//------------------------------// // Act 1- Chapter 8: Miasma // Story: Icon: Remnants of the North // by Vixavior //------------------------------// Miasma Proofread by TehSporkBandit Your bones ache, muscles protesting against the recent ordeal, and your legs are uncomfortably stiff.  It was really just like any other normal day but far more noticeable as you could barely drag your carcass up the steps to the bathroom after wobbling in the front door.  The journey home had taken five times longer than usual so you'd arrived well after dark. One could say that the whole ordeal gave you an even greater appreciation for the stamina and raw power of an Earth Pony, and one might also say that you could be proud of helping a friend.  Even as your conscience gave you a congratulatory pat on the back, you wanted to swat it away like a meddlesome mosquito for it's efforts. And with that, you groan and scoop more warm water from the basin with a splash, then stoop down to look in the mirror at your reflection. The face that stared back was practically unrecognizable. You were far more gaunt and haggard than you remember. Even after dabbing your face with a hooftowel you were flush while dark bags were starting to show under your eyes.   Maybe curling up on the cold, smooth floor will help. Once more, you replace the towels and leave the basin for anypony else that wanted it.  An uncomfortable hiss escapes your lips, the first weary sigh before resting against the wall.  It was a long day, a hard day, and now you weren't sure whether you wanted to eat or just curl up in bed and let everything pass you by. Applejack wouldn't be at dinner, but spurning food could be construed as an insult and slighting one’s hosts wasn't a good idea.  It took a notable effort to reach out for the wall of the tub to fetch your glasses. The pale green wallpaper and white lattice decoration seems to fade back into your mind as if recognizing all the little things around the room for the first time.  Well, your mind wasn't screaming at you to ignore the world, leave the light on, and flop into your bed at the end of the hall.  So that had to be some sort of sign.  Twisting the dimmer for the lamp, you ponderously lumber out the door and down the hall.  If somepony did come up those stairs, you might very well look like a haggard troll. Down the hall, descending the steps, and turning left brings you into the kitchen and dining area.  Catching the scent of food, your stomach doesn't rebel, which was probably about as much as you could have hope for.  The kitchen itself is empty, a surprise at first until a glance in the adjacent dining room shows two resplendent faces you'd come to expect.  The laconic giant and the wizened elder glance up from the table set for five with a half-dozen covered bowls in the middle of the table under small pot holders. “Weeeell h'aint'cha the latest early bird'a the bunch?” she frowns and smacks her lips, shifting her false teeth in evident irritation.     “Apple Bloom's not home yet?” That was a shock, she was supposed to be back before nightfall. “Ain't seen a lick'a 'er.  She she's pro'lly off wit 'er lil' filly friends.” “Hmm.  Well, sorry, I…”   She's going to be in trouble when she gets in You shake the errant thought away, “Applejack's staying with Rarity tonight.  But she said she'd be back in the morning.  It seemed something was wrong, so she went over to check and said she was going to bring Princess Twilight along.”  You take your usual seat. “Hmm, ah guess it'll 'ave ta keep.”  she prods the extra plate. "Y'pulled that cart on yer own from town?”  Big mac's thundering baritone comes as a bit of a surprise. “Eeyup.”  You smirk at him, and for the first time you could really remember, he broke into a quiet chortle.  His freckled face beaming as he nods his reply, ‘fair enough’. Deciding not to let the almost unique opportunity pass, you strike up the easiest kind of conversation while reaching over to start serving out the food.  “Well, it looks like everypony's had a busy enough day, so what were you up to today, then?”  Usually, food was served right out of the pots, but they'd taken the time to put them in the floral pattern bowls to keep everything warm; helping out didn't seem too excessive. “Undertillin'.”  The giant says as he smiles while you dole out a potato and carrot mash to the eldest individual at the table.  “Everythin' goes back in the ground.  Can't take care of us if'n we ain't takin' care of it.” “Well, that does seem worthwhile.  Anything else that I missed, Granny Smith?”  She holds out a hoof, that was enough of one course so you start with another.   “Well, nothin' all that big.  Makin' preserves, 's down in the cellar.”  the word 'moonshine' comes up which conjures a smirk. “Usual things for me, nearly fell asleep in class.”  It gets some sympathetic chortles from the pair as you ladle out summer vegetables for everpony including yourself before sitting down to survey the bright, hearty fare.  Looking at a small orange dinner loaf, it smells like carrot.  A bite into it says it certainly was exactly that, carrot bread.  “Oh, I picked up some extra vegetables for supper but I got in later than I wanted.  I'll bring them in after, so we can use them for breakfast.  Which reminds me, what do you actually do with rutabaga?” “Why, ah remember when ah was a filly that auntie Applesauce had a new beau an' we had some sweet 'tater an' neep pah.  Hooooh, well, 'tween that an' the hootenanny later on it was a good ol' tahm.”  The elderly mare says to the sound of scraping wood against the rim of an iron cauldron. “That's terrific.”  She still hasn't answered your question. Her crackling voice seems to regard that with some measure of mirth, “Why?  Lookin' ta get hitched is ya'?  Ain't many o' yer kind roun' these parts but ah'm sure some adventurous mare'r stallion might take a shinin'.  See here, ya can make it inter a real naice mash; whoop up a bit-er the lilies on the top'n add a holly and mistletoe garnish.”  That sounds a little less appetizing considering mistletoe was poisonous.   “Or is ya thinkin'a making it up fer a special somepony eh?” “No, just, you know, curious.  It kinda looks like a turnip.  Tis always best to expand one's mind.”  you adopt a regal bearing, hand resting on your breast, nose turned up, eyes hooded and almost closed with that wafted look of arrogant displeasure on your lips. It lasts a second before the almost yodelling laughter from Granny Smith, “Ya', ya' look just like Filthy Rich when ya' do that, pretty good, preeeeetty good!”  The scowl this time is far more sincere.  Rich and his 'Barnyard Bargains' were a big-city feeling blight on a quaint little town like Ponyville.  You still wanted to see if the legitimately big cities, like Las Pegasus, Trottingham, and Manechester, were all like you knew back on earth. “Real mash 's a good old Hoover family recipe.  Mah pah wan'ed ta get out an' see little ol' Dodge Junction.  Which use ta be a little town a'fore the train line came in from Pawnee.  Now, uncle Settler and 'is ol' friend mister Hoover were a nice couple'a ol' codjers and they tried their darndest through thick'n thin ta make it a reaaaal nice little town.  Uncle Settler wouldn't 'ave any part of it, ‘course he wouldn’t a’ had much tah do with anythin’ as he could get ornery when it came tah anythin’ new unless it really caught ‘is ear.  ‘Course, uncle Settler was practically all ears anyhow.  Which was strange ‘cause he was nearly deaf as a post, but Ol’ Hoover could talk the hind leg off a donkey.”  She keeps talking from the kitchen, bouncing from one train of thought to another like a tramp in the dirty thirties. A quiet shift in your chair digs the rough timber into your lower back but the food promises to make up for it.  There is some slightly crisped stuffing, a bread salad of sorts basted with garlic, onion, some light salts, apples, mushrooms, and some other stock before being crisped.  The rich flavour is surprisingly good as you glance over at Big Mac.   Did he make it? You still feel he is standoffish but today had been a step forward.   Was this supposed to be acceptance?   No, probably not yet, but it was a nice gesture; you were making progress and nod your thanks, which got a slightly brighter grin from the giant.  Yep, that was his contribution.  Although, now that dinner was started, it seems like it was time to eat not to talk.  Pity. Taking a seat right across from you, back to the wall, you can't help but actually take a few minutes to look around.  The fire-fly lit lanterns hanging on pegs near the timbers cast enough light; from the spun white and green place mats, to the off-white porcelain plates and more finished look of the softwood table you had seen it plenty of times before.  Green and blue striped wallpaper is still mostly stuck to its namesake, though edges are peeling here and there around wooden timbers.  You could feel the coarseness of the brown carpeting through your newly  donned and freshly darned socks; darning which wouldn’t have been necessary if ponies could feel the fabric snaring burrs left on wooden flooring. Turning back to face the matriarch of the Apple family, you catch a glimpse of a fleeting shadow creeping through the living room opposite the kitchen.  A small figure that wordlessly ekes by all but unnoticed and heads towards the steps.  Had it not been for the shock of red hair, you'd have never seen the filly in the dark, as she disappears without a word.  “Apple Bloom?”  The slow ascent wasn't fugitive, nor furtive; there was no urgency in those faint groaning squeaks of protesting planks but there is also no reply.  A door closed upstairs left a definite hush in its wake. “What's got in 'er bonnet?  Ah better be'a seein' ta 'er.”  Granny Smith rises from the table, Big Mac soon after, though he gives you a conciliatory nod to both say 'continue' and 'it's alright'.  After that, alone at an empty table, the mood was dispelled.  Tiredness, discomfort, strained muscles, maybe it is just worth it to clean up and go to bed.   ♣ Awake, again.  The slow racking groan of tortured lumber twisted and tested by the wind replaced the slow tick of clocks and the to-and-fro noise of cars outside from your life before.  It had been months but it still hadn't quite entered your head to how that kind of existence was.  It is hard to say whether pensive thought, overtiredness, or just the general awkwardness at dinner, had been keeping you awake.  Perhaps it was all of them that created the tumultuous soup that taxes your mind; or it may just be the lingering pangs of night. Sure, you are in the same room that you have been staying in for quite some time, staring at the same wooden slats just aside from the green canopy of the bed, but things don't feel quite complete.  AJ is still gone, Apple Bloom hasn't said a word to you or even Big Mac.  He'd tried to talk to her, but after maybe five or six minutes he'd left her room and talked with Granny Smith as the pair huddled in the hall. Muffled voices of worry carry through the open hallways and partially shut door.   Snoopy.   That moniker might have stuck if they knew you were actually listening to them.  As it was though, that same drive to know was born out of a conflicting mass of emotions that you were starting to realize as genuine concern. Apple Bloom had been one of the first to open up to you.  AJ had been both cordial and pleasant, even insisting on being friends instantly and even shaking a hoof after Twilight's rehearsed introduction speech.  It was as if it were any other simple request that just aligned with what she'd already decided.  But it was the youngest Apple that actually opened up to you.  Now, she is the one sitting in the other room, and for the life of you, you can't bring yourself to heave your somewhat tired body up and over to knock on her door and ask her what was wrong. Somehow, all of that felt wrong.  There was something there, like a veil pulled over whatever had happened.  Apple Bloom had always-always been more than simply polite: she had been cheery, inquisitive, and friendly.  It had always felt like that was something that should be repaid, and you tried in courtesy, kindness, and attention.  So why can't you get up?  Why is the muted grey planks of wood, half hanging from old hinges, presenting such a horrid obstacle? ♣♣ The countryside air was still fresh, but applebucking had taken precedence when it came to the attentions of the day.  Apples, apples, apples… you were sick and tired of the notion of apples, even if the damned things still tasted pretty good.  It was a miracle that it was the case at all.  Break time, well, almost work time at the boutique. Windswept trees and gathering clouds heralded the coming storm.  It crew in mighty roiling banks of pallid slate-grey on the horizon.  It wasn't hard to see that the day, which had started in a bright and beautiful scarlet, was winding down.  For those that worked outside it certainly was.  A last tumultuous breeze shook the boughs of the orchards and rattled the leaves that stuck on the emaciated form of near skeletal trees. Laying with your back to a shade-bearing oak, you stared up at your hands.  They felt raw, and there were small white markings like rings.  Hadn't an orange mare set you out to fix some straps and eyelets?  That seemed about right.  At that moment in the break you really didn't want to move too much, feeling the delightful windswept evaporation of sweat from your body while a loose shirt fluttered and billowed in the gentle breeze. You could really use a Stetson like Applejack's.  Where did she get that anyway? A traipsing clatter of hooves headed down the path which spanned the forest fringe.  With it came voices, each one eliciting a smile. “Ah told'je, ah told'je!  Ain't been any less'n a dozen tahms before, sleuthin' ain't sleucin'.”  A frustrated voice meandered through the orchard trees. “Well it's what Twist said!”  a quick almost mousey tone indignantly squeaked. “Oh, c'mon Sweetie Belle, it's Twist!  It's just how she talks, so it sounds the same!”  The youngest Apple's voice came across surprisingly sharply. “How are we supposed to know what she's saying if it sounds the same?”  a deeper raspy tone acted as some sort of devil's advocate. “You ain't a total dodo, Scoot.”  Sometimes it was nice to hear names, the cutie mark gifs only helped half the time in Equestria. “Don't be so sure…” Sweetie Belle muttered. “What?” “Nothing.”  The diminutive Unicorn sighed again. Three fillies slowly walked down the dilapidated path.  Old dried grass, rotted leaves from tumbling around loam, and what smelled like pine resin was thick in the air and matted on their coats.  Finally you broke the silence, face contorting to a grin, “Sweetie, dear, you'll be a diva some day, and Rarity will be quite chuffed.”  Rather than just heaving yourself up, you pressed back and levered yourself into a better seated position. “Rahtly!”  Her distinctive twang was rich and filled with a sense of expectation.  Darting ahead of her little group she didn't even give you time to rise, backing you up against the tree.  Muzzle to nose, bright amber eyes glossy, and that lingering odour of pine sent as thick on the air as it was on the pink bow and red locks. “Thank goodness, uh, we soooorta need some help.”  Her two companions trundled over at a slower pace. “You know I have to be at Rarity's soon…” those fluttering gold eyes compelled the injunction, “so what did you need?” The grin appeared, then disappeared a second later, “Zoologists was a bust, bust-makers was worse, sculptors, painters, candlestick makers, none of them led anywhere either-”   “I thought the last one would work for sure!”  Sweetie Belle warbled while her ears flattened back.     “Nurse Redheart spent most'a the mornin' tryin' ta get them stingers outta' me cause y'all thought it'd be a good idea ta just try'n take bee’s wax from a hive!”  Apple Bloom huffed and 'humphed' aloud. “Yeah, well… they weren't usin' it, were they?  Ever see a bee use a candle before?” “Well…” Apple Bloom mused on Sweetie Belle's logical question, “no.” Your blunt interruption to that line of thought was as quick as it was sure, “If you're supposed to be getting a cutie mark for finding that special talent, is changing everything you really do going to work?”  You shrugged wide, now surrounded by the pack of fillies who weren’t much taller than you even while you sat down. Instead of coming to some grand epiphany, they stared at you like you had a frog squatting on your forehead.  “Uh… how will we know unless we try out what we haven't tried to learn what it might be that we should try to make us fit who we really are?” Sweetie Belle countered dryly.  Two wordless 'duhs' practically sat barely unsaid on the other filly's lips. “Ah think ya' just don't understand, Rahtly.  Y'ain't got one.” “How would you know that?”  The purple maned pegasus lofted a brow. Apple Bloom's half turn and waggle of a hoof was dismissive, “Saw 'em in the bath.” Your eye twitched but you let that go.  It must have been mistaken for sorrow as Sweetie Belle's face turned even more dour, hooded lids and a creased frown hove around her.  It disappeared with a loud gasp, “You know, if you could get one you could totally be in our club!  What's the harm in trying?”  The bright-haired sister of your other daily employer offered. “Yeah!  Wouldn't hurt, neither, sorry y'ain't got no cutie mark given yer… how old are ya?”  The pale straw coated filly stopped mid sentence, stroking her chin and blurting out without a single notion of 'privacy'. The pause and smirk you gave them gave each of the three faces a ray of hope.  “Older than you, don't worry about that.”  The trio looked crestfallen at the infuriating answer.  “So, again, Apple Bloom, what did you actually need?”  You straighten up though they didn't take a single step back to give you breathing room. “If you could get one, we'd try to help you, too.”  The three chimed in at once, “We're the Cutie Mark Crusaders!”  It was a strange proclamation but they said it at once and firmly seemed to believe it. “We can even make you honorary member if you like.  You might not get a cutie mark, but that doesn't mean you can't find your special talent!”  Sweetie Belle called out, the second last syllable ratcheted up with a raking squeak that made your ears hurt and left eye flick.  An affirmative pair of 'yeahs!' echoed out as they looked in your direction with jubilant expectation. You just smiled seeing that warm expression on their faces.   A quick grumble, clearing your throat, allowed you to finally reply.  “I appreciate that, too, but it's not exactly the same I guess.  So what did you need?” “D'ya know how ta pan'fer?” Apple Bloom's bright eyes lit up. “What's a panfer?”  You look at them suspiciously. “Uh, fer gold…” The accompanying 'duh' practically spoke itself into existence. Scratching a small itch just above your ear you thought about it and sighed, “I'd have to talk to Applejack about taking off a bit early.” “She c'n manage it!” Apple Bloom grinned as bright as the blasted sun. “And Rarity might be a little upset if I'm late…” you continue, the fillies were fine sloughing off work. “Oh,” Sweetie Belle showed the same blinding white-toothed grin as her red-maned companion.  “she's off with Fluttershy at the spa, it’s that day of the week so the boutique is closed up for a long lunch.”   You were rapidly running out of excuses. “I… well, we don't have any pans either-”   “We do at the club house.”  There was a question of why, of course, but that didn’t stop Scootaloo, “Now we need to have you officially sworn in according to the creed and code of the Cutie Mark Crusaders charter.”  She flapped her wings which sounded kind of like a hummingbird’s rapid flicker.  She looks rather proud of that, nose tilted up and all. “… Well, alright then.  But the moment it starts raining, or any lightning, we're out of there.  Right?”  They all nod as it seemed they got exactly what they wanted.  The grey clouds were starting to roll in though, turning the skies overcast.  The small dapples of light that fell through the opened canopy of the orchard were slowly swallowed up and as the world seemed to still itself. Following the trio, they talked aloud about their grand plans, stopping only long enough to make sure you were keeping up.  It probably wouldn't last too long, but with so little time in Equestria it was nice to have friends regardless of the- Rain is starting to fall, small blots of eldritch rain pattering down from the sky leaving trails of sulphur and brimstone.  “Apple Bloom?”  They keep walking, “Apple Bloom, come on, I-” a small droplet splatters down onto your forearm, but it feels dry rather than wet. Looking at your outstretched arm there was a small perfectly circular hole.  It's as if the raindrop bored right through your flesh without so much as a hiss.  It left smoke, a growing eldritch rift that not only tore through skin and bone but through the air, showing nothing but a black band.  More droplets of rain, even hail, streak down from the heavens like meteors. A light sizzling thump echoes now and then, but even as you watch the fillies depart for their clubhouse, you feel the world torn away in strips no wider than a pencil, though the very air yields to the ethereal rain which is tearing reality asunder and leaving an empty void in its wake. It comes back; formed from the errant wisps of immaterial smoke that snake from the deepest abyssal pits.  Motes of dust danced in the ether, no land, no air, nothing but blackness.  With a lingering torpor those scintillating motes congeal, suspended like starlight.  Coaxed from their slumber, the clusters started to move and churn, circling the violaceous vortex like the great galactic arms.  A cyclone slowly forms with faint glimpses of a faded light and rasping stone.  A light re-emerged, and slowly, the dust settled to unmask the unfamiliar pall.  An indeterminable shiver coursed through your disembodied soul… Something’s wrong… very wrong… Footsteps echoed in the enclosed chambers and the incandescent glow licked rough hewn stone and well set timbers.  There was no low groans of protest, no falling earth that would warn of a cave in that might befall them.  This was no mine shaft, the vaulted roofs gave the party just enough space to pass under without stooping.  Another bend to the right, a slow curl down, it was hard to tell just how far under the surface the party was now, but four souls ventured deeper.  The breath of stale air reeked, sulphur built up with every breath, and the torch kept lit seemingly by the will of its bearer alone. “My lord…”  Kolbjorn's voice echoed loudly before slowly disappearing.  It wasn't hard to see what the worry was from the first man in the group.  He gestured forward with his hand axe, torch held up beside him to reveal the widening hall.  Vaulted pillars split the passageway left and right, but right in front of them was an alcove carved into the pillar, a 'cruciform skeleton hung entombed within the limestone.  Sun bleached bones as dry as tinder hung splayed out, a skull leering down with empty sockets at them.  On its brow were carved two lines in rough lettering: Carnifex possit, Si erit Custos A ragged, pained voice whispered out in the fire touched hallway, “The demon slayer, eternal guardian.”  Byrhtnoth grumbled openly.     “No.”  Olaf said, holding up two fingers for silence.  “Not quite.  The executioner of the demon, now its eternal warden.”  His angular face turned back to those behind.  Bright blond hair and curled beard, hard eyes peered into the depths of the divided hallway. It was Ulf who voiced the unasked question, “What is the difference my lord?” “Maybe nothing.  Maybe.”  Once more they proceeded down the hallway.  The great Northern lord silently gliding down the left hand side, sword in hand, eyes keen and darting to and fro like a natural predator.  Ulf remained behind his lord, protecting his back, keeping the Saxon lord upright as his feet were slowly giving out and scraping the stone floor.  The faint swish of chain was from Kolbjorn, holding the torch, and occupying the right as alcove after alcove passed. The shield thane whispered quietly, “My lord, this is no hallway, it's a crypt.”  A catacomb, bodies interred in slots, cemented in limestone and carved in Latin, or in Saxon.  Dozens then scores of bodies were interred within the tombs that they passed by.  The sulphur stink still hung thick on the putrid air. The light stopped, revealing the aged planks of an iron banded door in the distance.  Torch light licked off of deep scars and carvings in the wood, etched marks, charms; from five point stars to byzantine crosses; but one, right at the centre dominated it all.  Nine letters; from top to bottom ran CSSML, and intersecting it NDSMD.  Below it was script, cut shallow and starting to slowly vanish as the wood wore away. Olaf approached, and with a single breath, brushed the dust of ages from the shallow grooves.  His eyes narrowed.  “Light.”  he ordered, and Kolbjorn approached.  Ulf looked back at the crypts, less they be draugr that would rise from their stony embrace. “What does that mean?”  Ulf asked and pointed to the strange markings.  When no answer was forthcoming, his voice turned closer to panic, “What does that mean my lord?”  the great Lion of the North's hand gripped his shoulder like a vice. “Ulf…” the great baritone voice said as clear as day.  “Not another word.”  The thane gulped down the rising tide of discomfort before the door.  Olaf looked at it again, then threw his shoulder against the wooden portal which shunted aside with a breath of staleness as the torch guttered. A few moments passed, wordless, soundless aside from the quiet murmur of the flame.  Etched shadows crept in far corners, cobwebs hung from vaulted ceilings upon crests ten feet up.  Symbols of the golden sun, a glazed moon, all shrouded as an aura of neglect hung over the round chamber.  The stone floors sent up a flurry of dust as thick as soot from a fireplace at every step.  Swaths of fetid cloth hung from the walls, wall sconces and metal braziers lay bare, lime washed walls and frescoes on the ceiling were chipped and faded as to be entirely unrecognizable.  A single door loomed up in front of them, and on it was a carving of a five point star. Daemonum est haec manet Olaf's face went pale white. “Where have you led us Byrhtnoth?  This is the lair of a demon-"  he turned on his heel and grasped the man by his mail shirt, "The Icon, where is the Icon of Theophilus!” “It's here…”  replied the Saxon noble feebly just as his eyes began to roll backwards. “My Lord!”  Ulf said with apparent alarm, feeling the man's grasp start to dwindle.  Shaking him gently, blood pattered down from his ruined arm to the floor.  He shook, convulsing weakly as Ulf's nails bit into his clothing.  The man finally held still with a last rasping rattle of breath.