Firstly, I ask that only members of the Royal Guard or the Princess herself read on, as I do not wish to mortify the kirins who have been nothing but the kindliest of caretakers. Secondly, I apologize in advance for the rushed nature of what I am about to write down. I fear the gnawing in my psyche will thwart any attempts at a more thorough recounting, plus I feel it best to leave some details vague so that no one may retrace my steps. I only want to impart as concise an account of what I experienced while I still can, so as to grant some closure to my peers and dissuade the interests of anyone damned foolish enough to seek their own answers. I pray that I’m successful in achieving the latter, at least.
To start, my name is Conifer Green: Professor of Wildlife Studies at the University of Baltimare. Some two months ago, I had received a personal invitation from Princess Twilight Sparkle to join an expedition to chart and survey the unexplored areas of the Peaks of Peril surrounding the kirin village. I was offered the position of team naturalist, and naturally I accepted without much consideration, believing a royal commendation would easily get my research published in any scientific journal of my choosing. Far too often one’s downfall is brought through slightest hubris.
After settling my affairs at home and with the school I made for the kirin village, which was to serve as the starting point for the expedition. It was there that I met the other two specialists that made up the team: Trace Findings, a pegasus archaeologist from Whinnypeg, and Dr. Stratum of the Manehattan Geological Society. A rather stoic unicorn by the name of Flintlock was also to join us as escort, being a ranger of the Royal Guard. Our excursion was to last a week at most, and keep us in relatively close distance of the village, so I had thought an escort would be unnecessary. The very night before we struck out, Ms. Findings—Tracey as she preferred being called—went so far as calling it a camping trip. I shudder in remembering how easily I chuckled at that statement, utterly ignorant of the depths untouched by the lights of both sun and society we were to inadvertently plumb.
Having spent three days preparing supplies and planning our route, the four of us bid our gracious hosts farewell under a promising warm late spring morning. For the first two days Tracey’s prediction appeared spot-on: fair weather, refreshing breezes, and a surprising lack of pestering insects. She spent much of our hiking periods riding the updrafts high above us, and Stratum and Flintlock took to whittling during our down times. I primarily stuck to cataloguing for amusement, I still conversed with the others at intervals. Tracey was particularly enjoyable to talk with, being as keen and lively as some of the students I taught. She admitted to basing some of her aspirations off her fillyhood hero Daring Do, and while the prospect of finding lost ruins seemed marginally slim, she remained optimistic all the same.
It was the third day where our foray took a grim turn. Shortly past noon, the air abruptly grew heavy as thick clouds of gray rolled in without warning. Suddenly a torrential downpour fell upon us, as though Neighagara Falls had opened overhead, threatening to wash us clear off the mountain face. Luckily (so it seemed then) Tracey had spotted an outcropping in the near distance earlier, and immediately we galloped through the pelting rain practically blind. Against all odds we avoided any trips or collisions and eventually made it to the outcropping, which turned out to be the mouth of a large cave. We stumbled in, thoroughly drenched and most of our supplies lost or ruined, but very much alive. Unfortunately the tempestuous winds kept driving rain inside, forcing us to go further inward to escape hypothermia.
We ventured some thirty yards before discovering a round, fairly smooth tunnel opening at the back. Even more surprising were the set of time-worn stairs embedded into the tunnel floor that went downwards in a gentle, gradual slope. Tracey eagerly wanted to investigate while Flintlock argued against it, but the growing dampness of the cave floor left us with little choice.
By the light conjured by Stratum and Flintlock we descended, Flint in the lead in case of possible dangers. Some distance down the tunnel steadily widened, and after coming around a bend we were met with an incredible sight.
Two massive, conical rock formations ran along the length of the tunnel walls at an angle, forming a slanted arch that looked to intersect higher up in the darkness ahead. Stratum believed them to be veins of calcite, though it may as well have been ivory with how its stark whiteness practically radiated against the darkened brown and red of the tunnel walls. The curvature and angles of these formations struck me as inexplicably familiar, though from what I couldn’t say.
We then took notice of a soft rustling sound further ahead, like coarse cloth being lightly dragged across a surface. Feeling it better to confront this unknown factor as opposed to letting it come to us, we continued under that remarkable yet unsettling archway and into the greater darkness beyond.
The steps ended shortly after onto the vast, relatively flat floor of a subterranean cavern. One far larger than the one we had originally entered, for the combined glow of two unicorn horns couldn’t pierce the heavy darkness overhead. Flintlock then noted faint traces of light beyond our own sphere of luminescence, but we only made it a few yards toward investigating them when a figure strode in from the dark.
To our surprise it was a zebra that had approached us, black stripes terribly faded and the pupils of their eyes bearing a milky hue, wearing a cloak made of some fabric that glimmered in our light like gossamer. Flintlock immediately addressed them, and the zebra replied by raising a forehoof and waving it about, making dips and bends in a mechanical fashion. It took a moment to realize they were using sign language, at which point Stratum stepped forward and began making similar motions with his own hoof. A skill acquired from growing up with a deaf sister, he told us.
As the two communicated, more figures approached us, over a dozen, all of them with the same paled eyes and wearing the same curious fabric as the zebra. They included members of the three pony races, some donkeys, two buffalo, and a griffon. I found it curious that there were a fair number of winged species, yet no Diamond Dogs. Certainly would have fit in with those dank, earthen environs.
Stratum was only able to learn that these cave dwellers were a naturalist commune that had taken a vow of silence and nothing more: no explanation of their practices, or even how long they’ve been there. However, he was able to explain our plight, and the zebra answered that they would be willing to provide us shelter and accommodation until the storm passed. In spite of Flintlock's misgivings the rest of us accepted the offer, and were promptly led over a great span of empty floor to the back of the cavern.
There we found a cluster of huts set in a kind of semicircle, all made from sturdy stone blocks and roofed in that glimmering material, and an awfully dreary sight before our conjured light. A wide space was left in the center of the hut formation, where a spade-shaped stalagmite protruded from the wall. Tracey said it reminded her of stone sculptures she saw during a college trip in the southern deserts, although this one didn't appear carved or chiseled. For me, it caused another pang of bemused familiarity in my subconscious.
Our hosts treated us to what few amenities they had. A small fire was lit to warm us and allow Stratum and Flintlock to rest their horns, while one dweller brought us some spare cloaks, which proved to be of exceptional quality. Though crudely mended the material was as soft and comfortable as silk, yet thick like wool. We were then served bowls of a kind of cold, mushroom-laden stew that bore a vibrant though dubious coloration. Me and my colleagues took light sips so as not to offend our hosts, discovering an incredibly sweet and warming flavor, like tasting a spoonful of the finest, freshest honey. Famished by our travails we wasted no time devouring our bowlfuls, though Flintlock was slow in eating his portion.
Stomachs full and mostly dry, we began noticing details that had been overlooked during our arrival. The first was that the faint light Flintlock had detected emanated from rock formations that bulged from the cavern perimeter like columns. From these there sprouted colonies of green bioluminescent mushrooms, which must have been what the dwellers harvested for our stew. Peculiarly enough, it was only on these portions of wall that these mushrooms, or anything living for that matter were present. I also noticed that these sections were set evenly apart by several dozen yards, in no way indicative of typical rock formation, as Stratum pointed out when I told him.
He also stated that the strata visible on the walls were fresher than those of the cave above by several centuries, which shouldn’t be possible geologically speaking, given how high up in the mountains we were. Perhaps they had been displaced in a major tectonic event, but there were no records of such a thing happening in this region, he further added.
Then there were the dwellers themselves. Tracey was quite unnerved by them, and in the firelight I couldn’t blame her. Apart from their milky eyes and pallid fur, they all had a haggard, emaciated look to them, their skin sagging over an abnormal muscular structure. And judging by the withered, mostly featherless wings of the pegasi and griffon, they didn’t seem concerned with maintaining personal health. Or perhaps it was the sad result of poor diet, the prolonged exclusion from the sun that warped them so. I had even considered that it was a colony of lepers that we discovered, only none of them bore the telltale patches of flaky rashes.
In any event, our growing unease made it clear we wouldn’t be staying the night; we decided to take our chances weathering the storm above, if it still hadn’t abated. As we made to leave, the zebra ambassador approached and signed rapidly, as though trying to convince us to remain. Stratum tried pardoning us, but the zebra was insistent. Then I began hearing that strange rustling noise from before, and looked around to see more members of the commune encircling us. Before I could raise an objection I was struck by sudden vertigo and my vision started to waver. My muscles began relaxing at an alarming rate, and I was able to catch my fellows experiencing the same thing before I crumpled to the ground.
Of course we should have been wary of food freely given by a group so secretive and ghastly. But our hunger and instilled sense of courtesy had damned us all, as I saw upon regaining consciousness.
The fire was out, but the bioluminescence of the fungi filled the cavern with ample enough light for me to see that the dwellers had moved us to the spade-like rock on the back cavern wall. A quick tug of my sluggish limbs confirmed that my whole body was wrapped in that silk-like fabric, and I could see my companions similarly bound and in different states of wakefulness. I also heard that accursed rustling sound, only our captors kept in place, looking toward that sinister structure which had to have been an altar, appearing nightmarish in the shadows cast by the faint green light of the fungus.
Two of the dwellers dragged Tracey up to the altar, hoisting her up between them. I found my voice and demanded to know what they were doing, then felt my vocal chords shrivel up as the answer presented itself.
From the tip of the spade a long, narrow needle emerged, glistening with fluid as viscous as saliva. I immediately understood what was to happen and struggled to break free of my bindings, but that ceased when the sound of punctured flesh rang out through the cave. My eyes were fixated, mouth agape at seeing Tracey, that bright energetic mare, stuck in the neck by that awful needle. Neither scream nor cry left her as she was held there, either still drugged or made speechless by the penetration. But her body still twitched and shuddered over whatever was being pumped into her.
It was only several seconds—seconds of dark imaginings—that I laid there a helpless spectator before a blinding white flash filled my eyes. I shouted and tried blinking my vision back, while the sound of loud tearing followed by the stomping of hooves filled my ears. When I could see again I saw Flintlock free, kneeling beside Stratum and cutting him free with the machete he carried. Either he was more resistant to the sedative or ate far less than the rest of us, but Celestia be blessed he was able to set off a blinding spell and was doing his best to save us.
However, he was only able to get me out of my bindings before the dwellers retaliated. A pegasus and donkey came at Flintlock, only to be struck down by his blade. Rather than red blood, streams of yellow-green ichor flew out from the cuts dealt to their bodies. The zebra ambassador lunged for Flintlock, and the long blade swung wide and took off half their face completely.
The skin fluttered off like dry parchment, revealing not blood or muscle but a pale, slimy, multi-eyed chitinous abomination that made Stratum cry out in terror. An awful cracking filled the air before a horrific serrated mandible shot out from where the creature’s mouth was, catching Flintlock at the base of his neck and right shoulder. He staggered but cut away the frightful appendage, and it was then that the rest of the commune had converged and began discarding their disguises.
The wings of the pegasi and griffon snapped off like dead twigs, giving way to pointed, spindly limbs. A buffalo raised a forelimb as it started splitting in strips from which several more of those legs sprouted. The rustling, which I then recognized as fervent chittering, grew to deafening levels, and we felt the very ground shake in resonance.
Stratum turned and ran for the exit while Flintlock shoved me into doing the same. How my heart cried over abandoning poor Tracey to such terrible fate in those horrid, soulless depths, turning my legs to rubber. I may have just stood there, willing myself to cry out to her even as the hoard smothered me, but Flintlock was intent on saving my worthless hide. What little good that did.
With some choice yells and pulls he coaxed me into a shaky gallop, and soon we were about to catch up with Stratum right as he took to the stairs. Then there was a violent tremor right before those great white obelisks of rock caved in. Or rather, folded and retracted upward, unearthing long spearlike tips that pierced Stratum through his body, holding him some feet in the air as he gawped and sputtered blood down his chin. It was then I finally remembered where I had seen those sinister curves before: on the pages of insectology books, under magnifying glasses, even during my own lectures. I understood precisely the kind of trap we had entered, and was witnessing it finally being sprung.
Yet Flintlock once more flew in the face of mind-blanking terror, taking hold of the scruff of my neck in his magic and dragging me towards escape. We passed under that unfortunate geologist as he was carried up into the darkness, his final spasms like those of a dying beetle. Up the stairs the two of us went, even as the walls began to crack and the steps beneath us began shifting and crumbling. Suddenly a screech as loud as a roar filled the tunnel, and foolishly I looked back even as Flintlock kept pulling me.
There, in the space above where those gargantuan fangs met, a lambent disc of fetid yellow appeared, followed by another, then another. Six ocelli revealed themselves before I slipped back into unconsciousness, but deep in my heart I knew that there still remained more. Far, far too many more.
When I awoke, I found myself quartered in a guest room back in the kirin village. My caretakers explained that I was found next to the body of Flintlock in the woods some distance from the village. That brave, dutiful stallion had managed to pull my comatose self nearly all the way back to safety before succumbing to whatever venom coated that grotesque mandible. Call it survivor’s guilt, but I feel the life of a good soldier had been wasted needlessly in defending so cowardly a pony as myself.
I had been unresponsive for two days from what I’ve been told. Naturally the kirins wanted to know what happened, but thus far have given me ample privacy to hasten my recuperation. For all their kindness I could never tell them what I saw, or what happened to Tracey and Stratum. They, or more likely a Royal Rescue Team, will want to search for my lost comrades, but they must not step into the lair of those monsters and their matriarch. She hates to be disturbed, and will lash out with unbridled fury if sufficiently provoked. How I know this is what has led to my next course of action.
Her essence had to have been in that cursed brew, for I feel Her in the back of my mind. At first it started as a din that steadily grew louder and louder with each waking hour. It’s only now I recognize it as the same chittering from the darkness. And I’m beginning to understand it.
I fear in little time I will be fully under Her thrall; my very mind stripped, my shell of a body dangling by the string of Her will, either to lure others to Her den or serve as a beacon to potential hunting grounds. Hence why I must flee from all civilization while I remain Conifer Green. Whether I manage to take my own life or become Her latest servant I cannot say. I ask that you spare the more gruesome details of what I wrote when you convey it to the friends and family of my lost comrades. Let them know their losses are truly regrettable, and that they were some of the most upstanding and dearest ponies to walk the earth.
If you still doubt the truthfulness in what I write, then seek out the former diarchs and speak the name: Wiase Afidie.
Mark their faces well. They still remember what the Earth Weaver and Her siblings are capable of.