The greatest walls in the history of the universe, criss-cross over themselves in copy after copy of kingdom come.
Towers with more floors than can be counted, stretch out across the continuous, dead, breeze-less horizon.
Some creature coughs in some forsaken place, where the only sound that echoes in reply is a sense of ever-expanding black horizons, leaping from cosmo to cosmo, easily and eternally.
A sense of home and comfort radiate from a decrepit corner in some dripping dungeon, that will never be found or seen.
Somewhere, a red pegasus clings to life, falling to her death as slowly as she pleases. Falling past interminable chambers reverberating with sufferings of desolation and ruin.
.
While elsewhere, A small earth pony named Slotted Spoon, murmurs small nothings to himself. "Now that is, uh well that's funky is ... uhhh, what I'd say here... you know, personally... of course.... for obvious reasons..."
He idly picks strings on the lyre listening carefully for any sound. He scratches his head in confusion as the lyre begins only whispering hints of its notes.
.
-
"Well, I can only assume, for obvious reasons, that here is a place that uh, well...What I can only assume, from the uh- You know the uh... spatial dynamics and what-not, that is for no reason, in particular, I mean of course, for obvious reasons that would be apparent, that uhhhhh. Uhhhhh, uhhh. UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhh-"
His "Uhh's" echo into the abyss, loud and clear.
There is a faraway shaking.
Slotted Spoon ponders something as he lets the instrument's meager sounds slump.
Accompanying the absence of sound, the purple light emanating from the strings slips to a pitch-black, eventually ceasing its glow [/color]completely.
The dim pony has to laugh. In matters of intellectual proximity, he is galaxies apart from the common pony mind. An inch is as good as a mile, a mile, inconsequential as a grain of sand.
Torn from his time, by an unknown force of nature, he ponders.
"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh-magicmaybe?"
Slotted Spoon manages to think. Out of the corner of his eye, something barely appears as they begin to adjust to the darkness, he sees it skitter across his gaze.
Scrambling to his hooves, he hurriedly starts picking the notes on his lyre and sees;
Pink, shiny, no eyes, TEETH like mountains, it didn't skitter, the creature's features took up every bit of vision that could be spared, the skitter merely a pupil. A giant vast hole in the cavernous maw that stretched out into the distance, is now claustrophobic with the presence of a massive creature. It soundlessly lifts one of six of its gargantuan legs, and puts it down with incredible force.
-rumble-shake shake-rumble-
-and on its fleshy protuberance of a face hangs an odd-looking shape that had the expression almost reminiscent of a pony's but deformed and its mane was patchy and scarred with the veins of its host. The head smiles.
The notes immediately cease on Slotted Spoon's lyre. It goes dark, it is all silent.
"Uhhh......." Slotted Spoon whispered with reticence.
She looks up;
An endless-
She sighs. She looks down;
Sand.
She ruffles her feathers in frustration. She had fallen quite far and found herself surrounded by;
A veritable Sahara, populated densely with crumbling brick, and decaying architecture that jutted out against miles and miles of polarizing darkness, giving the sand an eerie monotone sheen against the monoliths of a ruined city. In the reflection of the splayed-out stone of this wasteland, everything shines white, as though blackness itself is challenged by the fluorescence and as the pegasus registers this, her eyes easily adjust to the overwhelming light, and her vision settles upon a vast colorless desert.
Not a sign of life.
Not a grain of sand moves. The pegasus draws an idle hoof through a thin pool of sand by her side.
Her etching would look no semblance of any particular significance, yet the strange symbols seem to hold her esteem.
?.
She hoofs at the symbol and chuffs... She flits her wingspan a couple of times as if building up some energy, but then defeatedly hangs her head.
She must have fallen very far this time. A nuisance.
She looks around at the cascading ruins, glowing in a harsh heatless light. She squints and takes off her satchel. She sets it down quiet as the grave and with her left-wing deftly fishes out of her satchel, a small biscuit.
Biscuit could be an overstatement. Ration could be an understatement. Using her wingtip, she holds the biscuit in front of her face and her wing-bone bends awkwardly to comply. She smiles, this biscuit is her most treasured possession.
She has never needed sustenance, nor felt any compulsion to process waste but she nibbles delicately at a corner of the wafer and quickly puts it back into her satchel.
She looks up, and once again, with a game determination, looks for a wing hold.