Three ships were beached upon the sands of Scilly as tempestuous gales tore at any scrap of cloth visible. The tide surged up the shale beach as crews desperately hauled on water-slicked ropes to stop the vessels from washing out to sea. As the gangs of norsemen hauled their ships to safety the smaller delegation of leaders were already looking at where the figure on the headland had been.

Sigvald and six of his ilk prowled the perimeter like wolves while Ulf and the disguised Kolbjorn waited amongst the rocks. It was a long seeming wait, but Olaf gave orders under his breath, “If the sorcerer makes a move then defend yourselves, if not, we need them to tell us about the king. Or, perhaps, something about the Icon.” His eyes seemed to light up under the heavy burlap cowl.

Ulf quietly mumbled so the prowling Sigvald couldn't hear, “My l-” he checked himself, “thane. Perhaps the sorcerer knows the secret to such a thing as a demon's horn.”

“We stand on the precipice of something unheard of. A single unified land for Danes, Norse, and Swedes alike. If I have to get my answers from a hedge-wizard, soothsayer, or sorcerer, then I'll grovel for the moment and repay the insult later. This can not fail. I won't allow it.” He said, setting his teeth together.

The wait was interminable, and the winds roared and tore at them, chilling flesh with evident relish and heaping miseries on the sailors. Olaf looked around, still no one had come to greet them, thus they must have to seek out their host. Kolbjorn picked up on it and waved them forward while Olaf picked up his own shield and trailed after them. Jarl Sigvald issued a sharp whistle and another half-dozen of his Jom kindred hustled over across the broken grey shale to meet them.

The party, now numbering nearly a score, started off over the small hillocks flanking the headland and wound their way up the grassy slopes of the verdant bluffs. Slowly they were picking their way up the shelf and towards the great rocky overwatch when the first Jom gave a small mock cry of a gull. A shape had been spotted.

Silhouetted against the tumultuous sky and raging lightning storm, a cloaked form, huddled and bent, looked over the seas to the east. One by one the group pulled themselves up around the rear of the headland, and could have nearly bridged the full expanse of the path standing a pace apart from one another. The sorcerer, such a monumental force, was such an insignificant looking figure huddled in sackcloth and staring out vacantly at the waters.

The figure muttered something twinged in a tongue only vaguely recognizable as belonging to the Angles. It was no greeting, just a low self-addressed utterance. Kolbjorn held up a hand, showing he meant no offence or harm, but as was proper, it was Ulf's voice that broke the silence, “Greetings great sorcerer, calmer of seas and diviner of the gods. I speak on behalf of the great Lord of the North, Olaf son of Tryggva, who wishes-” the clap of thunder rocked the headland and a flash of lightning rent the heavens.

In the momentary flash of light the norsemen saw the figure hold its arm up. Fine purple fur from elbow to unpolished grey hoof, it was no human but some sort of beast like the healfhundingas. “You speak for your king, but not for the king that you would present to me.” It spoke in a vaguely masculine voice as calming as a song and sweet as honey. It was hard to tell if it was the bizarre appearance or the sorcerer's words which shook the party more. “Loyalty, hmmm. Reap the rewards of loyalty and spurn the wages of hatred.” It partially seemed to take a glimpse their way, showing what looked like a short muzzle and small nose, though its mouth still showed a faint smile.

To appease, or perhaps not test the sorcerer's patience further, Olaf stepped forward. Even Sigvald looked stunned, staying back, though his battle axe was firmly gripped in both hands, “I seek your pardon. It is not in my nature to deceive, but to test.”

There was another wave of its hoof, as if warding him away. They were greeted by a laugh rather than an incantation, “A future king has to be sure of both his advice and his safety for the good of his people. That will serve you well, Olaf.”

Slowly Olaf approached again, Kolbjorn and Ulf both joined him. Sigvald looked around awkwardly, not wishing to chance being nearer to such a creature. Closer and closer they crept, neither trying to dawdle or seem aggressive while the heavens shook from the raking lightning bolts and the roar of thunder. “I have come some way to seek your guidance and assistance. I seek-”

“The secrets within the Icon of Theophilus.” The sorcerer interrupted and waved a hoof again with a muted 'meh' as if it was neither a surprise nor of genuine interest. “Why? Is it control over anyone who would oppose you?”

The blunt question caught them by surprise, “Can it do that?” Kolbjorn ventured before he was silenced by Olaf's wave.

“Hmm, well, yes, but not in the way I imagine you expect. I would explain it to you, but I doubt you would understand, yet: Se sy þæs strangan stapol…” it halted, as if sensing the party’s confusion, “‘It is their foundation of strength, no death by arms, no need for slaughter, move to peace and receive peace.’”

The foreign words washed over them entirely as blank looks drew a long and uninspired sigh from the sorcerer. “‘See-si thas stran-gan’… Wait I saw that in the tomb!” Ulf exclaimed aloud, looking back and forth between the others.

“Oh? Hmm, is that so?” The sorcerer turned and tossed his head back. The hood came off amidst a shower of bedraggled hair: blue, purple, turquoise, wavy as the sea. A horn sprouted from its brow. It flashed a smile across a short slender muzzle while glassy sightless eyes seemed to skim over the gathering before settling on Olaf.

“What are you?” Sigvald's gruff voice spoke for all of them, though the horrid creature was obviously some spawn of Sleipnir.

“An alicorn.” Olaf still seemed shocked. Reflexively he grasped the twist of horn that hung on his neck by a length of silver cord. As the pendent grew nearer, the sorcerer clasped a flat hoof to the side of its head and winced as if in pain. Sightless eyes looked over at the sprig of ivory as the sorcerer snorted then clenched his jaws. As if sensing the sorcerer's distress Olaf tucked the priceless reliquary away.

Taking a few deep breaths the creature calmed itself. “Unicorn, actually. Funny how that works… but how much does that really matter? What I am is less important than who, and for now, you can call me Clover.”

“Clover.” Olaf's voice seemed in awe as Ulf drew a sharp breath. They both recalled the symbol on the map, their 'king' sat in front of them.

A trace of a tremor ran through the Unicorn again. “But you'll want proof, or you'll want results. I know your type, believe when it suits you or when it favours you. She wouldn't have minded as much… I tell you now as if you don't heed me you will never heed me. Olaf, future king, take heed if you wish to remain a king. You will do many things that people will love you for, you will harken in a new faith in new covenant waters for your own good and for some others as well. I see a chance in you, through struggle. You move as a pendulum swings, too far right, then too far left, it will take a long time, beyond when others see your use, before you find your perfect rest.” He sighed deeply and blinked once.

The glassy sightless eyes turned lambent, flames sparked from within and seemed to materialize like hovering dust motes that burst into existence in front of their faces. Fairy fire, it drew many uncomfortable growls and more than a few disbelieving cries of fear from the Jom bodyguard. Two of the hardened veterans fled down the rocky slopes to the beach. The sorcerer's voice echoed and reverberated as if coming from a deep well:

“Five things done in seven days,
none alone could change your ways.
leave these cliffs and find your thrall
vicious, treacherous, no group small.
Fall on you like winters wind,
with their spears you shall be pinned.
Bloodied, broken, near death's door,
to new god, shall you implore.
Born on shield with fever high,
set adrift you shall not die.
Saved at last, your vow uphold,
with clean waters crisp and cold.”

The sorcerer's eyes closed once and their glow faded. Olaf seemed stunned and quite unsure what to make of it. As they took in the prophetic vision a cry rose from the seashore. “Sigvald, see what's wrong.” Olaf commanded, but already the sorcerer sighed and lowered his head. “Ulf, stay here and guard the sorcerer with your life. Kolbjorn come with me.”

They departed down the headland, Ulf standing by the sorcerer's side as the creature sighed, “Foresight is a curse whether it's good or bad. The past is past, do not blame me; the future is tendrils, what will be will be.”

Kolbjorn and the rest of the Joms trekked back down to the beach as the first hurtled accusations reached his ears. The sorcerer shook his head as Ulf looked over; the first prophetic act was sure to come.

The midday departure had been a saving grace. Escorted back to the farm house, you'd gone straight to your bed and fallen asleep almost immediately. You were plagued with dreams again, yet this time you could make sense of them. They were no simple figments of your imagination but something more tangible.

The scent of apple crisp had assailed your nostrils the moment your mind swam back to reality. After a quick dessert-like lunch you gave Apple Bloom's hair a ruffle and shouldered your pack. Then you and Applejack set out for the edge of the Everfree forest to rendezvous with the rest of the party.

That initial buoyant spirit of adventure quickly sank with the realities of the winter weather. Your blue coat had turned black from the moisture and that miserable dampness clung to you like a limpet. While the scarf over your mouth was smothering hot, every time you pulled it away the vicious frost nipped at your cheeks and cracked your chapped lips. There was no winning.

Thankfully, once you'd broached the edge of the forest the snow began to thin out. An oppressive veil of darkness swaddled the bleak woods cast by skeletal trunks and a snow laden canopy. The same gaps in the boughs that brought those few precious pools of light also brought the wailing moans of the winds that shrieked like banshees. It was growing damper, warmer, and the occasional deep 'crack' of breaking tree limbs and 'thump' of snow were startling.

You, Twilight, and Applejack share the vanguard of the company while the others trail behind. Even as you squint, all that can be seen are few islands of light, the thick trunk of massive trees, or the few prickling bushes emerging like talons through the dirty grey snow.

“Alright, girls,” you shoot her a quick glance that she seems to miss. She continues with a sigh and an unsteady wobble, as if about to fall, “how about a ten minute break?” Pinkie was already bobbing up and down before rifling through her pack. She produces a double-thick picnic blanket while AJ has something wrapped in parchment paper.

Seeing as others were getting set up for a quick rest you look at Twilight. She presses a hoof to the trunk of an hawthorn to steady herself. “Twi, are you okay?”

You point off into the forest fringe, “I'm just… well I'll be back in a few minutes.” Not explicitly stating you have to go to the bathroom, but it got a quick 'uh-huh' as she massages her muzzle. There isn’t really a need to slink too far into the dark forest and it wouldn’t be wise to do so. After all, ponies had disappeared and were never seen again in this forest. Still, Twilight knew where you were going as you’d pointed out where you were going.

After two minutes of crunching through the snow you firmly feel like you are in luck. There is a small rivulet twisting through the forest with sharp banks and a wide pebbled spillway. Bare pebbles and clear snowmelt can be seen through the faint dappling cast by the skeletal trees. The air is thick and foul with the fecund stench of rotting loam, but at least it was warmer than it had been. That might make Ponyville’s pest control methods worthless.

As you unbutton your sodden coat something pricks your ears. Snapping your gaze left and then right, an ice fog swiftly rolls in, obscuring the world in moments and cutting your vision to twenty or thirty feet in a haze of light grey. The mists roll down from the banks, building up in the gullies and ditches. “Uh, Twilight?” You yearn to hear that comforting voice answer and cut through the mist. Worse yet, the fog muffles your voice, even to your own ears.

Deciding that you really didn't have to go that badly after all, you start to head back towards the bank. There is a light pattering sound of crunching snow from the direction you came. “Twi?” There is no response. A loud 'thump' echoes as something slams down nearby, reflexively causing you to turn. Nothing, just shaking branches barely visible in a shaft of light that sliced through the suffocating fog.

A sickly stench of decay wafts into your nostrils. Turning back you see a shape meander between the trees at the very edge of your vision. It didn't walk or trot like a pony, it was a near silent lope.

You edge back towards the stream while trying not to lose sight of the apparition among the dull grey trunks in the gathering gloom. Your heel steps into the water, splashing back against your ankle as a large flat stone shifts and gives away. As you windmill your arms to keep your balance, the pack slips from your grasp and splashes in the shallows. It takes only a fraction of a second to steady yourself but your heart is hammering in your chest. Chancing a glance back at the visitor, it had already vanished.

Slowly, cautiously, you bend to pick up your fallen pack. There is another rustle in the undergrowth then the groan of snow and clatter of trees. You keep scanning to and fro. Hairs rise on the back of your neck, you're being watched and it's circling. The stink of rot lingers on the air. “Twilight… Applejack…” their names die in your throat.

A sudden realization chills you to the bone as you slowly edge back downstream. Not only is the creature stalking you, it was herding you… and you fell for it. Unless you start thinking and stop reacting, this phantom will almost certainly stalk you, kill you, and turn you into another cautionary tale of the Everfree. Start thinking, it was an easy thing to say but hard to do.

“Twilight? Girls?!” You call out loudly, but once again it sounds like you are being smothered.

A low, wet snarl echoes from behind you as you warily turn. Your eyes open wide; depthless teal pools like spinning vortexes fix you to the spot. It has a hulking body, twice as broad as yourself, twisted gnarled limbs, and rotting fens hang like scabrous mange from its back and neck. Its thick skin is dull and lifeless, gnarled bark and lifeless grey moss hang in clumps in sickly imitation of a living being. From its jaws issues a low growl, showing rows of nettles and thickets while sharpened stakes line its maw. Oh God… oh God, Timberwo- you back up one step and it lunges.

You screech as a sharp stabbing pain rips through your stomach. You are bowled over into the stream with a splash. A horrid thought grasps you as a hand pats at your abdomen feverishly hoping the beast hadn't ripped you open and spilled your entrails. Feeling ripped fabric and the thin trace of blood you shake and shiver before glancing down. It tore through the blue fabric with its claws, and your shirt was damp, but there is only two faint lines where it had actually connected with your tissue.

It had charged, raked at you, and darted back into the gathering gloom before you could shout. Reeling from it, you shove yourself back upright only to find you are still submerged up to your calves. Spinning left and right, you are a large tempting target out there in the middle of the stream. The fog has closed in everywhere and you've lost sight of the creature. As you twist to face it, you aren't even completely positive which side of the rivulet is the right way back towards the group. If you scream right now there is no guarantee they could get here in time to intervene.

Casting about for an escape, you dart towards the nearby bank. Your pounding feet shifts the loose pebbles before you jump at the overhang and scramble up the slick muddy slope. The wet snorting snarl merges with its dash across the shallows as well. You drop flat and lash out with your foot to ward off the beast. The monster’s claws dig furrows in the bank mud as it thrashes its powerful jaws and then snaps down on your shoulder. There is a ripping tear as you are grasped, feeling a wash of hot breath spill over your neck that smells like lavender before you are roughly flung aside by the beast.

There is a moment of sickening weightlessness as you are tossed like a rag doll and slammed shoulder first into the streambed. The shock sends your glasses flying into the stream while a sharp pain lances through your non-responsive limb. Trying to lift your arm churns your stomach and as you glance at it you can see why. A wooden shard at least two inches long juts out from your bloody jacket just above your collarbone.

Bloodied and battered, you try to spot the beast but can’t find it. Even if it would be a blur, the fast loping wraith isn’t there. There isn’t time to hunt for your dropped glasses. As you keep looking into the haze through tear-stained eyes, you spot something. Hoping the vague blurry grey shape is what you think it is, you dart across the stream bed and desperately grasp for the object. It is a gnobbled tree branch about five feet long and thicker on one side than the other.

You unthinkingly reach out with your damaged limb and weakly grasp the club. At least your shoulder isn’t broken or dislocated. The knotted bough is familiar enough to just use as a baseball bat.

The phantom shape appeared on the far side of the stream. It stands in full view, reeking of death, decay, and another bewildering scent that tripped your mind. The timberwolf snarls once and tenses as it locks you in a piercing stare. Its eyes… it plunges into the rivulet and sends up a great spray of water.

Your muscles tense for a second as you wind up the club like a bat. It bounds across the spillway in a few short motions and springs at you, its claws outstretched and mouth wide open. A single scream rips from your chest as you swing the makeshift club. The bough smashes into its face before you are slammed backwards.

You aren't dead and it isn’t gouging out your organs or tearing off strips of flesh. Your eyes snap open and flutter against the shower of rotted vegetation, dirt, and shattered timber. A quick gasp and terrified backwards scramble pushes most of the desiccated debris from you, though you still slide down the mud walls and snowy overhang. Your hands are frozen, your shoulder and arm scream in pain, and your makeshift weapon is lost, but the fear of the timberwolf reanimating carries you up onto the bank.

You claw your way free from the stream, you cough and feel a flash of pain as the wheezing sound meets your ears. Turning onto your back, you just hope that the beast wasn’t picking itself up. Instead, there was no sign of branches, not even little blurry grey specks, just an oozing stream of purple bile. The virulent poison winds its way towards the stream and is slowly washed away. You swallow and look back at the pile of kindling, it was gone. That wasn’t just a trick of your eyes. There was no hazy blots against the pallid blue-grey bank. You lay on the overhang in the snow, shaking from exertion, fear, and the claws of the winter chill that take hold of you.

“Sheesh, don't tell me you got scared and had to call for the most heroic pony in Ponyville to take you by the hoof and lead you back like a foal.” That obnoxious laugh echoes in the vale as you look up towards the sound. The azure blob flaps down among the white boughs. “Wow. What the hay happened to you?” Dash catches sight of the glare, but maybe the blood, or the splinter, or the torn clothing, or any number of things. She swoops down and lands next to you with a crunch.

She flicks your head to the side and looks at the long twisted shard jutting from your shoulder, “Ohmygosh, hang on, I’m gonna get you outta here in a sec-”

You reach out to grasp her by the withers as she gives a reflexive whinny of surprise. “T-timber… timberwol-” your chest is racked with a wheezing fit of coughs as you wave a hand in that general direction. “Glass-glasses.”

“How do your claws work, can you hang on?” She touches your hand, watching the fingers twitch and spasm of their own accord. There is no way you could simply ‘hang on’ and she knows it. “Ponyfeathers, stay there, I’ll be back in a flash!” Almost as good as her word, you can hear the air ruffle feathers as she recklessly tears off between the trees.

You rest your back against the a trunk and sit in the snow as you feel the vapid chill sink in. A few uncontrolled spasms cause your arms and legs to jerk as a headache slowly begins to swell in the side of your head. As you shiver in uncontrollable bursts and try to fight off hypothermia’s inexorable onset, it leads to only one question:

Icon: Remnants of the North

by Vixavior

Act 2- Chapter 4: Dark Visions