//------------------------------// // Chapter 3 // Story: Howard Fillip Lovecraft // by Hengf //------------------------------// Chapter 3 “His visit to the house of Twilight Sparkle was certainly short-lived, but his exploits were always well mapped previously, so that he could always prepare.” At this point in the speaking a thin limb rose to the air its purple colour darkened due to its central position in the group of young fillies and colts. Registering this, Luna stopped talking and acknowledged the youngling with her name, “Yes, Mica, what is it?” the cyan eyes trained upon the inquiring body. And a pair of metallically grey eyes peered back in response through the slits of crafted helm of some substance akin to steel. The effect on the voice that arose from the armoured head was to be muffled and nearly echoing as the highly pitched vocalizations were made loud. “Why did he want to talk with Mister Whooves?” “I was just about to go over that, thank you for reminding me, Mica,” was her replay so as to not openly revoke the young filly. Continuing on the path of her speech she began. “Mister Whooves, or as Lovecraft called him, Doctor Whooves, or even sometimes simply the Doctor, has a history in xeno-equinology, a pseudo-science, a purely speculative science,” explained she, not wishing to use the word false, “which means the study of cultures of alien races, though it technically means a study of alien pony cultures, the idea is a simple association. Mister Whooves is very knowledgeable of legendary creatures foreign to our own, but are said not to exist on this planet with us, but rather on others in the endless cosmos.” As she said this she raised her hoof and spread it across the sky to accent what she meant. Wonderment was expressed through the quiet gasps and frequent whispers of awe-struck younglings; however, soon all was quieted as she once again spoke. “Mister Whooves’ knowledge is nearly universal and he spoke with Lovecraft for quite some time about strange cultures and creatures. Humans, pinkish violent creatures from a system with eleven planets known for their resentment towards the different, the Horta, peaceful creatures born from lava that could eat through solid stone and do so to survive with fierce protection of their young, and the Daleks, mechanical creatures that only know destruction, a scourge of other races with a constant mission to exterminate all others, were only some of the things they discussed over the lectern of the Doctor. Some have even accused the Doctor of fabricating all of this, but our story’s namesake did not see this as so. However, there were creations that even the Doctor knew little about that Lovecraft desired information about. Soon he left the abode after having a discussion with Lyra Heartstrings, a self proclaimed ‘anthropologist’, another pseudoscience, and regular converser with Mister Whooves, about some legend held by the humans. Of which they spoke was very particular if speculative, of things that transversed to other worlds, things that needed resources from other planets to keep up the existence of theirs that would stop at nothing to keep their presence hidden, nameless though they were.” The faces of the crowd varied through the ages. Some of older ones who had previously heard this tale were accustomed to the mention of these creatures, having spoken with Mister Whooves about the legends, though Mister Whooves did not think them to be so, and had dismissed them as too fanciful or perhaps too dreadful at times. The younger ones though held a certain fear of these, having also heard the hourglass maker’s speeches on cultures alien to their own, believing it full-heartedly, even if some tried to hide this from their peers. The mixture of these emotions was reflected in faces that were not disguised. “With talking done at his first destination he proceeded towards the second, the home of Zecora to discuss some of the legends of her people.” As she paused to give herself a break to breath, she felt relief that none had asked for a more precise description of the nameless things of which Lovecraft had truly discussed fervently. Their names were not to be described any longer and details only mentioned haphazardly or with great subtlety. All inquired upon always blamed a lack of information or faulty memory, but Luna truly knew why this was so, as was her personal decree to all involved. ------------------------- A great collection of trees was present at the forefront of a rather pallid pony. The great oaken defenders of forested secrets held their ground at the steady onset of this singular invader of their peace. The flora about the forest floor was a vibrant heaping of queer hues and spectro-graphical designs. The atmosphere was so utterly extra-ordinary as to inspire wonderment in the normally phlegmatic walker. The sun becoming lower in the sky, but still hours from dusk, did little to enlighten the darkened pathways inside the confines of its silent watchers. This, however, did nothing to deter this new-comer, nor did it seem to faze him whatsoever as he simply kept walking. The dusty path on which he trod was masked in the shadows, and so was his visage from the view of nonexistent on-lookers. Walking along the path he stumbled, and failed to catch himself before striking the ground. He gave an outcry of pain, as the corner of one of the books he carried with him dug into his side, adjusting to assuage this malady. However, rather than arise from his stupor, he simply lay there, eyes closed, breathing heavily, as if the fall had injured him to the point of impairment. A closer inspection, however, would have warranted the result of simple lassitude keeping him shackled to the ground. In addition, the lack of observant by-standers allowed this transaction to take place. Laying there in thought about this random occurrence and the convenience of its allowance for a moment of quietude, a musical voice of concern was heard, startling him from his calm. “You there, fallen stallion, are you injured or just some rapscallion” He took not moments to ponder this voice, attempting to arise as hastily as his body would allow, not wishing to be caught any further while displaying this weakened disposition. Despite these attempts to rectify his current position, he found himself on the verge of lethargy in his lack of strength to pick himself up. Again the voice chimed. “I can see now this is no joke, nor the work of silly folk,” and a hoof endeavoured to aid him in his reascension to a non-prone bearing. His resistance, however, was made clear by his saying between ragged breaths: “That is quite alright…Madam, please; I can manage on my own,” attempting to gain yet another more adequate standing, but again failing. “That is nonsense, especially in my presence. I can see you are ailed by famine, for this I need no further examine,” helping him to his hooves despite his previous protest. The black and white of the stripes allowed for the easy identification of whom it was that had discovered him during a display of patheticism: Zecora. As she guided him deeper in the woods, towards what must be her hut, he took his time between heavy breaths to introduce himself as best his achy form could, in addition to confirming her identity by inciting from her a self-proclamation. His introductions were prevented further by the one who gave unto him his well needed, if not desired, aid, bidding that he focus not upon what he spoke, but on how to stay woke and walking. Though the beauty of the supposedly terrifying terrain was not lost upon him, he did not spend the time he may have wished to linger upon it due to the urgency of his condition, and, sooner than he would have expected, though he focus was certainly not upon the elapsement of time, they were inside the hut where she held residency. During the journey his delicacy truly shewed as he began to sweat, the condition only becoming more deplorable as he began to fight to stay conscious. A pain had begun to burgeon in his side, towards his stomach, and he knew well the cause. The inside of the hut was welcoming, at least to those who find the bizarre wonderful, but he had looked upon similar masks and decorations previously in his studies and knew their meanings to be that of a friendly nature. He was helped to lie down, head rested against some object her was unaware of, unsure of the location of his attaché. His extrospection was soon cut short, however, as he slipped into unconsciousness while residing propped up against a collection of soft bolsters, made of local plants fibres sew together for such a purpose, awaiting treatment. Though she knew that cooking was to be done in order to restore this foolhardy pony, she needed to keep him conscious, or risk his entrance into a comatose state for a dangerously prolonged period. Seeing a small pot of water, she contemplated the rudeness of his waking, but found it necessary for the keeping of his life, and bespattered him with its contents. Initially he did not wake, but laid there motionless and unreactive, causing her turquoise eyes to widen in alarm. She approached him and placed a hoof upon his shoulder and lightly shook him saying, “This is not the time for rest, and your death I would detest.” He chest could still be seen to rise and fall with his breath, and she breathed a sigh of relief at this, and with the addition of another nudge, he awoke somewhat, eyes open, but not necessarily furtive. Confident that she could keep him this way with the application of thinking she proceeded towards the simmering centralized cauldron and began to collect ingredients for her stew, as she spoke melodically, “If Lovecraft is your name, I would not have seen you as lame, though I can see your need of food, and I would hope you not see me as rude, but: how is it you came to be so strewn? And since when have you eaten, for hunger certainly has you beaten?” The many oddly shaped flasks and glasses through which she searched clinked and she used her time to find what she thought. Lovecraft, lying there in his dependent state was having trouble focusing, but his mannerism imbued him with the need to not let her questions go unanswered. Looking around at the brass coloured room with rather muddled thoughts he recalled his previous stay in Ballymare a few days prior and attempted to recount if with some difficulty. “Be…before,” came his faint voice taking pauses to find his thoughts and choose his words,” I arrived he…here… I was lodging in Ballymare, at the Stal…lion Crossing Inn. A lack… of pecu…pecuniary funding res…ulted in the ina…ina…bility to supply my…self with foodstu…stu…stuffs,” A selection of carrots and local herbs were added to the now fully boiling cauldron, followed closely by a strange, yet fragrant spice. The warmth of the bellowed fire, in addition to this odour, did well to restore a bit of activity in his sullen limbs and mind. The conversely achromatic and atramentous zebra that looked over her shoulder at him, while she was selected something to give the stew body and another herbal remedy that would repair this broken individual, curious at his silence. The angular blotches of black covered her body rather regularly, except on her forelimbs, followed into her hair which stood rigid across her forehead. The sounds of light tapping, the movement of the rings that adorned her neck and left leg, could be heard as she returned to her preparation seeing him awake. This light tinkling, in combination to the roiling bubble of the heated water gave an ambiance strangely soothing. His eyes moved towards the hanging glass flasks suspended by ropes as he continued, language much less faltering. “That was three days prior… to the date of today, if I am not mistaken. Since then I have traveled here to speak with certain indi…viduals, as yourself, in addition to others. The others,” he took a break to close his eyes and breathe, a stitch of pain running through his side again, “I have paid visitation to antecedently to our own encounter however constrained. To answer your auxiliary question with more forwardness, it has been about three days since last I et. She looked at him with a curious look of speculation, for she did not understand why he would have kept his hunger so under borne for so long. The next thought to occupy her mind was nearly converted to an auditorial and questionary form were it not for his continuance. “I, rather clumsily, fell at the beginning of the path to the Everfree Forest and my languescences attained the better of me, for I thought none would discover me as I rested.” “That is a strange thought,” replied Zecora, “especially if you hope to find what you sought.” He mulled this over shortly and retorted kindly. “I should shew no lack of physicality in the presences of others for I do not wish them to divulge from their normal thoughts with worrisome ones, for such ideas are not a boon upon the mind.” A ladle was brought from a hook towards the opposite end of where he sat and now the aroma of the cookery was beginning to induce more hunger pains, and he wished to be rid of it. “A strange and kindly way of thinking, yet of an ancient cup you may be drinking. To this I ask you, why not ask if hunger had you askew, of the ponies you attempted to view?” As the question came within his hearing, he lay down his head and closed his eyes as he replied. “I already asked favours of them in my search of what they knew, and I have no currency with which to reimburse those I would gain from, nor can I proffer any services that could be used as collateral. Too many favours have I asked today and it pains me that I cannot provide payment for them, so asking for sustenance has been utterly out of the question. Additionally… I must request of my sister lodging under her roof for lack of the means otherwise,” giving the last piece of insight with a remorseful cringe of facial muscles. Zecora, preoccupied, did not take notice of this reaction, but continued her questioning of him to the effect of keeping him roused. “Such morals would be unfamiliar, were I not of a culture very similar. However, when I pony dies of hunger, his morals are then his blunder. A saying of that culture, helpful when caught in a sepulchre.” “’Tis better to die with one’s morals in tow, than lose them in the throes.” The words that came forth were of a brand so atypical to guests of usual attendance she stopped what she was doing and looked over the invalid lying against his rest with surprise at the expressionless face that had just uttered them. After a few seconds she shook off her general astonishment, and returned to the cauldron, and sought to question him further, but upon a subject of different class. “The brew of which I prepare should be finished and soon be brought to bear.” Upon saying this, his head arose rather abruptly. “I cannot accept your attempt to supply me for I cannot provide you with reimbursement, pecuniary or otherwise, nor can I provide and aiding service for the quality of my work is worth less than the dust upon which you may trod.” A phrase as self-destructive as this was again to the amazement of Zecora, unexpected as it was, and, with an attempt to forgo this, replied with: “I feel as an obligation to keep alive those I find, and I can see no alternative in my mind. Of my stew you must eat, myself I will not repeat.” “I apologize for my refusal, but with my mentioning earlier, I am steadfast upon my standing.” The face that gazed upon her was so stalwart that she felt as if nothing short of forcing the consumption would be necessary to make mending possible. Moving over to a collection of ceramic pots next to a selection of oddly shaped herbs and other plants of different colours, she selected one in particular, a red pot with yellow and blue stripes creating a quincunx pattern across the perimeter, and gathered a small hoofful of a blue-yellow dust matching that of the decoration. Lovecraft, head resting with eyes closed once again, was heedless of what was to take place and she approached him, throwing into his face the pulverulence. He gave a gasp in surprise and promptly coughed in an effort to dislodge the foreign powder from his air-ways. Once the expectoration was finished he looked upon her visage with a look of confusion seeking for a plausible reason as to why this had taken place. Unsure of the circumstances enough to be unknowing of her guilt he inquired, “What,” a wayward cough making its way into his throat, “what was that?” Turning back towards the large cooking container and collecting lingering ingredients she answered: “I am sorry for the trickery, but you simply must eat from the crockery. The powder, of which you have breathed, is to the purpose of making you relieved.” As she said this his mind became rather fluid in its motion and inability to keep a solid decision. “Worry not about the duration, it will soon come to its summation. Long enough to consume, what is stew you may presume.” The final additives in place, she brought from a shelf of empty bowls a mud-brick vessel, and filled it with a bubbling brew heaped with carrots, celery, and other vegetables, the aroma startlingly fragrant. Placing the dish before him she bent down so as to hold his now befuddled head with one hoof and feeding to him the soup with the other. The process lasted for several minutes, not including the addition of two addition bowl-fulls. During the last addition some control had began to return, but wishing to not be the receiver of another dosage chose to consume the brew more willingly. When complete volition was regained he gave what was akin to a glare towards the figure laying across the room consuming from a separate bowl the same mixture that he had just involuntarily feasted upon; however, the stare that intended to wither fell upon a resolute face, and soon it was mitigated, as the weakness previously holding his legs shackled began to disperse with the warmth that the stew provided; he felt he soon could stand without support. As Zecora calmly and almost laughingly ate her cooking, eyes closed during sips, he began to flex his limbs in test of their reliability and soon rose above his previously semi-comatose place-holding. His gaze once again upon the now mischievous zebra. “Though the usage of chemicals to gain my will was certainly uncalled for, I must remark upon the success of your trade and the celerity of which it takes effect.” His shoulders underwent movement to correct the alignment of his vest as he looked around the room for his saddlebag, finding it next to the aperture designated as the entrance. With all in order he sat down at the area where he had previously lain, Zecora still consuming her comestible in silence, patient for his readiness. Searching for his watch he gave check to the current time and, with an additional look towards the sky without, nodded in understanding that he still had ample time. After the return of the watch, and a collection of his senses, he said: “I have been here for no longer than three-quarters of an hour, yet still you were able to prepare a stew, in apparently a fraction of the normally allotted time for such a feat. I ask how this would be achieved, for it would be quite a resource to acquire for my personal usage.” His breathing once again stable and his words their usual flow and selection, it seemed as if his sudden recovery were all the more astounding. “Additionally, I cannot say I am not surprise by my recovery, for from any correspondence I made with the mention of your skills, only the best could be said. Though I do enjoy much of modern medicinal means, I must admit that sometimes they are quite futile in comparison to older more ancient ways of the curation of ailments.” His compliments did not fall upon deaf ears, but as she set the bowl down, its content fully drained, her smile was of a clever sort, a smirk if nothing else. “I thank you for these words; though I feel your speech is like that of lords. As to your question, a herb I use without suppression. The name of such is from my language, but its local name is Cook’s Age. It speeds the cooking time of all stewing applications, though it loses force in other culinary stipulations.” Quietly he muttered the name to himself, hoping to recall it later, before he said: “I thank you again for my restoration, but I would have hoped the use of slight-handed means to be forgone, I will attempt to post to you an equivalent of the amount that was wasted upon my ponson when available. “No such amount will be told, if I may be so bold. I gave to you as a charity, for I do not treat life like a parody.” Said she coolly, Lovecraft, however, attempted yet again to make effective his attempt at compensation, “Then you may receive an amount in the post of an adequate setting as such,” alongside a slightly imperious smile, a similar was mirrored in her face. “The mail cannot always be successful, and its destination not always reachable,” her eye brows rising as she sought to put to an end this dispute once and for all. “Very well, I can see that no such measure can be made and will quiet myself to this end,” giving a nod of concedence he continued, “I feel that before time gets the best of me, I should move towards the goal that I had originally sought in my arrival.” His smile had disappeared by this time, his emotionless features reasserting their hold, an identical overcoming Zecora as well. “I apologize that I was unable to arrive under less appreciable circumstances, but as it appears this was unavoidable I must also extend my regret that I could not make more certain my purposes in my visitation through letters, but the achieveal of this was bordering on the strikingly unlikely. Though I understand that you were able to gain a letter detailing my plans of said visitation, for you knew outright who it was that you provided aid for at our initial meeting.” “I did so receive such a letter, and lack of guests let me know better. As well I know a basic of your goal, of ancients’ legends you seek as old as coal, however, which they are I do not know.” Arising to retire both bowls used to a wash bin underneath a small setting of shelves while she said this. “I am glad that you are aware of this, for from my research has turned up but little as of yet, and I find myself fortunate that I was within such easy distance from a fellow that may know the legends germane to your people, but specifically I seek to know the legend of the” she had placed one of the bowls into the water, and held the other in her mouth about to do the same when he finished, “Mi-go.” Upon hearing this name mentioned aloud her eyes sprung wide open, mouth ajar, and the bowl fell to the floor, shattering. Standing up in alarm, Lovecraft, thought something must be awry to cause the previously dexterous individual to falter. Her breathing began to increase in pace and she wheeled upon him shouting in a language unfamiliar to him, but the undertones of anger were obvious, those of fear even more so. As she approached him, still carrying on in her vociferous tone, he retreated until he pressed up towards the wall, his apathy dispersing as a look of concern began to take over. Her yelling to no avail due to the language boundaries she began in the same tone, her words biting in their tones. “You would speak that name aloud in my home, and say you read of my people from a tome! You know not what you speak, and such an exclamation is not for the weak!” Her teeth were grit in an accusatory posture as she starred him down. “In my home land there is a legend, of creatures whose name brings about an end! Of the hills they partook, seeking minerals in times none were awoke! Disgusting do they appear, should their ugly heads ever rear! They seek only to remain secret, and to say their name aloud would be your regret!” Her vociferation seeming at an end, Lovecraft taken aback by the ardent rebuke that had just assailed him, attempted to get a word in edgewise, but was halted but a continuation of her speech, if in a more hushed tone but with the same viciousness as before. “I would be careful on the ground I tread Lovecraft my friend or you may find that death is by far not the worse end.” Her ranting at an end, Lovecraft took in what had just been told him and he believed every word that had been vehemently dictated to him. Still was she within a hair’s width of his face making sure that every word spoken had its mark of understanding, not breaking free of this encounter for a few seconds further. She turned her head away in frustration and with an amount of chagrin, before saying without another look towards Lovecraft: “You have what you came for, and now I say leave with no more. Be gone. Do not prolong.” Again hopeful of adding something in an attempt to rectify the situation, he could not think of any and shame came over him at his unpreparedness and ignorance upon the subject. No words further to be said, feeling that nothing could be said, he collected his saddlebag from beside the door, and headed back from whence he had come, sorrow accenting his face for the pain caused to one who had so sought to help him. When he had reached a distant from the home of the shaman, Zecora moved to the door and looked out after him, shaking her end and sighing as she spoke, or rather prayed. “I did not say those words to shame; please heed the words that I have spoke with great pain.” A final look was given to the shrinking figure of that pale walker hopeful for his safety on a journey that would affect him in ways he may never know, if not already.