled, Umbra whips his enormous wings around and runs them along the äerint, which the dying magic on his horn - however powerful - struggles to illuminate... or so I think. As I watch, the äerint rapidly inches onto the charred skeletons of some of his feathers that ran along the mutilated flesh of his hindquarters. When the burst of magic on his horn dies, his feathertips are encased in crystal rife with the feel of powerful dark magic. I'm even a bit impressed, though morbidly so... "There are other ways for me to use magic after the Light-Bringer queen, Lumina, did this-" He points to his broken horn and I hear traces of anger in his tone, but they fade quickly and don't sound earnest. Like everything else there's a lack of emotion in his usual tone that comes across as insincerity. I remain as stoic as can be. "-but nothing is as effective as having a horn again..." Umbra looks at me, blank and unreadable. I nod under my hood and he turns away, äerint-coated wings spread and glowing with dark magic. Right before I can be harmed, I duck behind him, hooves moving faster than I anticipated as my heart continues to hammer even more. I take a risk in letting out some of the breath I'd been holding in when one of my boots makes a loud enough sound against the floor to cover it up, then I go back to slowly feeling like I might burst and struggling to stay under control and not panic because Luna isn't here... ...Luna isn't here to help me... My knees feel weak and I'm dizzy from listening to all the screams and as magic builds up and floats around. Regardless, I keep standing. I don't even have to think about it; I've forced myself to survive much worse things than- Umbra's magic lashes out in arcs and the ungodly noise grows and grows, shattered screams ringing off every surface as tortuous waves of magic rip apart what little is left of their immortal souls and scramble them further into one another, forming a hideous and unseeable fusion of beings ripped apart and sewn back together with all the wrong seams - seams that will only rip apart with every second of existence that rolls by and- I pull myself out of sensing the plight of what were once draconequui, keeping my hooves rooted to the ground as my breathing grows shallower, and I stare at the gleam of my boots in the dark, eyes ducked so there's nothing between the hem of my hood, the floor, and the metal surface. Under my hood, my ears are pinned against my head. I don't try to will them to prick up. The noise has become deafening. I want it to stop. I want everything to stop. I feel like I'm going to pass out. All I hear is the crashing, cutting noise of crystalline surfaces, warped and jagged, scrapping against one another like gears or teeth. There's nowhere to run. Next to me, Umbra casts his shadow further by spreading his wings. He makes a hollow sound that doesn't match the horror around me, a futile attempt to make something that sounds like laughter, light and airy- The noise is worse than the Empire, much worse... Crystalline crashes sound far above us. There's still blood in my throat and the thick, wet, slimy warmth of the taste of it mixed with spit is sickly and nauseating. My balance is gone, I just try to force myself to remain upright and the room to stop spinning, none of it works. The noise in my head won't stop and the throbbing headache is irritating; I feel it crawling from some horrible depths in my mind to the forefront of it, creating a building pain right under my horn- By all things beyond our stars, this feels like- It feels like the hangovers from when I was young. Occasionally, the aftermath of them would cause headaches like this - wicked headaches that could mess with my magic. Contaminated power bleeds from everything. It feels like this who place is a disease of disgusting magical sensations I want to stop because it feels like they're soaking into me. The headache is accompanied with a buzzing in my ears that might not actually be there... My throat feels swollen. I need to breathe. Can I breathe? Umbra is still making that sound. He doesn't care. I almost forgot Fate was at my side, but the magic around me is starting to feel worse; there's far too much of it. The floor moves beneath my hooves. Or maybe it doesn't. I can't tell. This- ...is horrifying? Painful? Sickening? I want out of here- Wrong? I'm the only one who can stop this... Revolting? I've just got to survive a week. Decently catastrophic?! Out of everypony in the world, I'm mostly confident that I can figure something out... Not a recommended way to ditch a part time job?! ...Yeah, that last one... I lurch forward as the world keeps spinning and vomit, gasping hoarsely as I retch. My throat is burning and I cough, almost choking on- This is really happening.