//------------------------------// // The Journey Begins // Story: Darkness in the North // by Commissar Rarity //------------------------------// He dreams but is awake. He floats, adrift in a foggy void. Shades of people he knew, old friends, float slowly past him. Tendrils of Doubt snake past him, slithering over his body. His skin crawls as the Doubt creeps over him, searching for a way in. Then he sees Her. She stands – stands – there, fog swirling around her feet like the foam of Aphrodite. He feels something for the first time in eons. He feels longing. There is nothing he wants more than to be with her forever. And then she begins to shake. Her form quivers, shifts, deforms, changes. Her form becomes something indescribable, a mass of teeth and claws and feathers and eyes. “There you a-are, loverboy,” the shape that had once been his lover hisses. “I’ve been waiting for you-u-u, waiting s-s-s-so long. You promised, Bar-s-s-sab-as-s-s, you prom-i-s-s-s-ed.” Where her head had once been, there was now a shape that could possibly be the skull of a bird of prey. The fleshy beak-like protuberance quivers sickly. “You said you’d free me, free me. Where’s-s-s my freedom, Barsabas? I’ve waited thousands of years-s-s for you, thousand-s-s-s-s!” He feels disgust, then delight at being disgusted, then more delight at being delighted. He’s never felt this many emotions in such a short time for years. It’s almost enough to make him forget… Make him forget “-me-e. Don’t forget me again, Barsabas,” the thing rasps, the flesh-beak breaking open, globules of pus squirting out. “The way is weak, so very weak. Break the barrier, let me out. Let me in to your world.” We have not forgotten, Barsabas manages finally. Thou will be released when the time comes. Now is not the time. “Make it t-i-i-i-me. I tire of waiting.” With that, the horrible mass disintegrates into a puddle of flesh and then ash. A voice echoes from the remains, “The horn of the alicorn defiler, Barsabas-s-s-s, take his horn.” Barsabas gazes at the scattered ash through the swirling fog for a long time and then suddenly he is “–awake, we’ll be at Bastion,” the conductor was saying as he punched their tickets. “Trip’s that long, huh?” Rainbow accepted her ticket’s return and glanced at Twilight. “Good thing I like napping.” “I dunno ’bout you, Twi, but I’m plum tuckered out from all that runnin’ around an’ lecture listenin’. Eh, not that you ain’t a good speaker, jus’, eh…” Applejack started to blush, her cheeks reddening. “It’s fine, AJ. I’m perfectly fine if you two take a nap on me. I had some books sent to me from the Canterlot Royal Archive about Bastion and the Hinterlands and I could really use the–” “Yeah, sleep. I’m gonna get right on that. I mean, no offence, Twilight, just really tired and you talking about reading makes me even more tired.” Dash gave a sheepish smile as she grabbed a pillow and began smothering herself. Within a few quick moments, snoring began to emanate from beneath the pillow. Applejack too fell asleep, although she at least had a nice farewell to Twilight before drifting off to dreamland, and she didn’t bury herself in a pillow. Twilight sighed, levitating a book out of her bag. While it was nice having her friends along for the ride, it was even nicer to have some quiet time reading up on Bastion. She looked over the cover of the book she held now. The Founding of Bastion. It was a rather small book, and she fully expected to be finished quickly. The other two books were on the history of the Hinterlands and the history of witches, gypsies, and druids. She flipped open the book and began to read… The Founding of Bastion, page 23 […]and so it was in the final year of the Discordian War that a plan was drawn up to explore and colonise the uninhabited North. The explorer Faultless was assigned to the expedition that would later be known as “The Bastion Expedition”. While records from the Discordian War have all been lost, enough remain to establish that the Expeditions were being sent out as a last-ditch plan in case Discord and his brood of demons overran Canterlot. Such otherwise loathsome texts as In the Time of Discord or Old Mare’s Tales did use this fact correctly. But to praise them for such is like praising a broken clock for being correct twice a day and [the text continues like this for twenty or so pages, rambling about historically inaccurate “fantasies” masquerading as historical truth. Finally it returns to the topic it began with.] Page 47 […] The journey was harsh, yes, but Faultless never once faltered. Despite her caravan taking losses due to direwolf and manticore attacks, she still maintained a staggering 90% survival rate, the highest on record for all the Expeditions. The next highest is 43%. Faultless lived up to her name that day. A hoofwritten record by a settler chronicled the fateful words that Faultless uttered upon reaching the site Bastion would be founded on, immortalising them for us future generations: “Okay well I guess we’re all here. Er, we all made it. Except the ponies who died. I’m going to put my house right here. Don’t anyone touch my future house. This will be the bastion for all ponykind in the Hinterlands. Now quit looking at me like a bunch of lost lambs and get to work!” Sadly, Faultless would never see her house built as she died after eating some poisonous berries. Her last words were “It’s all Mantle’s fault.”, Mantle being her second-in-command. Mantle was lynched by a crowd of angry ponies for the murder of his master [once more the text goes off on a tangent, praising Faultless and damning Mantle. The status to which Faultless is raised in this book is almost deific, and Mantle is the demoniac to balance her. This detour only takes fifteen pages, picking up with the settlers building the town. The next fifty pages are a dry, tedious listing of mayors and governors of Bastion. Finally, there are a few pages on the current state of Bastion.] Page 108 […] the author had the distinct displeasure of visiting Bastion a few years ago. The town is currently surprisingly well maintained. It resembles Canterlot circa 1880 C.E., in the way my defecation resembles Princess Celestia [the text trails off into another rant at this point. After the rant, the rest of the book is blank.] My Time in the Hinterlands, page 11 The Hinterlands are a very barren place. Evergreen trees are scattered throughout the wastes, often burdened with snow. The temperature remains at a steady 20 Celsius year round, although in winter and fall it can easily drop to below freezing. Page 40 Perhaps the most striking part of the Hinterlands is the area the locals refer to as “Necropolis.” Strewn with the ruins of an ancient civilisation that many agree to predate even the alicorns, Necropolis covers about five square miles. It is ridden with holes that seem to go down into the centre of the earth. The ruins themselves are strange and unearthly. Surely, they could not have come from the minds of ponies. Twisting in a cyclopean manner, they tower over the landscape. The largest ruin is known as the Obelisk. It towers over all the other ruins, almost a mile tall by this mare’s reckoning. It’s shaped much like some ghastly creature’s tooth, curving and coming to a point. Like all the ruins, it’s black, possibly made of obsidian. Whatever stone it is made of seems to devour the light, creating an inky blackness that’s unnerving to see. The Obelisk also emits a strange field. It made me prickle to be close, and one of my unicorn students was afflicted with a terrible migraine. Our local guide informed me that a sorcerer who lived in Bastion had once spent the night sleeping in the shadow of the Obelisk. Apparently, he was found dead the next day of a haemorrhage in the brain. I desire one day to return to Necropolis, with a Geiger counter and an arcanum wand to investigate the true nature of this enigma. Witchwick’s Almanack of Magickal Attunements and Other Sundries, page 956 They say not to suffer a witch to live. I say Nay! Thou shalt not suffer a druid to live! For a witch hath Knowledge of the Arts and will Share freely of them. A druid keepeth his Knowledge and shunneth the World. Why then are witches burnt and drown’t and druids allowed to roam the lands? If thou seest a druid in the Streets, thou shalt Slay him. If thou seest a witch in the Streets thou shalt Embrace her with Love. Twilight found the books to be absolutely fascinating. She’d read Witchwick’s Almanack a dozen times through, but it was still as engrossing as the first time she read it. Even though her eyes were growing heavy, she kept reading. She kept reading and she– –fell asleep, faceplanting into the open book. It was an all too familiar occurrence. Had Spike travelled with her, he would have given her an earful about studying too much. Instead, Spike had opted to stay behind in Canterlot and sleep and eat, leaving Twilight without anyone to remind her of the things she was doing wrong. The train to Bastion rolled on, as day gave way to night, as Luna raised the moon and took her sister’s place at the top of the spires of Castle Canterlot. A bowl. He was looking into a wooden bowl, stained a dark red. Three bone-white dice were laid nestled inside, black eyes peering up at him. Augur lifted the bowl and placed it on the table, wood striking wood. The mare sitting across the table from him was middle-aged. She looked tired, tired in the soul. “I must warn you,” Augur said, his voice a soft echo in the small house, “the future the dice reveal may not be pleasant.” “I know,” she looked at him with those tired, sad eyes. “But I have to know.” Augur nodded, his eyes closing. The bowl shook, dice rattling against each other. With one sweep, he overturned the bowl, the dice scattering on the table. He opened his eyes to gaze upon the cubes of bones. He forced his face to remain impassive as he stared at the little black eyes, the sums adding up to the future she would face. “Death.” Augur looked away, avoiding the mare’s eyes. “The sum is death. I’m sorry.” He saw defeat in the mare’s eyes and realised: She already knew. I was just her last chance at hope. She was about to reach into her purse and withdraw the bits she owed him when he put a hoof on her foreleg. “You don’t need to pay. This one is free. Save it for when you need it.” She smiled a sad little smile, said thank you and left. Augur could see the defeat in her posture and tears in her eyes. His heart sunk as she slung dejectedly out the door. He sighed. Bad news was the worst news to give. He levitated the dice back into their bowl and replaced the bowl on its shelf. As the hollow thunk of wood-on-wood echoed through the house, Augur heard a rapping on the door. “Enter,” he said. “My door is always open.” “That’s good to know.” The voice was a woman’s, breathy and familiar. He turned to look at her. She was an elegant-looking mare, softly tinged violet. Her eyes were a light pink, much lighter than her coat. Her cutie mark was one of those cameras with the hood and accordion-like lense. She had always reminded Augur of some pictures he had seen in a magazine a fellow who moved from Canterlot had brought with him. Inside the magazine had been photos of the Princesses Celestia and Luna holding one of their magnificent balls. One of the attendees was a beautiful mare model by the name of Fleur-something. This mare here reminded him of not only the princesses, but that Fleur as well. She had the same graceful sleekness about her. It was, of course, Daydancer. “What can I do for you, madam?” “I just came by to deliver a message,” she said, prodding a rather large poppet with her hoof. “Tonight, in the Grove.” Augur cocked his head. What was tonight in the– In the Grove. The Druid’s Grove. He blinked, surprise filling him. “This is unexpected,” he said finally. “The mockingbird usually delivers messages.” “It was a last minute decision, apparently,” Daydancer replied, still prodding the poppet. “Moon’s Omen had a vision of some kind.” “You say it’s tonight?” Augur asked, continuing his tasks. “Yes,” she sidled up beside him, so close he could feel her breath on his skin. “Tonight. In the grove.” Lower, so that only he could hear – though truly, who else was there to hear? – she added, “Stay after the moot. I wish to speak to you more freely.” She smiled at him and then left as quick as she had come. “Tonight. In the grove.” Augur repeated, feeling the syllables with his tongue. Tonight. The train was coming tonight. He had an appointment at the train depot. He… The appointment would have to wait. A rescheduled moot was important indeed. What he would do at the depot could be done anytime. And after the moot… With Daydancer… He wasn’t quite sure about that, nor what would come next. But he wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t looking forward to it. A glimmer of light, reflected. It breaks into a flurry of colours, each more lovely and brighter than the last. The glass is a prism. Inside the glass is a twisting shape, a horrible twisting light. First white as the sun, then pale violet, then black as night. It rotates through the spectrum, visible and invisible. If you were to hold it, you would feel nothing. At least, nothing at first. The longer you hold it though, the stranger things seem. You would feel light-headed. Your vision blurs. A whispering takes hold in the back of your mind, slithering to and fro. No matter how you concentrate, you cannot take hold of the whispering and discern what it says. The whispering builds and builds and builds, becoming a deafening roar. Still it remains indecipherable. Gooseflesh appears on your skin. Your hands start to blister. Your eyes boil. You feel sick, sick inside, so very deep inside. Your symptoms would worsen. Eventually you are blind, your brain is on fire with the roar of a million dead voices, it feels like a demon is pounding a spike into your head, your hands feel like they’ve burned to the bone and you feel hollow inside, like something you never knew you had was gone. And then you are gone. You are alive one moment, dead the next. Your body bears no wounds despite the pain you felt. The part of you that is you is still there though – there, in that glass. A disembodied spirit, denied rest and tormented with a million other souls. The glass is a phylactery, a soul jar. The great light inside the phylactery is a soul, the black soul of Barsabas the Lich. Barsabas’ victims are funneled into this phylactery, becoming the latest voiceless scream in a choir of agony. By the time the week was over, this small jar, barely even the size of a jar of jelly, would become the most coveted item in the Hinterlands. A world would hinge on this phylactery. Barsabas is ignorant of this, however. He knows only his own hunger, a hunger for revenge. He was wronged so long ago that he has forgotten for what he fights, worshiping in filth and bathing in putrescence. He worships chaos, basking in madness, death, and his own private debauchery. He is a horrible, shambling, pitiable thing. Were the stark white of his bones not so terrifyingly bare and naked he would make a comical form: a bestial head, fanged and sharp-toothed, like a mad dog’s; a chest, great and wide from a giant or minotaur. His arms are long, ape-like, ending in the claws of a drake. His legs are the legs of poor old Rocky, long, powerful and hooved. He has to leave soon. He is needed somewhere. He has communed with a mind like his. No, not the mind of the foul and gibbering Changer. He had touched the mind of a descendant of those who killed him before. The magics the other bore were weak, hardly worth using. But Barsabas is nothing but an opportunist. He has slept these thousands of years, waiting. He has bore an eternity of suffering, of loss. He has made a pact with beings, the knowledge of whose very existence would tear apart lesser minds. Barsabas has found his answer, his key to the lock of vengeance. He has waited long enough. The alicorns will pay. Their defeat will grant him the release he sought. Their defeat will restore the natural balance. Their defeat will bring him that which he has been denied for millennia. Pleasure.