From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.
23 January 1005
Gilderoy referred to the strange phenomenon as ‘whistling’. To me, it is more akin to ringing, an infernal tinnitus that drives me ever closer to frustration. It is so abominably loud! I have ordered the ship to be repositioned to such a distance that it is not so grating. I had thought, perhaps, that such would only be a hundred meters at most. We are instead nearly half a kilometer away from the camp. Even at this distance the sound still pierces the brain, like unrepentant claws along an intentionally, diabolically placed chalkboard. It is quiet enough at the least to permit the resumption of regular thought, though I cannot avoid gritting my teeth from time to time when I pause and permit myself to consider it. Yet we must not create any further distance, lest the journey to the camp become too great a hindrance to our investigation.
The meeting this morning was quite revelatory. Each of my officers had the opportunity to summarize the history of the expedition hidden within the many pages found. I must make particular note of Ms. Coxswain, whose literary capacity is so magnificently prodigious and respectable as to allow her to not only completely read all her share of the files last night but to also write copious notes of staggering detail regarding what they revealed to her curious observations. With such a mind, one might be forgiven for wondering if she were related to that most prodigal and beloved of royal bibliophiles (long may she reign).
I shall try my best to create my own summary of events as we currently know them. Although there is not a doubt in my mind that Ms. Coxswain shall write her own such document, I fear it will be far too detailed and dense in nature for any reader falling below the mental capacity of the most esteemed of the intellectual elite. I am struck with befuddled amusement to think that I, a literate figure of the ancient times, should find some modern pony’s writing too dense!
The first thing of note is that there appears to have been wretched treachery within the Gilderoy expedition, although none of my colleagues have yet read which individual within the expedition was responsible for said barbarity, nor the reasoning behind it. Aside from such foul matters, it also has been clarified – primarily from Ms. Eastern Leaves’ notes as read by Cloudstone – that the camp faced some grave, overwhelming disaster when tensions were at their highest.
Cloudstone believes that some pages from the accounts for which he was responsible are missing. This is hardly an unexpected turn of events, as the papers were disorganized and scattered upon discovery and we had only so much time to gather and sort them before dividing the whole up to be read. It is not unreasonable to think that I or one of the other officers have Cloudstone’s missing pages or, no less probable, the pages are still somewhere in the camp, perhaps trapped behind a storage bin or fluttered out of the tents. Whatever the case may be, our choices are limited to forming theories based on what we have now and might, with luck and Celestia’s good will, yet discover.
To continue: the kirin’s capacity for the Equish language appears limited, yet is easily comprehensible regardless. She writes of some grave danger, the nature of which we have yet to ascertain. This might explain the strange barriers of detritus we found in some of the tents, as they may have been crafted as defensive bulwarks against this unspecified threat. The staff are unpleasantly nonplussed by these writings, and I blame them not for their concerns, for from where could such a threat come from in these frigid wastes? The ice is much too vast and flat of surface to bar a creature’s vision, which would surely stretch for several miles in any direction, so it confounds us that the crew did not notice such a problem hours or at least minutes before it fell upon the ill-fated people.
In all of this, one thing has been clearly confirmed by our studies, for in Ms. Coxswain’s portion of the readings was a clear and direct pronouncement of the demise of Lord Margrave Gilderoy of Fletcherstown. Curiously, he did not succumb to the danger implied in these documents but was, rather, struck with a fit of raving madness that saw him fly so high into the atmosphere that his wings froze and the air left him, and so he plummeted to his sudden and disturbing death. Curiously, Ms. Eastern Leaves’s notes state that this death happened only an hour or so prior to the arrival of the mysterious doom about which she writes.
A simple timeline of the events are as follows: Gilderoy’s expedition arrived and began using some unfamiliar form of acid to eat away at the ice. The team was divided into five equal parts, with Gilderoy’s team remaining behind while the others went to gather ice cores. The papers, written by varying individuals, then speak of a growing tension in the camp, the various members becoming irritable and prone to aggression. Reasons for this are unclear, with explanations ranging from paranoid accusations, sabotage, mere stress, to – and Rusty was very eager to make a note of this – suspicions of curses and corrupting magics. From there the order of events are unclear. There came a bloodless mutiny, the decidedly insane Gilderoy perished, and something undescribed but deadly occurred. Which of these three events transpired first is a puzzle that we are all at an utter, damnable loss to determine. That, to the best of our knowledge and reading thus far, is where things lie.
Questions remain. What was this threat and why was it never described? Where are the bodies of the deceased? What of the survivors? If the other teams did indeed leave, why are all the sleds at the camp? And what is that infernal
Confound that Rusty Iron! Coming to pester me in the midst of writing in this journal, and all to make ludicrous claims! He drags me out into the freezing atmosphere only to point at the expedition sight over the starboard bow. In panicked and frightful tones did he insist that the three black formations beneath the ice have moved since yesterday. What nonsense! Clearly his unfounded belief in occult histories relating to this voyage have addled his mind, and I told him as such. He took great offense, which is hardly surprising, but I told him he had my permission to expand his special preparations if it would make the superstitious cretin’s primitive brain feel safer. Perhaps he does feel, as I do, that something is watching us, but at least I have the sense to understand when my own mind is battling against me!
And now I’ve lost the mood for this. Perhaps it is for the better. We are due to head back to the expedition site shortly and I need to be getting ready. Rusty will be joining us today, despite his most ardent protests. The greater reasoning behind this decision stems from the clear need to show confidence before all the officer staff. I must also begrudgingly acknowledge that Rusty’s scientific knowledge and his obsession with the occult have the potential to be helpful in deciphering some of the artifacts we left behind in our previous examination.
But I will not deny that a small voice in my brain is relishing this singular opportunity to frustrate and harass the stallion for his boorish nature and dogged persistence. Everypony has a quirk or two, but he is the only one on this ship that makes me consider bringing back the corporal punishment of the old times.