//------------------------------// // Way of Pain // Story: Terror Puppet // by Windrunner //------------------------------// . In woe beridden Canterlot this eve, where now a dead thing sleeps and icy chill climbs empty battlements, an eerie procession of shuffling shambling shadows rise to begin a grim parade lurching towards the city gate like slow decay. Creeking open doors left to hang askew beg the question, what happened here? What event at this very moment has spurred such evil to manifest itself and launch an assault against the very nature of all which stands for good? The all-consuming cold erupts throughout the vacant streets and torn sky above. Such threat as the city has never been subjected to before now holds courtyard and castle hostage in muted deadlock. Far below and away, fear instills itself in heart, mind and spirit. This is fear of a still unknown, enshrouding itself in cloud and mist. What could possibly have been worth shredding the very bonds of reality to inflict torment and torture on the land itself? In truth, it has given nothing away. Stumbling soundless steps of assembling nameless hosts writhe snakelike, this gathering unto a tide of lifeless things. The city itself almost feels to shudder at their passing, if any unfortunate soul were near to take note of the grisly proceedings. The lone sentinel beyond the gate has been joined by three more stoic shaded figures. Swelling arcane power flows from distant abandoned mines below Canterlot. Long forgotten chambers inscribed with forbidden lore lost to memory sputter to some semblance of false light. Some of these faded runes buried in dust fail to do so, broken by the simple passing of time. Mysterious ancient workings none remember fire anew, finally called upon to depart their eternal slumber and walk unbidden through a world of forced shadows. The strain of ages breaks some of these as well, leaving them to fall silent once more. This menagerie of gathered horrors both hunched and broken alike all heading towards a singular destination, akin to an unstoppable river consisting of venom. A poisonous charade of mockery and strife filled with hushed indistinct whispers. They come to rest as a single bell tolls, a pealing sound so loud it shatters the heavy silence explosively. All motions cease while only increasing silence exists once again. A terrible lament unheard, and below that horrible ringing a rising wail which could for the briefest instant be mistaken for a hymn rang out along with it. Horrid corruptive flames tinged sickly emerald sink into stone and standard. Despite the activity, banners formerly held high sit unmoving. A perfected sterile state of inactivity and deafening silence settles once more. Seeded doubt and pain evermore presents itself more thoroughly. The glittering city dampened, dulled, empty. Quiet here is all-consuming. The glistening haven now in service of some terrible vision, mocking even itself. If anyone were here, the palpable air of sadness settling would be unbearable. A sort of depthy melencholy only tremendous age could muster. These vaunted halls fill with this illness of feeling and want unfulfilled. Whatever haunts hide themselves behind corner and veil each adding their own distinct terror to this miasma of doubt and confusion. In the distance all others keep watch on the shrouded spires high and away from everything. Wondering, will this be the moment it all comes crashing down? Can they withstand the gathering scorn and reproach about to strike like a massive hammer from on high? With bated breath and furrowed brow they watch and wonder, is this how it shall be? Stricken from the world in a blink to leave none left to wonder and no more dreams to share? Who are we, and do we have the strength to stand? These things, they are left to question. Questions. No real answers. Only the timid game of waiting to be stricken. These moments spent considering the draining sands of time. Did we do something wrong? Could it have been stopped at some point in the past? What mistake gave rise to something this terrible? Do we deserve it? The tide is rising. The increasing quiet is a wrong, an opposite of normality. It should be loud, violent and screeching, but there is nothing. Not a peep, not a further whisper. Only the cold. The waiting must surely be about to end. It is a feeling everyone comes to know at some point, any moment the sanctity of peaceful moments will be broken most painfully. A vengeful judgment given by the unknown. The evidence weighs heavily. Unlike the quiet before a storm, this is a storm before another to add intensity and sickness. These swirling clouds prove themselves to be poison to body and soul. A few unfortunate scouts come into contact with the faintest wisp of it and become sickly within seconds to drop and heave gasping for breath. They are quickly pulled away, but it is too late. In rasping breath they give hurried goodbyes for those they love and expire within moments. More casualties of this city crying out for relief. A stream of steady tears granted to the unwary. How much torment will suffice? What amount of suffering will pay the unspecified price being asked? This question goes unanswered. The sickly clouds grow expansive. The gathering storm above knows no pegasi masters. There are no unicorns to hold it in check and squeeze it out of existence as they may be about to in kind. War is coming. Something unknown in this land for ages since. The sentence has been given, the verdict is clear. Silent flashes of lightning within suggest tumult and lunacy. No ear catches hold of the slightest hint. The stillness unbroken as the great gate sees a host of flitting figures begin their soundless march forth from beyond, slow purposeful steps each and all. As they slip from the gathered fog a blinding flash strikes. They come pouring forth as though a tsunami in lockstep, and true horror is revealed. The gavel has fallen. --- Frost sufficiently intense, burns as fire in the dark.