//------------------------------//
// Scrambled 
// Story: Book 1 - The Behemoth came to Canterlot 
// by Equimorto 
//------------------------------//

Snow black gates and golden keys and far raised towers in darkened pits where dead stars hide from formless maws of a hunger that can only grow with all that it consumes. Thoughts flowing shattered without thread from a broken chalice of moonlight poured over an ocean of silence, without limit or reason or aim. It's all chromatic aberrations running on hard cardboard in the mentanarrative layer. The screams had no shape and no colour, but their length ran too deep.
Luna drifted. Luna fell and soared. Luna floated and plummeted, and she passed through the ether, and it passed throughout her. Into the deepest recesses of dreams, without shelter, without guidance, without a tether. Wings the weight of unborn universes spreading across empty skies and pillars of light and darkness dancing around her soul.
The unthinkable. The unmeasureable. The unperceivable. All that was dreamed, all that was dreamable. All that was undreamed, but could be conceivable, and beyond it, beyond the limits of what waking minds could believe. The dreams and the nightmares of greater things, of gods and demons, of worlds and whole species. Things no mind of flesh could ever be meant to comprehend, places where no wanderer of the dream realm was ever meant to wander.
Luna fell. Her unwaking mind sunk deeper, soared higher, slipped further. A seed adrift in the wind, a crewless vessel adrift in the sea. A pebble dropped to the waves of the ocean, heading straight for its darkest depths.
Chaos and order, in their purest forms. Ideals and the concepts beyond them, wills and desires and instincts and more. The base components of what made a dream, the metaphysical manifestation of their biological being. Infinitely stretching hyperplanes of ever-shifting, all realised possibility. Bones that held up the fabric of knowledge and conscience, enough to destroy anything that passed them through. Fortunately for Luna, she avoided those.
Deeper still. Past the all-colourful spaces of realised impossibility. Deep into that primal mountain of amorphous knowledge from which all dreams are sprung, when ignited by their spark. Deep into an achromatic, timeless fluid, a thick pool of stagnant information outside of time. All that ever was and all that ever would be, a single molten pile of all knowledge of all things.
Her mind body lodged itself into it. Heavy enough to sink past the surface, too light to sink past the confines of those things no mortal mind was ever going to know. She lay there enwrapped in vines and thorns, the sleeping princess of dreams a prisoner of the furthest regions of her own domain even she had not dared venture in throughout all her life.
There was not silence there. There was all sound, yet subdued. Chained to the quasi physical shape it on took, a muck of what sound all was making none of its own. As there was no light, because light could not there exist, and therefore there was no darkness either. Only Luna still retained her worldly shape, a misfitting intruder in the wellspring of dreams.