//------------------------------//
// Chapter 6 
// Story: Nom's Mom Bomb 
// by kudzuhaiku 
//------------------------------//

This tower was big enough and spacious enough to have proper stairs, even if they were narrow, steep, and curved. Each of the risers that rose between the treads of the stairs had a mild enchantment to it, and lit with a soft glow when weight was applied to the step. It was the sort of pleasant thing that made one feel at home, a cosy, welcomed feeling of safety. But this home wasn’t safe; much of the Crystal Empire wasn’t safe for that matter. Because of its past, it was vulnerable to shadow infestations, a quirk of location and geography.

Shadows were always lurking, from the smallest hamlets to the largest metropolises, they were a constant threat, parasites that fed on ponies. Being a highly magical species meant that you had highly magical emotions that highly magical parasites loved to feed upon. Ponies, one of the most magical of species, were also one of the most vulnerable, with all manner of monsters evolved and adapted to feed upon them. Sunburst was already sharing his encyclopedic knowledge of parasitic bestiaries with her while Dim was teaching her how to deal with them. If only ponies knew and understood just how well her instructors worked together, how much respect they had for one another, and how close they were as friends.

At the top of the stairs, Chartreuse waited, her fireplace poker at the ready, and every muscle in her body twitched. She should’ve taken a nap today, like a responsible pony, because it had been a long day and she was now tired, which meant that she was not at her best going into this situation. This floor was a kitchen, as was typical in tower homes, and it had a spacious, spread out dining area.

She looked about, her eyes taking everything in, and noticed that the fruit bowl on the oval wooden table was filled with mouldering, rotten fruit. Blinking once, she saw that the fruit was now fresh again, which left her feeling somewhat unsettled. Visual hallucinations were never a good sign and she was all too aware of her own fear, which she fought to bring under control. Her horn told her that something was up, and she could feel a faint tug on the aligned iron fireplace poker; it wanted to point in another direction rather than at her.

This was a scene that had played out an infinite number of times, in an infinite number of cities, throughout an infinite number of circumstances. A wizard came into a dwelling to do the job of extermination, to cleanse the house of parasites. Not every wizard became a soldier, or a knight, no; some had far humbler aspirations, far more attainable goals. In these simple, humble jobs, Chartreuse found some attraction to Chantico and her ever-growing stable of Firekeepers.

A unicorn’s job was to keep the fires lit, to defend against the supernatural, and to be a boon to all—this was the view of the Firekeepers. Dim had told her the stories of the unicorns of old, going from house to house to keep the fires lit, to hold the darkness at bay, and banishing what might lurk in the darkness. Where Dim found romance in the tales of the knights of old, Chartreuse found allure in the working class wizards of old and of the modern day as well.

Crossing the kitchen floor, she approached the stairs that led upwards…





While making her way through the library and recreation room, Chartreuse heard a skittering from up above. That had to be an illusion, as shadowlings never skittered unless they wanted to be heard. They were stealthy, more shadow than substance, and it could be said that even their shadow was more of a suggestion.

There was magic here, fresh magic, and Chartreuse knew that much of what she had seen around here had been recently repaired with spells. So much had been damaged by the ice orcs. Hearing a muted ‘clunk,’ she whipped her head around and saw a billiard ball rolling along on a bumper pool table. A superstitious pony might call this place haunted, but a more accurate, more scientifically correct term was infested. Try as she might, Chartreuse could not swallow the hard lump in her throat. The billiard ball bounced off of the felted edge and continued rolling for a time before it came to an abrupt, unnatural stop.

“That’s very rude,” she said to whatever might be listening. “Trying to scare a filly. By happenstance, I have the means to sort you out, I do.” While she spoke, the billiard ball began to spin in place, doing so with enough speed that it became blurry. “Fine, be that way. I’m coming up the stairs to sort you out.”

With a feminine huff of agitation, she did just that.





One hoof in front of the other, one step at a time, Chartreuse made her way upwards, singing out a comforting song in the sort of creaky voice that could only come from a terrified adolescent. “The old grey mare, she kicked on the whiffletree, kicked on the whiffletree, kicked on the whiffletree, the old grey mare, she kicked on the whiffletree, many long years ago.”

Even though the lights were on, it was darker up here, somehow, in some weird way.

Upon reaching the landing, Chartreuse halted and took stock of her surroundings. Something made her horn itch and the tugging on the iron fireplace poker was stronger now. It was colder up here, and while perhaps the family kept the bedrooms cooler for sleep, Chartreuse was convinced that the chill in the air was supernatural. Little blurts of sound could be heard on the edges of her hearing, but she couldn’t make out what they might be. When she breathed, her nostrils crinkled because the air both smelt and tasted foul. Whatever this was, it was strong enough to mess with all six of her senses.

Eyes darting to and fro, she progressed, pushing forward, pressing ahead even with her terror. From behind a door, something laughed, an obscene, perverse tittering that caused chills to go shooting up and down her spine. This was worse than one of Quiet Dark’s scary books, one of her mane-raising bedtime tales of terror. Chartreuse thought about the odd filly and was curious about how she might react to this situation, because she enjoyed being scared.

But then again, she was a Dark.

When she pushed open the door, she could feel eyes upon her. Beyond the door was a room for foals and she paused to look about. There was a bed perfect for fillies with fine bed curtains around it and there was a cabinet bed that was popular with some pegasus ponies. A soft night light glowed from within the cabinet bed, but the light seemed off somehow. Rather than a warm, inviting glow, the light was wan, yellow, and something about it seemed diseased.

Stuffed animals and dolls were piled upon every surface and Chartreuse was unsettled by the many lifeless eyes that seemed to be watching her every move. Two dolls, one of Empress Cadance and the other of Emperor Shining Armor stood snoot to snoot. Somepony had made them kiss. Blocks covered the floor and upon closer inspection, a trail of them led into the room like breadcrumbs.

Looking down, Chartreuse saw a fawn and a bright red ‘F’ on the first block, and on the second she saw a unicorn, but the letter was obscured, facing the floor. The third block had a blue crab, and the fourth block had a cat… or perhaps a kitten. The fifth block was a yak and a bright yellow ‘Y’ could be seen. As for the sixth, Chartreuse saw an octopus, and the seventh, an umber hulk.

Trembling, rage overcame poor Chartreuse, who let out an indignant squeal and then shrieked, “Rude!”

All around her, she heard tittering, which seemed to be coming from the stuffed animals. Things rattled and bumped, stuff moved, and from beneath the curtained bed, there was an unpleasant moist sound, like a very loud slug slithering about. She was quite sweaty now, actually sweating in the freezing air, and this could not be mistaken for glowing. Rarity would have much to say about her condition, and about all of this as well.

“I am Lady Le Feu and I will not be addressed in such a manner!” Snorting, she stomped her hooves for good measure and readied her fireplace poker. “Come out! Show yourself! Take what is coming to you!”

Much to her surprise, something did come out. Beneath the bed, a shadow moved, and then she saw it, something that seemed to glisten in the glittery light cast by her horn. Chartreuse waited, her teeth clenched, and her eyes burned with her sense of outrage. What emerged from beneath the bed was difficult to look at, difficult to see, and had a wibble to it, because it was never meant to be looked at.

Chartreuse thought it was a slug at first, but it was too long for that, and it wasn’t a snake either. No, it was phallic, in fact, it very much looked like a stallion’s—AHEM!—and it was crawling along the floor like an inchworm, making obscene wiggles as it bunched up to push itself along. It was shocking, and it was horrifying, and to most fillies, it was a reason to faint—why the very sight of a slithering phallic under-the-bed monster was pure nightmare fuel…

But Chartreuse was not most fillies.

“UNCOUTH!” she cried while she brandished her iron bludgeon at the phallic horror.

Raising the fireplace poker high, Chartreuse then brought it down with a snarl and smashed the disembodied reproductive organ that had dared to offend her. There was a wet splat, a gooshy sound that defied all description, and unnerving laughter erupted all around her, including a rather perverse, “Rheeheehee!” that echoed within her fuzzy ears, which burned with great embarrassment.

The iron did its job, pulling the creature into the material realm, and also did it great harm. Its body collapsed into a puddle of black goo that bubbled like sticky tar, releasing foul fumes with each bursting blorp. Reaching into her saddlebag, Chartreuse pulled out a collection jar, unscrewed the lid, and gave the smooshed shadowling a pouty death-glare.

“You!” she breathed, incensed, “you’re going out into the sun on the morn! I shall watch you burn!”

Disgusted, she hardened her telekinesis, focused her will, and began to scoop up the remains of the creature from the floor, feeling sickened for having touched the unnatural abomination. Into the jar it went, where it continued to bubble and a faint keening sound could be heard among the burbles. The injuries caused by iron had to sting. Grimacing, feeling unclean, Chartreuse screwed the lid back on.

“Easy peasy—OOF!”

The unladylike sound was knocked out of her by the sudden impact of the cabinet bed, which had been flung across the room. Her glasses flew in one direction, the fireplace poker in another, and the glass collection jar clattered to the floor. Taken down, Chartreuse saw stars in her vision and she couldn’t tell up from down. The cabinet bed was made from wood, had substantial weight, and had been hurled with great force.

Chartreuse was now full of the stupids and overhead, she saw a flock of circling alicorns, a most curious phenomenon. There were quite a few, but it was impossible to count them, because they kept going in and out of focus. One flew down, a pretty one of black, grey, bespeckled, and silver, and he hovered right in front of her nose.

“Don’t yous goes takin’ that from no spooky house! Get up! Give it a ‘Why I oughta!’ Don’t just lay there like a bum!”

Then, like a popping soap bubble, the curious alicorn of encouraging recovery was gone, departing with a squeak very much like a squeezed rubber duckie. Chartreuse blinked, trying to clear her head, and it slowly dawned upon her that she was laying on her side. Was anything broken? She couldn’t tell. Everything hurt though, but in particular, her left foreleg seemed frozen, which was odd.

Chartreuse’s brain telegraphed for the rest of her body to get moving, but nothing wanted to respond. She could almost feel the beep beep beeps travelling along her nerves, jolting them, and the curious cold in her foreleg grew unbearable. With great effort, she was able to angle her head, look down, and glance at her leg. It seemed dull somehow, as if it had lost its colour or was somehow a little less than real.

“Stop hitting yourself!” a shrill voice cried and a second later, Chartreuse’s hoof smashed into her vulnerable lips.

A flood of coppery liquid filled her mouth, more stars filled her vision, and her groin muscles all clenched from the searing agony that bloomed over her tender muzzle. It was so bad that it robbed her of breath, left her lungs empty, and her vision took on a strange, grainy tint.

“Stop hitting yourself!” Again, her own hoof smashed into her mouth, somehow causing even more pain than before, and cruel disembodied laughter could be heard all around her. “Stop hitting yourself!” The third impact took Chartreuse to places she was not aware had existed, and she could feel that her lip had torn this time, crushed between her hard hoof and her bottom teeth.

“Stop hitting yourself!”—BAM!—“Hey, stop hitting yourself!”—BAM!—“Stop that! Stop hitting yourself!”—BAM!

At some point, Chartreuse lost track of the blows, her lower lip had shredded itself against her teeth, and her nostrils were clogged with blood. The tiny spark of life that remained in her brain told her that she was killing herself, blow by blow, she was almost certainly killing herself.

“Silly pony, stop hitting yourself!”—BAM!

Howling laughter swirled around her, as something found this downright hysterical. The lifeless eyes of the stuffed toys and dolls watched as she bludgeoned herself over and over, her hoof smashing into her muzzle repeatedly, without mercy.

In an act of desperation, she ignited her magic, reached out while somehow thinking of iron, and when her hoof smashed into her face yet again she almost succumbed to the encroaching darkness that threatened to devour her, the lightless void that would be her undoing. The laughter seemed distant now and the sound of a million bees filled her ears. Her telekinesis touched something cold, something hard, and just before her hoof could smash into her mouth once more, she brought the fireplace poker down upon her own foreleg with all of the force she could muster.

Skin sizzled like hot oil in a pan and this pain—an entirely new volume of suffering waiting to be read—snapped her to her senses. This pain was quite unlike any other, and smoke rose in curls from where the cold iron pressed into her flesh. Bellowing, wickering, she pressed the iron down harder in an attempt to reach deeper, applying as much pressure as she could, and black smoke billowed from around the spot of contact.

Tendrils of congealed goo lept forth from her possessed leg, trying to flee, but she grabbed them in her telekinesis. Slippery though they were, as damaging to the mind as they were to seize, Chartreuse fought back against her fading consciousness while trying to maintain her grip upon them. Bringing the poker to bear, she snagged the eldritch tentacles of black goo which like sticky strands of taffy, were stretched and wrapped around the cold iron. Tapping into her rage, she set the shadowling ablaze, hoping to hurt it in the same way she had been hurt.

Holding the fireplace poker aloft, Chartreuse somehow rose to her hooves, her knees wobbling and banging together. Had she been lifted somehow? How was she standing? She had no idea. Her iron implement was bent and her left foreleg was still smoking, though the flesh was curiously unburned. A vile stench now filled the room, the foul miasma of charred shadowling umbraplasm.

In her telekinesis, the iron fireplace poker burst into vivid pink flames and she thought to herself, It’s happening again! This had happened before, when the ice orcs had invaded, and she had gone out to defend her home and her friends. She had gone outside to face impossible odds—a certain death if ever there was one—but the pink flames had sustained her long enough to shield the tower, her friends, and herself until help had arrived.

It consumed her now, revitalising her, easing some of her pain, and she could feel her flesh knitting back together. Whatever this was, it was miraculous, wondrous, and she would endure almost any suffering to feel this rapturous sensation that overtook her now. Strength returned to her limbs and much of her anguish diminished.

Shadow will not claim one of my Precious Ones. Arise, and do my bidding, Chartreuse Le Feu, for I have spared you from a fate worse than death.

The disembodied voice thundered through the bedroom and left strange buzzing echoes like secretive spectral bees in Chartreuse’s ears. All around her was a fiery pink nimbus its gentle warmth returned feeling to her frozen left foreleg. Though her lips were still injured, they were no longer mangled as they once were, and she was forced to endure the curious sensation of several of her teeth wiggling, burrowing down into her gums to secure themselves once more.

Chartreuse Le Feu, daughter of Remède, her mother, and Pasteur Le Feu, her father, was now righteously indignant. For the second time, the curious pink fire had surrounded her, and just like the first time, it had given her the strength she needed to go on. Though her body still ached, though bloody drool still poured from her mouth and bloody snot dribbled from her nostrils, Chartreuse Le Feu was back in the fight.

One was left. Consumed by pink fire, Chartreuse was all too aware of its presence, and it offended her. Lifting her crooked fireplace poker, she stalked ahead towards a chest of toys, determined to face her final enemy. Warm blood pumped though her heart and down her left leg, banishing the freezing cold, warming the unwanted deathly chill. To die while possessed by shadowlings was to become a shade… or worse. A dreadful fate had been averted and Dim had been spared from having to battle her revived shadow-possessed corpse.

For this, Chartreuse was grateful.

With a snarl, she flung open the lid to the toy chest and swirling darkness awaited her inside. Something foul lurked, something insidious and blasphemous to the light. Hearing the scrape of wood against stone, Chartreuse raised a kite shield shaped barrier of hardened telekinesis just in time to stop the incoming cabinet bed, which struck with terrific force. This wasn’t her special shield, which was almost impervious and durable, no, this was just a barrier spell, the very reason why she had to practice to harden her telekinesis. The kite shield manifestation had been taught to her by Shining Armor himself.

The other bed was flung, then more things were hurled. A tornado of toys buffeted her and she couldn’t block them all. She didn’t dare raise her special shield, her signature special spell, because doing so would cause more harm than good. Books, dolls, and toys formed a chaotic swirl around her, and the tiny pink Empress Cadance flapped her wings while trying to kick Chartreuse in the face.

“Let me go and I’ll give you power unimaginable,” a slimy, detestable voice promised from within the roiling darkness of the toy chest.

“I think not,” Chartreuse replied, her words slurred by her injured, battered lips. “I do not bargain with uncouth creatures.”

Raising her poker, she smashed the Empress Cadance doll away from her and then poked the end of the iron impaler down into the toy chest. There was a hissing fizzle, like a bottle of soda being opened, followed by a truly feculent and putrescent stench that came wafting out. In agony, the shadowling screeched and then flew up out of the toy chest, its gross, indescribable body half-in and half-out of material reality. It struggled to take shape, to find something that would shock or horrify Chartreuse, but she was well past the point of being scared.

Reality unzipped mid-air, right before Chartreuse’s eyes, and beyond the rift she saw something that mortal eyes weren’t quite meant to see, which left her confused and disoriented. Though she would never be able to describe what she had seen, she knew full well what it was, and she knew that her prey intended to escape.

“NO!” Moving with a speed that surprised her, Chartreuse brought her poker down upon the escaping imp and caught him a glancing blow. “NO!” she growled, her bloody lips curling back, baring her bloody teeth, and before the clobbered shadowling could hit the floor, she struck him again midair. “NO!” This time, when she struck him, he went flying into the wall and collided with a wet, gooey splat that left a stain of improbable impossibility upon material reality. Like some lewd, rude inkspot, the shape it formed was just offensive, but Chartreuse was done looking away.

With an incomprehensible sound, reality zipped itself back up and the portal to Tartarus vanished.

For the final time, she brought her fireplace poker down upon the offending shadowling, and then, snarling in bloody, grotesque triumph, she set it ablaze. Foul smoke rose and she retreated, stepping back, still holding her fearsome weapon that was wreathed in pink flames, just as she was also. As the shadowling died, the lights seemed to grow a little brighter, the chill in the air dissipated, and the stifling sensation of evil departed.

“Rude!” Chartreuse stomped her left front hoof, which still felt peculiar, but her rage wasn’t spent. “Uncouth! Just uncouth!”

The last of the shadowling turned to ash upon the floor, foul black ash that would need a vigourous scrubbing and decontamination magic. Everything was a mess, the room was a disaster zone, but everything felt serene and peaceful. Weakness deadened her limbs and the pink nimbus around her began to fade, the flames extinuishing. More of the pain returned and as the flames subsided, Chartreuse realised that she was pretty messed up.

“What is going on?”

The words were like two pieces of parchment being rubbed together, dry crackly words, and Chartreuse stumbled when she tried to turn about. Dim stood in the doorway and she guessed that behind his goggles, his eyes were probably darting around the room. She was a bit more wobbly than she would have liked to be, and would have liked for her master to have seen her in a moment of proud triumph—but Chartreuse was too much of a mess for that.

“I felt a rift to Tartarus open…” Dim’s words were little more than a whisper. “Forgive me, Chartreuse, for I have gravely misjudged this situation. Things were far worse than my initial assessment. Why didn’t you call for help, foolish filly?”

With a clatter of metal against stone, the fireplace poker landed upon the floor and Chartreuse, woozy from her injuries, would have joined it had Dim not caught her. His telekinesis was mature, strong, somehow terrifying and comforting at the same time, just like one of her father’s hugs. While she was held aloft in a muted amber glow, pink aetherfire lifted up her glasses, repaired them, and then tucked them into a hidden pocket beneath her cloak.

The glass collection jar was also lifted, and Dim began to examine it. “You fetched me a sample—”

“No!” Chartreuse blurted out, and she shook her head while bloody drool trickled down to the floor.

“No?” Dim’s face, what could be seen of it, remained impassive. “You would deny your master?”

“That one is going into the light… he… it… it offended me!”

This brought a dreadful smirk to her master’s face, and Chartreuse, now held aloft, took comfort in the sardonic expression. Now the pink glow was moving on to other things and Chartreuse’s pain-addled brain marvelled at how Dim could manipulate two separate streams of magic. His eyes, his eyes were the key. Beds were righted, books flew back onto shelves, toys were put away, a twister of organisation consumed the room to put everything back in order.

Dim even cleaned up the imp residue and ashes, though she felt bad for not doing her part to clean up. The glass collection jar was stuffed into her saddlebags and her hat was picked up from off the floor where it had fallen. In that, she had failed; a wizard had to be mindful of their hat and she knew that she would be catching a lecture from Dim later. A hat was all about responsibility; if a wizard couldn’t keep track of their hat and be responsible for it, then how could they possibly be responsible for bigger, better, more important, more meaningful things?

“Whatever happened here,” he began, and his voice was like leaves blowing in winter’s harsh wind, “this will stay with you. You saw things. Did you look into the portal?”

For a moment, perhaps because of pain, she considered lying, but then thought better of it. When she gave Dim a faint nod of acknowledgement, she saw a sorrowful expression upon his face, what little of it that she could see without her glasses. A sad sigh was heard and then she listened to the steady patter of her own bloody slobber trickling down upon the floor in great, fat droplets.

“I was careless, as I tend to be,” Dim murmured and his voice was almost inaudible. “This was supposed to be just dangerous enough to be a test… nothing more. Cadance is going to give me the reaming I so rightfully deserve. Blackbird too. I am going to have a bad day.”

“I wizarded!” Chartreuse blurted out as the stupids crept into her brain. The pink flames were gone, her adrenaline was fading, and the pain was rapidly overcoming her senses. “I wizarded real good! I wizarded them to death.”

“You show curious signs of possession—”

“I had to stop hitting myself.” Chartreuse lifted up her left front hoof, which was bloodstained. “Chantico set me on fire again.”

“Did she now?” There was a great deal of interest in Dim’s voice, even if his face showed no sign of it.

“It’s gone now. My brain no worky. I’m sad.”

“I bet you are. Let’s get you looked at, Chartreuse.”

“But I wanna go home!” she whined, doing so as much as she dared.

“After you get examined, perhaps…”





The bitter night air made her face sting, but also numbed it, so she couldn’t feel much of anything. What stung even worse though was the fact that Dim was carrying her, as if she was some foal that was up way past their bedtime. Anger and resentment burned within Chartreuse’s breast, and though quite feeble, she put up quite a struggle. There was no way that she was going to make this easy.

Dim coughed, a dreadful, whooping sound, and Chartreuse went still for a moment while he recovered. When the coughing did not cease, she grew even more worried, and even worse, she felt helpless. Deep inside of him, she could hear it, the grating, barking, sucking consumptive cough, and hearing it was somehow scarier than facing the shadowlings all alone.

“Put me down!” Chartreuse demanded while she put up a token struggle.

“Is there a problem?” a distant voice asked and then a great shining light appeared in the darkness.

Dim hacked a little more then managed to wheeze out, “Go about your way, Constable.”

“Prince Dim, I did not realise—”

“I am not a prince of this realm,” Dim gasped out in supreme annoyance. “Away with you!”

The crystal unicorn, bedecked in resplendent armor, ignored Dim’s request and continued to approach, his horn glowing like a beacon. “Just doing my job… in the dead of the night somepony is hauling a filly around and she’s hollering to be put down. This is why I hate the night… I hate it. All of the weird stuff happens at night and I’m stuck dealing with it. All of the worst stuff happens at night.”

Chartreuse listened as Dim seethed and wheezed.

“You’re bleeding… I can see it in your beard—”

“I am in need of another healing!” Dim snapped. “Mind your own business, Constable.”

“How about I carry this filly for you?” the constable offered.

“I can walk—”

“No you can’t!” Dim coughed out the words and then hawked up a wad of bloody phlegm, which he then spat out. “She needs to be seen by a doctor… ugh, my failures multiply this night. I’ve been delaying the healing because it takes me out of commission for a while.” Here, he paused, coughed, and spat again. “I’m too weak to teleport that far. Your help would be appreciated, Constable.”

“Of course.” There was a clunk from the constable’s armor as he snapped to attention.

“You shouldn’t hate the night,” Dim said in a reedy, wheezing whine to the constable. “Some of us have no choice but to embrace it.”

“And some of us have no choice but to work in it,” the constable replied. “If I had my druthers, I’d never leave the barracks at night. I’m scared of the dark, as any reasonable pony of sane mind should be. I can’t even imagine why the two of you would be out at this unalicornly hour.”

Shaking his head, Dim coughed a bit and made a gesture with his hoof. “I pity you.”

Though dulled with pain, Chartreuse’s mind seized upon this moment and after a bit of difficult thinking, she knew that she pitied the constable too. He was a pony of the day, forced to work the night, and being what he was, he was blind to all of the wonder, beauty, and majesty around him. Like other ponies of the day, he was blind at night. Chartreuse realised that she wasn’t blind—she saw the attraction of the night.

In her current state, it was far too confusing a thought and she longed to be home…