From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.
24 January 1005
I am starting to regret last night’s decision.
Rusty Iron has clearly been dreadfully affected by the ongoing events, and took to my blessing of his plans with a feverish fervor. Everywhere I cast my eyes in this distressingly peaceful morning I find symbols and runes. Most have been marked upon the ship with what I suspect to be ink from those ingenious pens and markers developed over the thousand years my kind devoted to involuntary slumber, whilst others have been crudely engraved directly into the wood or metal. Explaining this to Rear Admiral Long Reach will be frighteningly difficult, to say nothing of my ultimate decision to neither bring the subject up with Rusty nor punish him for the vandalism.
I had thought Rusty’s activities might provide a much needed sense of safety and security. Instead, I find myself feeling ridiculous. Why in Cadance’s name did I not inquire as to his exuberant plans before approving them? No, the query is the height of foolishness. I am well aware of the why of it. And if Long Reach had borne witness to the same apparition I had in my dreams, there is not a doubt he would have committed the same mistake.
At least it amuses the crew. Although I can’t help but suspect, by their collective countenance and hushed mannerisms, that they might appreciate Rusty’s efforts. Far be it for me to call them suspicious in such trying times. Coxswain has mentioned the whispers. Many wish to abandon this endeavor altogether, especially the crystal ponies who make up more than half the crew. If Rusty’s mad carvings and shapes can set their minds at ease, I find no cause to interrupt the proceedings.
On to the business at hoof. I am pleased – as much as anypony can be amidst that ever-present ringing and sense of being rudely stared at even when in complete isolation – to declare that our scouting parties have made some headway in their tedious search. The information taken from Gilderoy’s camp has led the pegasi accurately to the boreholes they were seeking, and hopefully today that trend will continue until such time that the four missing teams are found.
Yet I fear that is the only pleasant news to be had. The threads of the anchoring bolts were sheared yet again and the ship had drifted some eighty meters from the excavation camp overnight. Tiny Bracket was apoplectic upon making the discovery, and insists upon inspecting the rest of the spares for potential defects. In the meantime I have, despite my personal discomfort with the idea, ordered the ship returned to a location 250 meters distant from the camp. We are holding position via engine propulsion, which is tricky and requires constant monitoring. The ship’s rotors, though of ingenious design, are limited such that they can only move so slowly, which is too fast to hold the ship in a single location against such a small push or pull as we are facing.
We are indeed facing an external force. Careful observations along with the maneuvers of the morning confirm it. We remain utterly lost as to the source, as the only external force that could remotely make sense is wind and that is plainly nonexistent over the ice. Ms. Sherry suggested the possibility of magic, which is technically possible but would have been detected by one of our unicorn officers like Ms. Coxswain or Ms. Heart when they ran an investigatory spell across the ship. Whatever it is that pushes us along, it is something we have not witnessed before. Coxswain, being our most adept in matters of thaumaturgy, is investigating.
Then there is the ringing. It has grown no louder. It has grown no quieter. Yet it never leaves, and is having a clear deleterious effect on the crew. I witnessed one deckhoof washing the same minute portion of the ship over and over and over again, the scrub brush run dry from constant use. When I interrupted the mare to inquire about the bizarre behavior, she admitted being so intensely distracted by her own gnawing frustration with the ringing that she could think of naught else and thus got stuck in what can only be described as a mental loop of scrubbing and pondering and brooding. She was profusely apologetic, but I dismissed her adle-mindedness so long as she did, in fact, complete the job properly.
Still, the situation plagues the mind for reasons beyond the obvious. Ponies all over the ship are distracted, lethargic, moody and aggressive, and it all can be traced to the noise. There is a severe lack in crew efficiency and cohesion as a result, and I begin to question if something ought to be done about it. Rusty Iron’s well-meaning and overenthusiastic efforts may or may not be having an effect, it is too early to say for certain. They may be serving only to enhance the distraction with their mysterious symbols and alien characters.
I spoke with Cloudstone on the matter, only to be met with worse news. She can determine no biological cause for the itching that plagues myself and the crystal ponies from yesterday’s expedition. Worse, it appears to be spreading, but again, only to members of my own crystalline tribe. Cloudstone herself is now suffering from the ceaseless aggravation. She possesses the singular trait of finding the issue fascinating rather than infuriating. She did dare to offer one theory, though she was certain to press that it was only a theory with dubious likelihood of accuracy. This theory centers on the fact that to crystal ponies, the sounds we hear from the crack is like that of a ringing; a bell, a gong, a chime, or some strange mixture of such instrumentation. But to all other ponies, be they pegasi or earth ponies or unicorns, the sound is instead a whistling.
Crystal ponies possess certain biological distinctions from their southern kin. We do, in fact, maintain a certain amount of crystalline material within our bodies, which provides for our unique physical appearance and natural affinity for all things gemology. Cloudstone’s theory is that this audio phenomenon coming from the crevice in the ice is at a frequency that closely resonates with this physiology, thereby changing how we crystal ponies receive and comprehend it. The doctor refuses to specify a likelihood for this theory to be true, and emphasized again and again that she could not be certain of anything. Personally, I believe Cloudstone has come to accept this idea as having great merit but does not wish to say so for fear of her medical reputation. In regard to what kind of impact this might have on us physically, the doctor declined to speculate.
I trust Cloudstone completely in medical matters. I offered no arguments. The only disappointment I wished to express was in how her analysis failed to include some method by which we might stop the blasted itching! It has spread now. I feel it, like a thousand icy needles dancing along my spine. I dare say I’ve grown accustomed to the sensation, but by the princesses, I wish it was not necessary to do so. I have this horrid apprehension that something is slithering under my skin.
The last thing of note for the time being: that inky liquid material seen creeping up the crack was nearly at the surface of the ice this morning. I have called off today’s excursion to the camp. With all the ill results of this investigation so far, I dread the possibility of worse. For all I know, the liquid could be Gilderoy’s acidic mixture being vomited out like a deadly geyser. Best to steer clear until it runs its course and we can perform an examination from a safer distance.
I have taken some of Ms. Coxswain’s papers for reading, the ones she has not found time to read from our second excursion on the ice. I intend to go through them in the staff room. I am hesitant to acknowledge such in front of the crew, but the nightmare of the previous evening leaves me wary of my own quarters. It is a foolish sentiment, I am aware, and there will be no delay in pushing past it this evening, but for my own mental wellbeing I shall permit this weakness.