There once was a land known as Equestria pure and free, without strife, for a very long time, it ruled from the heavens, like something sublime, it lived in perfect harmony and prefect ways, little lights were seen, far away, out in the horizon of the world shells, spinning in place, they were. In this place, on this world, from it's molten core, did it collect magic at the highest amounts and energies, did energy of magic swirl down, through a giant molten metal alicorn horn, the horn of Gaia, the earth, living, and alive, in each a piece of us, and the representation of harmony with the other harmonies just being smaller parts of itself, and its children.
Now, in this land, far above our own, were we made, as all disharmony comes from somewhere afar, in space, this planet, it formed out of mud, it grew out of the shades of space, and the values of creation, and then it was born, full and an ember of creation. In the beginning the entire world was like one great light show, with azure skies and a lightning coat showering around the world, an endless aurora borealis, Then, the ponies were made, they filled up the empty spaces between the crests of the earth and the dry air of the sky, and so the world was born, along with everything else that made it up. The forests and the trees, the animals and plants, fungus, and every family on the tree of life, nearly every magical creature was a part of this great system, and was simply one of the daughters or sons of this great living, alicorn planet.
There is a prophecy, a sight only seen by one eye, one wrapped in bone atop a spiral shell, lofted infinitely in the air, in a concave surface of space, where the world flows strangely into itself and normal things break, where an eye made of fossilized bone glows out putrid green lights. in links and chains of tendons, in a reminiscent show of ancient pony rope arts by the string and beads, made of tendon flesh and bone, it tells a story. In this great high spiraling castle, it speaks of a million faceted gem, that is powered by the madness of a broken clockwork infrastructure, the planet that chaos and discord originated from.
It opened up its shell, a million sliding plates opening up, like an origami flower, they shot out like razor bladed teeth, and the gasses flooded out of its strange endless gullet like a reverse black hole in osmosis, churning with hawking radiation, like an octopus's clawed mouth. This mouth, in the past, was a creator of endless beauties, they made worlds come out of the mucus of the endlessness, they made the membranes between space grow and create a dryness, a land in the ocean of nothingness, because between nothings there is something, and when the something appears and grows, out of a big bang separate from the first, and reminiscent of a shell, like an egg, elongated, growing, and changing, and with its sides changing and growing further and further more complex characteristics; in this way, the chaos world was a creator, but it was also a destroyer, and as each world was a living planet, an alicorn, or some strange other creator, a symbol of whatever works it may be, then they also would come at a planet's death, at the souls disconnect, to be as the reaper for that world as well. This entire world, of chaos and strangeness and ideas unknowable, would come to eat, to feasts, and to destroy everything, and so it is here, as chaos blocks out the sun, the moon, an the stars of harmony, envelope it like the membrane of a cell, and quickly dissolve it in strange otherworldly acid, until it is nothing at all.
Ponies are reduced by their filaments and broken down to their subatomic parts, Their faces melting and breaking apart, like continents, but one of them is still alive as this is happening, he physically feels as she falls apart, as her blood is burned, but she is no normal pony. As the entire world is enveloped in green, unholy flames, like changeling magics embrace, and the meaning of what is normal quickly breaks down in a matter of a day, as ponies dig deeper and deeper under the earth to stay farther and farther away from the fading hull that is the outside world, as everything becomes smaller, until their just is not enough space anymore, in this place, a pony lives, as her body dies, and hears the cries of the millions of souls, yet she herself is still alive. A ghost in a solid containment of chaotic magic and crystals of death, all enveloping her, with crisscrossing bands of dark and evil electricity, and deep gouges for eyes, like a great stained glass body, coated with wires of molten hair like fibers, coiling and slowly falling, like dew, in an appearance that is reminiscent of blood, and with strange halos that are spanning across all of her hooves in threes. She escapes the world from which she was born on a great tidal wave, and reaches beyond her own known reality, and is grasped and finds an interest in another, she is the one, and only one of the ponies, far and wide, as far as we know, to ever have escaped her planets and universes entire destruction by the jaws of this endless planet, and the sacrifice by which she lived, was immeasurable.
She controls with strings like a puppet, from her home of spinning glass shards and broken souls, like her own, where the fertile plains of second dimensional geometry intersect and make three dimensional art, she has little animals in glass jars, and studies the magic of everything. Little bands of electricity zip back and forth in an embrace of madness, fitting to the frame of a mad scientist pony, she looks through the small holes in the walls to see other worlds, rectangles and squares that she peeks through with one eye, and her eye buzzes and breaks away its conception, what was once a light instantaneously glows harder and brighter, adn images and sequences of objects break apart out of nothingness from chaos magic, and an eye that can see every inch if every imaginable instant from here and back in front of it can see, like a recorder, it watches objects, and has a marker, for all atomic nucleus, all magic and all things that seem to be unpredictable. She has the great power to predict the unpredictable with this eye, the entire world in front of here just becomes a series of lines and strings, connects and relations, and her eye like arcane lines drawing back and forth, into each other and out of each other, but all swirling along the center, in a million different, interconnected epicenters.
She lives atop the rainbow falls, with the rainbows turned green and strange, and the falls are filled with spiky plants, the stars that shot up high, like sparklers do they fly, and in the falls of green sludge rainbows the mutants grovel on the floor, the witch doctor's make brews, as they all are commissioned for, they all have a purpose, in this junkyard backyard world, they all have a thing to do, that they were made for, and made to do. In this junky, endless dump,of broken dreams and broken hearts, and hills and mountains filled with tree stumps, where the green sludge of the earth, from the incantations of a strange evil birth. Through these green runic symbols do they cry, the energies flow off, in rivers of salt and tears, from the fetus of the undulations of the earth, a fetus of control, a mind, of a crying baby, of an undead, never born, no good corruption of a god, a god who now will no longer ever properly exist.
As the pillars of the earth holding up the hearty flesh of the sky cries, and the glowing worms of the parasites enter their heads and penetrate through their minds, they all have bad thoughts and bad hearts, and do things that are unkind. They have an evil circuit in their souls, raised since when they were born, from these parasitic worms entering their heads. The windigos run free, and pain is like a warm breeze upon the hill, it is ever flowing,.ever free, and it grows every day, the world becomes warmer and warmer, the parched lips become drier, and you become uglier with evil intentions, they control and bend and break the rules,anyway they can, they murder and spill and do evil for their fill, to fill their evil ways, their hearts are abundant in the magic gaze of beholders beyond the end of days, as they live in the eldritch ways of the chaotic daze of that great wallflower castle planetary disk of clockwork bound destruction, creation, chaotic harmonious ways. And as they live by the rule of the one who is the ruler,who have escaped those same, wallflower castle planetary disks of clockwork bound destruction, creation, and chaotic harmonious ways, so too she gains more power, to live for longer and longer days. She is the ruler, she rules by her own ways, and you better do what she says, for if you don't, you don't have many days before your life falls away in a haze, in the crackling depths that may graze against your skull, she is a ruler, and one not to trifle with, she rules as she pleases, to her all ponies are but tools for her plays, chess pieces for her busy games, a mere distraction towards her end goal, but one which makes up her souls very meaning in many ways. Her goals are fulfilled as she watches the clockwork ways of the chaotic haze in the daze of the unliving, yet not dead ways of those ponies who are evil by the parasitic worms, and what a hearty laugh, what a hearty chuckle does it envelope her in, to watch them suffer, but yet not understand that it is suffering, feel a cruel gaze, yet think it is nothing but the normal ways, because for them, it is the normal ways, and it is just the ways of their culture, mind and being, who they are inside, her play toys, her puppets.
She watches her dear subjects with simple curiosity, control subjects in her experimental ways, their god in their religions, an unholy abomination, born out of more than just the chaotic ways, for it has always been her ways, she diverts the means and the fates and the very heart of the stars. She diverts what it is that magic cures in the soul that is behind bars, she diverts and shows them, shows them just how corrupt she can really be, beyond corrupt, a crooked, strange mistake of a pony, never knowing love, a blasphemy to any sort of harmony. Her heart is truly bleak,endless in its peaks, mountains that rise above the very tops of possibility, her hearts is so cold, unnaturally cold,like nothing else in the universe can truly be, it is made of plastic, cannot be renewed or reinvented, it is stuck in her ways, from its birth to it's death, with a calculated gaze, because she is less, less than a pony in her soul and her flesh. She controls all around her to fit all her needs, so that she does not feel inadequate in her inharmony, trying, in some twisted, broken way,by a heart that can't be, to be in actual, true harmony, but why, for one who can't feel it, can't for the right reasons, then for some twisted conception of the meaning of power, of how to control the masses, for in harmony one gains control, and that is what she wants most, and her harmony with herself is the one thing she can’t, that she is locked out of, to never properly make her own.
She gathers at the cold box, this is where the heart is placed, and the soul and the strings of their lives great infinity, wrapped around itself in an infinite coil of power, she had bodily ripped out its entire life from the mainframe of existence, this means that it never has existed, but oh well. It is hers now to control, it is hers now to make her own, she tinkers with it, delicately, and builds around its heart a series of walls to fill its frame, to hold it tight and steal its magic, to power her sad ways, with a god that never existed, and whoever he might be, not that she would ever know, she ripped him out without a care. What if he was of a vital importance, but without him something in the orders of the universe changed drastically. well, whoever he is, not that he is dead, in a ways, but a fetus in a frame, a heart without a body, a soul inside a mirror and held against the runic symbols that draw blood, with the prickly needles and discomforting claustrophobia that is no smaller, no bigger, then what is needed to for the soul, so small, unable to ever grow or change, broken just like her.
she was in the spinners hallway, of blood and bone, the weavers hallway, of broken stones, that holds the components of what makes us whole, and one was more broken than ever before, she was more broken than any other. In the entire infinite hallways, that could be read up and down, infinite pages of strange information read in knots and ties,in their language, the ancient language of the weavers, the seers language of the weavers, the broken one is coming, and she will break us all, because for her, that is the only way to be whole.