Hello. It's nice of you to stop by on this quiet night. I imagine you're here to hear my story.
Well, my name is Stygian, and I was there during the Great Calamity all those years ago.
But I wasn't always a bard and a musician, telling heroic tales and travelling all the time.
I wasn't always a pony. Let me take you back in time, back in time to a time a few hours before this all began, when my life still resembled something that could be categorised as normal.
Picture the scene. It's a cold, wet night in Nottingham city, and the bars and pubs throughout the city are packed with revellers and people wanting to secure some warmth and drink on a cold winter's night. Don't worry; where I was originally from, there was no such thing as Covid 19, so people could safely gather in a fashion that you can't. No hard feelings, but I somehow feel my dimension got things a little better than yours.
So, where was I? I was at the oldest establishment in the city, Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem. Small, charming place, cut into the side of a cliff face made of Nottingham chalk, which is naturally soft and perfect for carving rooms into. This pub had the caves built first, then a building put in front of the caves to act as an entrance. It gained its name from the fact that many pilgrims would rest there on their way to Jerusalem during the Middle Ages, usually to fortify their spirits before continuing their difficult journey to the Holy Land. In fact, Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem is believed to be the oldest pub in England, although Ye Olde Fighting Cocks in St Albans also makes that claim. But I feel as though I am digressing somewhat.
Let us return to our scene. The pub is packed, as it usually is on a Friday night, full of revellers wanting to get away from life for a while. Most are having pints, and a select few chose to have a meal with it too (unlike your timeline, we weren't required to buy Scotch eggs to have a drink). All their eyes are turned upon the stage, and the previous musical act has just finished. Tonight is music night, where bands from across the county come to showcase their music and hopefully get a tip or two along the way.
This is where I enter. Plain, boring Tom Haddington. About as dull and featureless as they get. I'm a guitarist. Well, I was, at least, as playing the guitar with hooves is practically impossible, but that's not the point, my friend. Myself and two friends took the stage to perform what would be the last number of the night.
"The Parting Glass," I whispered to them, and they nodded accordingly. I adjusted the microphone, and spoke up. "Good evening, everybody. Seeing as this is the last performance of the night, I thought it fitting to round off with this old song from Scotland. 'The Parting Glass'."
I indicated to the others that I was ready.
"Of all the money that e'er I had;
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done;
Alas it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall;
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be to you all!"
"So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate’er befall,
And gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all!"
"Of all the comrades that e'er I had;
They're sorry for my going away!
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had;
They'd wish me one more day to stay!
But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should rise and you should not;
I gently rise and softly call-
Good night and joy be to you all!"
"So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate’er befall,
And gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all!"
Safe to say, that brought the house down. The crowd clapped and cheered, and I would be lying if I said I didn't feel a glimmer of pride that moment. "Thank you," I said. "Well, that concludes Friday Night is Music Night, and I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow! Thank you, goodnight, and have a safe trip home!"
It was very dark when I finally got back home. The tram had been running late, and it was pretty busy, so it was standing room only on the way back to Gregory Street, where I lived. It was a good thing I had my ticket to easy hand, as the ticket inspector boarded to look at our tickets. There's a local saying that goes, 'the day you board without a ticket is the day the ticket inspector boards your coach'. In other words, never board without a ticket, as it'll cost you more than a lot of money.
At long last, the tram pulled to a stop at Gregory Street station, and I got off, guitar case slung over my back. I watched as the tram set off, speeding into the distance and rattling over a bridge. I stopped to see if the next tram going the other way was running through non stop, but luckily it stopped in the platform, allowing me an opportunity to cross. Trams have priority over pedestrians, after all.
I walked over to my door, the only door, and pushed my key into it, hearing the old brass key squeak in the rusted lock as I turned it. With a clunk, the door opened, and I stepped indoors. Home sweet home, my humble abode in the midst of the Midlands. I set my guitar down on the side of the table and went upstairs to get ready for bed. When in my bathroom, I saw something odd. Swirling around under the sink was a strange black cloud. It didn't look like smoke, as the consistency was too thin. It also hadn't set off the fire alarm. I opened the doors below to take a look, wondering if this was a prank.
There was more of it down there. "RICH PICKINGS!" a voice suddenly bellowed, and I was consumed by the smoke. A huge cloud of the stuff enveloped me, seeping into my skin through pores, my nostrils, and my mouth.
"What the hell is going on?!" I shouted, possibly waking the neighbours up in the process. But in the time, I felt sharp pains all across my body. My feet felt like they were in a vice, and most of my clothing got ripped off in the process. I looked down through the smoke, which was fading now, to see hooves where my feet should have been.
I had no chance to react, as seering pain roared all across my body as it shrank in size. Leg bones snapped and reformed, my knee joints shattering and reforming the other way around. My hips shifted in proportion and size, forcing me forwards into what seemed like a quadrapetal stance. My arms followed, just the other way around, now with the limb swinging inwards rather than their old direction. Not to mention my shoulders had snapped apart and reformed to push them downwards.
Speaking of arms, my hands were soon reduced to nothing but hooves. I was still in a state of shock as my rear started to tingle, and then without warning my tailbone began lengthening, a two tone turquoise tail (what a lot of alliteration) popping out of my butt and growing to a very short length.
Was this horse male? I had little chance to ponder over it as my body was once more consumed by raging agony. My neck stretched upwards like a giraffe, being ludicrously long and thin. My eyes turned an unnaturally bright blue as I was covered in a thick layer of grey fur. My ears slid up the sides of my head until they poked straight upwards like giant radar dishes, and my hair, short, dishevelled, and messy, was also turned to these turquoise shades, leaving a gap for a horn that popped out of my forehead.
My former clothing then morphed into a brown cloak, which secured itself in place around me. Breathing hard, and shaking in terror, I tried to move forward to the mirror, but almost immediately fell over as I couldn't get any of my limbs to cooperate.
"Enjoy your new life, Stygian!" laughed a voice, and before I knew it sleep assaulted my senses. I tried to fight it and stay awake, but there was no point whatsoever. My eyes began to slide closed, and I collapsed onto the floor, the darkness of the night claiming me. It was no use. I had fallen captive to the night, and it had dark designs for me.