March 21st, 892 A.L.
What manner of enigmatic madness must it be to creep silently, invisibly into the inner heart of a stallion like Faden Quartz? Perhaps it was an incessant ennui, born of the ambivalence of a career at its very apex; an ambitious spirit pressing onwards towards the next tenable goal only to find a sprawling void and the terror of a life unpurposed, unchallenged. He was the greatest of us all—the crown-prince-in-waiting of the Imperial Versebreakers—and therein found his own destruction, as his dissatisfaction gave way to the most destructive of impulses. Perhaps.
Or perhaps it was something more malignant in its execution. A spell, a curse,—a Song?—that had pricked at his consciousness, inextricably pulling him from the comforts of civilization with the immutable siren call of some dark magick at work. Back home, safely ensconced in Canterlot, such superstition seemed foolish, really, inimicable and at odds with our modern understanding of spellcraft—I would have heartily laughed at a pony with the temerity to propose such. But here, as I pen these words at the ramshackle settlement on the yawning mouth of the river Kuoza, as I gaze into the mist shrouding the feral jungle and contemplate the fierce savagery of nature running rampant within, I begin to reconsider whether there might be a grain of truth to those purported fictions. No sane pony would flee to such a remote clime. No cultured, aristocratic stallion—for that was Faden Quartz to the very letter—would embrace the shrouded dangers of a place so far removed from the firm cultivating hoof of ponykind. Perhaps some barbarous enchantment really had in some way obtained occult license over his soul.
Or perhaps it was the Word—the Word is at the crux of the whole issue, and how could it not be? Had Faden Quartz simply vanished on his own, no small hue and cry would have been raised on his behalf and much effort would surely have been mobilized to effect his safe return. But for him to abscond with a Word? Abominable. Unconscionable. Inconceivable—in every sense. Not just any Word, but the third most notable in the litany of War, which all Versebreakers memorize as part of the most basic of training. It is gone—gone from the books, gone from our very memories. As far as I am aware, the scholars of our number are still investigating the mechanism by which he managed to accomplish such a theft.
And so, I find myself tasked with this mission, one of a certain questionable constitution: to locate Quartz and ensure retrieval of the Word, at all costs. His trail has been remarkably arduous to uncover, and had the task not been of such paramount importance to the very essence of our organization, I believe the search would have been called off long ago. His flight had been premeditated; the subtlety of his escape made that much clear, and my pursuit has led me to these foreign and backwards lands—he has chosen to flee to a place where few ponies would dare follow. Unfortunately for his stratagem, I pride myself on being a pony of singular character. Tomorrow I book passage on a ship travelling upriver in pursuit of my quarry and his precious contraband. I pray that Celestia guides my hoofsteps through the darkened valley of this primitive land.
Silver Ninth, 1st Lieutenant, Her Majesty’s Imperial Versebreakers, Special Operations Division
March 23rd, 892 A.L.
After much effort, the precise details of which are far too mundane to fully explicate, I have secured a place on a steamship. Its presence here was fortuitous and wholly unexpected. Though the vessel could hardly hold a candle to the sleek cruisers of the Navy of the Equestrian Empire, upon my arrival I had feared that the rough circumstances would limit conveyance to a native canoe or raft of some sort. Instead, I find myself in a position of relative luxury, and intend on enjoying that advantage to its fullest.
Aside from the zebra labourers that have been brought on to crew the vessel, there are few personages of note. The Captain is a shifty sort, interested only in the quality of my coin and studiously unconcerned of the purposes of my journey. I would not find myself particularly taken aback if I were to discover that he had made a name as a brigand of some sort and simply shifted to more legal service in an area of such isolation as a temporary measure to evade Imperial enforcers. If so, so be it; I have no quarrel with him, provided he safely delivers me to my destination and I am able to accomplish my mission.
Also making the journey is a griffon trader, as stout a specimen as I have ever witnessed—I would never speak it to his face, but I must confess to wondering if his lineage is not more turkey than eagle. I have not had opportunity to speak with him at length, as he was primarily occupied in overseeing the stowage of several large crates of his wares. I plan to investigate further into his affairs, in part admittedly due to a natural curiosity but also in part for more practical purposes. If he has made this journey often in the past, he might possess knowledge of the situation further inland, intelligence that would be invaluable for locating Quartz.
The final member of our party is a zebra, but one set apart from the primitive labourers that crew the ship. She cuts an imposing figure, standing a full hoof taller than any equine I have previously set eyes upon, and keeps at her side a spear, of all things. This affectation is barbaric, but the craftsponyship in her weapon is undeniable and she carries it with the calm confidence of one who has had cause to draw blood in previous occasions. Most striking of all are the chains of gold she wears around her neck—whether it is one unbroken length circling around countless times or several smaller necklaces worn together, I cannot tell. Regardless, I find myself wary of her presence, and intend to keep a watchful eye ready.
We depart in the morning, and the Captain has indicated that provided no serious mishaps occur, it will be a journey of two weeks time to reach the furthest navigable point inland. I earnestly hope that this final leg of my lengthy quest is nearing its end.
Silver Ninth, 1st Lieutenant, Her Majesty’s Imperial Versebreakers, Special Operations Division
March 27th, 892 A.L.
Several days on the river so far, and our journey has been uneventful. As we left behind the open horizons of the sea, the river has steadily narrowed from its original broad span, and our pace has declined correspondingly. I’ve taken to sitting at the rail as we steam upriver at a speed barely above that of a good trot. The sinuous contours of the muddy watercourse put me in mind of some great serpent, winding through the dense foliage—and if that is the case, what are we but some delectable morsel swallowed whole, en route to our doom deep in the bowels of the beast? But this is absurd—I fear the monotony of the perpetual jungle preys on my mind, to bring me to such excesses of the imagination.
After days of this interminable routine, I struck up an acquaintanceship with the griffon trader—one Gerlach von Grigoleit—who regarded me with some suspicion until we discovered a mutual appreciation for the sport of Whist. With only some small inconvenience, we succeeded in recruiting more players—the Captain and a zebra hoofservant of Mr. von Grigoleit—and sat down amidships with a battered deck of cards. I held my own in the course of the game, despite finding myself hindered by the inexperience of my zebra partner, and where I gave up points—and a small amount of bits, given that we had to agree to play for coin to tempt the Captain into joining us—I received more than adequate recompense in information.
“You are looking for Faden Quartz?” the griffon had said, in good humour after a spot of finesse had landed him a pair of tricks. I nodded—having fabricated an identity as a courier seeking him on behalf of business interests—and affected nonchalance to ask: “You know him?” The griffon’s eyes glittered and his beak curved up in a smile. “A brilliant fellow,” he replied. “Remarkable ideas, truly a revolutionary mind. You can mark my words—his work will change the course of history. I would be glad to supply his efforts, even had the arrangement not been so profitable to my own interests.” “Then your cargo is intended for him?” I pressed. “What manner of provisions does he require?” The griffon rustled his feathers, clicking his tongue at my inquiry. “Seeds,” he answered dismissively. “For fruit trees. You know, that sort of thing. I believe it is your lead?”
He would speak no further, and I let the topic drift away for a more opportune moment. It was then that I noticed a figure lurking at the boundaries of our gathering—the amazonian zebra leaned against a wall nearby, watching us with some inscrutable meaning in her gaze. Upon noticing my attention, she drew herself up and stalked off to the bow of the steamship. “Don’t concern yourself with her,” the Captain interjected with an air of amusement. “Zohara is no threat to you.” I raised an eyebrow “Still, she interests me—what brings her on this ship?” I mused aloud. “Perhaps I should seek her out and ask in person.” This brought a hearty laugh to the Captain’s lips and no further explanation.
The sun drifted beneath the horizon and our interest in the game waned. The moon held court over a cloudless sky, casting a luminous glow plenty bright enough to continue play, but the shadowy visage of the Mare in the Moon seemed particularly cruel this night. I retired to my small chambers to write this account and ponder on what had been said—and not said. The circumstances of Quartz’s disappearance seem now more than ever a riddle extending far beyond the destructive impulses of a bored aristocrat. I long for an end of this river and its persistent grip on my consciousness, no matter what answers my destination may bring.
Silver Ninth, 1st Lieutenant, Her Majesty’s Imperial Versebreakers, Special Operations Division
March 31st, 892 A.L.
I look back on my previous entry with rueful longing for that despondent naïveté—far superior to complain of a general malaise than be forced to face mortal danger head-on. It took place in the afternoon, as I lingered at the rail, keeping an eye both weary and wary on the near bank of the river, where colossal vegetation reached out with verdant arms as if to draw us into its bosom. The cry came from the opposite side of the ship, a zebra watchpony raising an alarm in their rhyming cadence, but before his couplet could be completed there came a sickening crunch that I can still hear echoing in my head.
I turned, rushing to the site only to see the giant cragadile’s jaws disappearing below the murky water, leaving behind a jagged gouge in the deck of the ship and a stain of dark crimson that made my stomach turn. The other crew took up voice as they dashed to positions to bring the ship swinging around away from the beast. I looked to the surface of the river only to see a massive dark shape just underneath, moving with alarming alacrity to keep pace. It crested the water once again and I saw right into the yellowed eyes of an ancient menace, a beast that had doubtlessly dwelt in these waters for longer than I had even lived—and who saw our presence as an intrusion to be mercilessly quashed. It swung open its gargantuan jaws to display rows of murderous fangs—still slick with the blood of its earlier victim—and all thoughts of my mission vanished from my mind as my very life passed before my eyes.
That was when the zebra’s voices resolved into a Song. I felt myself jerked back by an astonishing force on my tail just as the thunderous jaws slammed shut a hairsbreadth from my muzzle. The cragadile swayed backwards, its eyes narrowing as the milky membrane of a second eyelid blinked slowly. The Song took form and I felt its thrum grip my heart as I looked back to see Zohara with my tail clamped in her teeth. Her eyes met my own in a moment of wary recognition and she spat out the hairs, still unspeaking.
I had presumed the reptilian monstrosity to be wholly limited in intellect and savage in nature, but to my astonishment, the cragadile itself came in on the second verse of the song—a deep rumbling bass that caused the deck of the steamship to vibrate to such an extent that I feared it would crack in two—its bestial words resolving as thickly accented ruminations on how best to devour the vessel and its crew. The zebras had only served to buy us time; time that the Captain tried in vain to use for our escape. But the cragadile easily swam alongside us as it sang, showing no sign of tiring as it effortlessly herded our ship away from any convenient straits. I felt the heavy hoof of Zohara rest on my withers and met her gaze again as we shared a flash of instinctive resolve and mutual decision—an instant of communication that transcended the verbal.
I Broke the Song in the chorus following the third stanza, in a call-and-response between the cragadile and the zebra crew—the subject was the exact manner of our consumption and I had the presence of mind to deploy ‘borscht’—leading to an immediate effect as the abrupt snapping of melody and rhythm caused the river to churn and the ship to list at a perilous angle. The cragadile itself splashed backwards, a dazed look in its eyes, as I shouted for the Captain to take the narrow opportunity to escape. That was when I saw a shadow flash overhead, Zohara springing upwards in a mighty leap, her spear clutched in her mouth. She landed on the head of the great beast, all of her weight driving the tip of her spear into its beady right eye, and when she jerked her head back—her pronounced muscles straining at the effort—a gout of vile black blood erupted from the socket.
The beast let out a howl that shook the very trees of the jungle around us as it thrashed its limbs—we were uncommonly fortunate that it didn’t strike the ship itself in its rage—and Zohara hastily made another leap towards safety. The unstable footing of the cragadile’s head had given her scarce purchase and she barely caught the rail in her front hooves. I fought against the heaving of the deck to stumble over and help haul her in—I felt as an ant trying to lift a boulder—managing to help the zebra over the railing to ostensible safety. The Captain finally succeeded in plotting a course away from the gargantuan menace and we steamed ahead around another crooked bend of the river, pulling out of sight of the cragadile. Its howling could be heard for minutes afterwards, until it cut off in an abrupt silence even more unsettling.
It was then that Mr. von Grigoleit burst out of his lodgings belowdecks, squawking a litany of curses about the commotion. It was only when he saw the scars on the ship—the broad span where the rail and deck had been bitten clean through in an imprint of those terrifying jaws—that he trailed off into a silent horror. I simply laid on the deck, my heart rushing in my chest as I gulped in the dank air like it was the finest wine in Canterlot. Zohara offered a hoof—surprisingly gently—and I took her assistance to stand once again. We exchanged a moment, a flicker of time, in mutual recognition, and then she was gone, stalking off to the stern of the ship to watch the waters behind us, spear gripped in her teeth.
It is a newly bitter memory to me now, of how in such recent times as my Versebreaker training I used to read the histories of conflict and long for the valor and glory of battle: the tales of Versebreakers leading regiments of soldiers in brave assault, ponies rising to singlehoofedly shatter the spellchants of the wyvern stormcallers in the Draconic Wars, the Imperial Order holding a final desperate defense to repel the reindeer skalds in the disastrous Northern Campaign. Now such embodiments of chivalry have turned to ash in my mouth. All I can see is the blood of the zebra who fell victim to the cragadile and the briefest margin of fortune that separated me from suffering the same fate. There is no glory in death. As I write this letter, I hear the zebras mourning, voices raised in a dirge with no words—not a Song, but a song with power in its own way. Even now I can feel the sorrow and remembrance, deepening the wound laid upon my heart.
Silver Ninth, Versebreaker
April 6th, 892 A.L.
All is quiet—at least metaphorically speaking. Even if the ship was not constantly suffused by the thrumming of its churning engine, the jungle itself is awash with a cacophony of life:the humming of insects, the cries of native birds, and the occasional snarl of something prowling just out of sight. Something large and hungry—and something that I have no desire to observe in closer detail.
I am relieved to relate that the only event of note in the previous week was our running aground upon a sandbar in a particularly narrow stretch of waterway. It occurred in the early morning—I found myself rudely awakened by the sudden lurch. Springing out of my bed, I hastened to the deck—imagining all the while that we were under attack by some new beast of the wild—only to find the Captain cursing as he paced back and forth, sending the crew scurrying about in futile attempts to resolve our predicament. I exchanged words, but he was hardly in the mood for pleasantries, and quickly directed me to “Keep silence and stay out of the way,”—to which I obliged in letter, if not spirit.
The commotion afforded an opportunity that had been previously closed to me—investigating the cargo that my griffon acquaintance claimed to be destined for Faden Quartz. I had attempted to gain access to the cargo hold shortly after hearing the seemingly flimsy description of his goods, but found the door guarded by a resolute zebra in von Grigoleit’s employ. However, extricating us from the sandbar apparently required the assistance of many able hooves, and I found myself able to easily slip belowdecks unnoticed. The most difficult task proved to be finding a crowbar with which to open one of the heavy crates.
What I found was shocking in its mundanity. Seeds, indeed—small, pale things, packed tightly in hessian sacks. I dug through the crate with a mounting frustration, certain that I was missing something. I do not know what I expected to find—weapons, perhaps? contraband or items of forbidden magick?—but seeds were not the kind of objectionable supplies that I expected Quartz to desire. As I lifted the lid back to seal the crate once again, I considered its brethren, packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the dim hold. Even if his intentions are purely agricultural, why so many seeds? I hardly imagine the jungle to hold much in the way of arable land.
It remains a mystery. It took the better part of the day for the crew to liberate us from the bar’s muddy grasp, but we were fortunate in that no damage was done to the ship itself. We set off, and if anything, the delay was refreshing; the banality of the problem and its solution provided a brief respite from the strained tension of the jungle—the savage alienation that settles on my withers as inescapably as the wet, hot character of the air.
Silver Ninth, 1st Lieutenant, Her Majesty’s Imperial Versebreakers, Special Operations Division
April 13th, 892 A.L.
Today marks the third week since our vessel set sail at the mouth of the Kuoza. That place—the sea—seems impossibly far now. I long for the rolling grasslands of my home, the vistas spreading out to the horizon. Ponies were not made for places such as these, where the flora conspires to tangle and trip and provide safe haven to innumerable predators. Even von Grigoleit seems ill at ease—I oft catch his eyes lingering on the sky above, and he irritably refuses any further invitation of cards.
I have found myself in the habit of holding long conversations with Zohara—long on my behalf; she has yet to respond in as much as a word. But rather than that being a discouragement, I find having a silent audience to be oddly soothing. She seems perfectly happy to listen to my disjointed complaints and reminiscences—once in description of some youthful mischief perpetrated by myself and some close friends, I saw her stifle a chuckle, unable to hide the sparkle in her eyes. One day, I spoke of Versebreakers, and at first she nodded with familiarity as I stumbled about explaining the basic concepts. But as soon as I began to detail my training and the details of the organization, she listened raptly as I rambled on until dusk. I must admit to one potential folly—I let slip my true purpose and Quartz’s possession of the Word. I do not know what fit of pique caused me this indiscretion, but I felt immeasurably unburdened in sharing my secret. Zohara’s sharp gaze didn’t waver and she showed no outward response to the admission. At the very least, I feel rather safe that she will keep my confidence, given her own reticence to speak.
We cannot be far from Quartz’s encampment now, though the Captain refuses to discuss how much further we must go. When next I put letter to paper, will I be reporting the successful return of the Word? That hope seems too fantastical to hold, yet its smouldering presence in my breast and the solid presence of my zebra companion are the only things keeping me sober and sensible in the midst of these wilds.
Silver Ninth, 1st Lieutenant, Her Majesty’s Imperial Versebreakers, Special Operations Division
April 13th, 892 A.L.
Disaster.
They came soundlessly out of the jungle, silent canoes gliding out of narrow tributaries. They were nearly upon us before the watchzebra’s cry rang out. I was on deck, irritably pressing a member of the crew for further details of the distance to Quartz’s camp when a wooden shaft bloomed from the side of his neck—a rose inverted, with its crimson blossoming at its roots. I threw myself to the deck, narrowly missing being impaled myself and found myself staring into the poor creature’s eyes as he gasped and gurgled away his last breaths. Before this misbegotten venture, I had never seen an equine die. Now I have witnessed far more than my share.
The zebras raised voice in an attempt at Song once again, but our assailants fought with purpose, arrows raining from the woods on either side to seek out the throats of those who would make melody. Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed von Grigoleit take to the air—wings flapping ponderously to bear his weight—only to be felled under a rain of deadly missiles. The Captain shouted, taking command, and our ship began to pull ahead, hastening to pull away from the canoes that trailed us. We careened forward perilously, drawing out of range of the ambushers along the river’s banks, as the surviving zebra crew madly shoveled coal into the ship’s boiler—until… until!... With a creaking groan of iron stressed far beyond its integrity, the boiler exploded.
I confess to momentarily blacking out. When I came to, the experience was the closest analogue to Tartarus that I think any pony has been forced to witness. Dark smoke mixed with the mist of the jungle to cloak the river in a haze, punctuated by the screams of the damned. I could see fire raging across the water, and grey figures moving with otherworldly stillness as they scurried across the half of the steamship still above water, carrying off crates from within. All around me was death and destruction: splintered remnants of our vessel, corpses floating muzzle-down in the water. I clung to a fragment of wood to keep afloat and despaired of survival. When something underneath me grasped a foreleg, I cried out, certain that my end had come at the hooves of some creature lurking in the river’s depths. But a moment later, a familiar striped face surfaced near me—Zohara! With strong strokes, she pulled us upriver, away from the carnage until we found a small spit of an island to momentarily rest on, midriver.
I did not know what to say. I had been rescued—but to what end? With no boat, no supplies, no knowledge of this strange and dangerous wild, had I not simply exchanged one demise for another, more protracted one? Zohara swam the short distance to the river’s banks, and motioned for me to follow her into the jungle, but I could not. I watched wordlessly as she waited—lips pursing but even in this time of calamity refusing to speak—until a look of immeasurable sadness crossed her face and she turned to continue on, alone. I could not express to her what I felt: that I had gone as far as my legs would carry me, and if I were to die in this savage land, I would do so alone, not costing her the possibility of survival.
I laid there on the sand for a long time as daylight gave way to night. Only as the blanket of stars spread out overhead did I find the strength to rise and take stock of my situation. My journal had remained in my pocket, relatively unspoiled, and that brought a bitter laugh to my throat. I will write this account down and perhaps some future explorer will one day discover it. Perhaps they will take caution and turn back, for I know with certainty that these jungles hold naught but death.
Silver Ninth, Versebreaker
Apr 16
No food. Almost no ink too.
I continue, though I know not for how long. Each log floating downstream swims in a haze before my eyes to resolve as a one-eyed reptile seeking revenge or a canoe crewed by more grey phantoms. I would welcome a fight over the slow agony of wasting away, but I refuse to enter that accursed jungle.
To whomever may find this: Tell Princess Celestia that I am sorry. I did my best.
S.N.
Apr. ??
—At least I presume this to still be the correct month. I have been recovering for days now, and they blend into the dim beige of one another. Only with a great effort—involving shouted threats intermixed with more pathetic supplications—was I able to convince my benefactors to return my journal and provide a small supply of ink.
I do not know how long I spent on that island—hardly deserving of such a name, it was but a shoal in the midst of the waterway—as hunger gnawed away at my body and I fell to delirium in the heat and sun. I was not in my right mind—let me emphasize this!—when I turned in desperation to instinctively attempt what I had sworn an oath to never do. I began to Sing. I do not know the tune or the words, only that it was an outpouring of emotion: regret, sorrow, resignation. I could feel the power of the Song flowing through my bones, carrying me along at the eye of the maelstrom as melody swirled around me. Being the prime mover of a Song was like nothing I had ever felt, different—far different—from any of my petty insinuations in the Songs of others for the purposes of Breaking them.
I do not know if it was the work of the Song which drew them to me. When the canoe appeared from around the bend upriver, I felt certain that I was singing my own funereal hymn. In my fevered madness, I saw the grey equines as servants of the Pale Horse himself, here to ferry my soul into the next world. I kept singing, my voice growing hoarse as they approached, until it trailed off into stillness as I stepped onboard. The silence was overwhelming—in the twilight of my Song, even the beasts of the wild held their tongues. We set off upriver, and I lowered my head, a vast weariness enveloping me. All I can remember is one last foggy glimpse, of looking up as we pulled into a dock to find myself amongst the neatly ordered trees of an orchard, somehow having returned to civilization once again.
They have cared for me since, keeping me under guard in a tent of thick, richly purple fabric. My benefactors—or captors, I know not which—are not ponies as far as I know. They are uniformly solidly grey, the colour of the sky on an overcast day, and lacking any form of cutie marks. I suspect they understand my language, but they do not speak it in turn, only a system of quiet whinnies and snorts that I find incomprehensible. I do not know where I am or what fate awaits me. I know that I should not hold out hope—through my actions I have broken the most solemn vow of the Versebreaker order, and I fear that this is a sin that I cannot atone for.
Silver Ninth, Pony
April 26th, 892 A.L.
I have met him—Faden Quartz. I was resting idly—having almost entirely recovered but finding my captivity to be newly stifling—when one of the Greys rushed in, letting out a light whinny of alarm. The guard at my bedside straightened up and they moved as one over to the tentflaps, drawing them open wide for the first time, at least in my conscious experience. The sun was out and blazing, and at first all I could make out was the dark silhouette of a pony framed against blinding light.
“How goes it, my dear?” he said. I blinked, shaking my head to clear it. At the outset of my investigations, I was provided with an image of Quartz’s likeness for the purposes of identification. Today, I would not be surprised if his closest family had difficulty in recognizing him. He is far thinner—dangerously so—and pale, with his eyes sunken into their sockets as if retreating from the outer world. Yet there is an intensity of purpose in him that is startling in its magnitude—to the degree that it makes me more than a little uneasy. And his voice—that voice! Even as his exterior has shriveled and wasted away into the gauntness of a skeleton, his voice is a vibrant baritone, booming with a cheer that is manic in its constitution.
“I must sincerely apologizing for not calling upon you sooner,” spoke he. “I was away on a minor expedition. There is much in the way of responsibility to tend to, as you must understand.” I found myself taken aback by his presentation, and wet my lips hesitantly before replying: “Of course.” He smiled, lips cracking to display a narrow line of white teeth. “I trust you have been well cared for?” he asked, but did not wait for my answer. “I’m afraid these fellows are typically nigh useless without my guidance, but you appear plenty hale and hearty. I will reward them appropriately. But enough of that—you must tell me! What news of the old country? How are the Versebreakers getting along?” I don’t recall moving or recoiling, but something in my expression must have registered to him, because he broke out into a booming laugh so loud that I flattened my ears in instinct. “Do not be concerned, my dear—Tell me your name?” he cheerfully said. I allowed him the courtesy: “Silver Ninth.” He appeared pleased, jerking his head up and down in an approximation of a nod. “Beautiful. My dear Silver Ninth. I do not seek to harm you—or you I, I would presume. We are ponies, even if we are far from the bucolic pastures of Equestria; it would be unbecoming to behave as savages.”
The conversation moved from there as I haltingly acquiesced to his questioning. He pressed me on a variety of subjects—recent news, fashion trends, whether Equestria had succeeded in recovering the Ashes from those brigands in Hosstralia—bouncing from one realm to another without any easily discerned order. Finally, I could see him tiring—his foreleg rapping an erratic rhythm against the ground—and he leapt up, sending the Greys into sudden animated motion. “We are going to get along fabulously, you and I!” he crowed, and then walked out of the tent, departing as suddenly as he had arrived. I hesitated, not knowing if I was meant to follow—the Grey guard had left along with Quartz—but when I stepped outside there was nopony in sight. Only another smattering of tents, a larger wooden edifice that I took to be Quartz’s own dwelling, and rows and rows of trees planted in orderly lines all around me. The smell of citrus was strong in the air, and looking up in the branches, I discovered their nature: orange trees.
Silver Ninth, Pony
April 27th, 892 A.L.
Quartz was waiting when I awoke this morning, sitting by a carved wooden platter piled high with food. I pushed aside the unsettling idea of him watching me sleep, and looked over the breakfast at his urging—orange juice, oranges sliced into salad, and several pieces of toast topped with what I took to be orange marmalade. I partook of the food ravenously and found it to be fresh and delicious, if monotonous in composition. He remained silent throughout, and parried my questions by simply stating: “Today is a day for business. And it is unrefined to discuss business over a meal, my dear.”
Once I had finished and pushed the tray aside, I tried again, cutting to the heart of the matter. “What do you want with me?” I asked, finding myself oddly fearful of the answer, given his propensity to uncomfortable endearments. His answer came sidelong: “It was relayed to me that when you were found, you were Singing.” I heard the capital letter slide into place with a heavy finality and suppressed a shiver. “I say this not to condemn you,” he continued. “I find the customs of the Versebreaker order to be needlessly archaic.” I swallowed, the tang still swirling in my mouth suddenly bitter. “The oath exists for a reason,” I started, but he waved a hoof in easy dismissal. “Perhaps,” he said. “But only to artificially limit the exceptional. The majority of accomplished Versebreakers are totally incapable of Song. It is a rare few that possess a talent that cuts both ways.” I did not find much reassurement in his words. “By which you mean that you…?” A dark look flashed across his muzzle before he forced a thin smile. “No, I do not have the gift. But I have my own talents as well. Let me ask: what is it that gives a Song its power?” I studied his face for a clue to his motives. A single eyebrow lifted, mockingly. “Puzzled? I will assist: it is not the music. It is the words. Language has a power all to itself. Smaller minds would propose that linguistics reflect reality in terms we can understand—but the precise opposite happens, in truth. Through language we circumscribe reality to bend it to our will. Perhaps a demonstration is in order! Come, come!”
I found myself pulled upright and hustled out of the tent, he pulling me along more by sheer force of personality than through any strength of his emaciated limbs. As we walked, a pair of Grey guards fell to on either side of us, their unreadable eyes constantly moving in search of threat. “Here!” Quartz called out, bounding out in front of us, not towards the cottage that I took to be his dwelling, but yet another tent purple in colour. He pushed through with no hesitation and I followed, a flicker of unease already stirring within me. The interior of the tent was lit by candles—hundreds of them—flickering as our entry stirred the air in the room and set their flames into abrupt motion. I found myself staring at the pinpricks of light, each tiny and impotent in individuality, but coming together to form a whole of luminescence that made the room warm and inviting. And then I turned at Quartz’s purposeful cough, and saw the zebra laying in the dirt with hooves bound.
My mouth opened—whether to protest or question or simply out of shock, I cannot say—but Quartz hissed out an ugly noise that made me keep my silence and watch. He drew himself up to tower over the prone zebra—whom I belatedly discovered I recognized, as my Whist partner in a game that had to have taken place a lifetime ago—and when he spoke, his sonorous voice filled the entire room. “It is time for you to speak,” Quartz intoned, and I could see madness in the reflection of candlelight in his eyes. The zebra wriggled futilely in his bonds. “Speak,” Quartz commanded, and I had to hold myself back from instinctively following his command. The zebra looked up, the white portion of his stripes chalky white. “I hear your voice and know the threat, but I am still an equine yet,” he shakily said. Quartz bared his teeth, rearing back and—this is no fabrication—the light of the candles flared up even brighter. The shadows that Quartz cast against the wall of the tent twisted and wormed as the candles flickered, until they showed something not quite equine, a figure crowned with horns. “Speak!” he repeated, voice booming out as the walls of the tent shone in garish colour and I realized his purpose. The zebra must have as well. “You may taunt with purple hue, but I shall never bow to you,” he replied, and then spat into the dirt in front of him. Quartz bowed down, one hoof reaching out to gently trace a line across the muzzle of the zebra. For a fraction of a moment, it appeared to me as something else—a talon? a claw?—and then Quartz whispered one final command: “Speak.” The zebra shuddered, wrenching his eyes closed. “To your demands, I’ll not oblige,” he screamed out. “I’ll never—I won’t—I—I…!”
What I saw next was chilling to my very core, something far worse than any of my other experiences thus far. I had seen equines—zebras—breathe their last breaths, not even weeks previously. But I knew with a sickening feeling that what I witnessed was a death not of the body, but of the soul. As the zebra’s words sputtered out into silence, I saw his colours began to dim and his stripes blur into one another. My eyes flickered to his flank, to the distinctive swirl of black and white that gave every zebra its identity. There, before my very eyes, his mark faded away into nothing. His coat transfigured into the gray admixture of the blacks and whites, and I knew with dawning horror just what kind of equines the Greys that served Faden Quartz were.
I stumbled out of the tent, the abrupt sunlight spearing my eyes, and half-digested oranges mixed with bile splashed against the ground. A moment later, Quartz stepped out after me, keeping a few hooves distance until my stomach ceased its heaving. The zebra—or whatever he was now—waited alongside him, its eyes dull. I drew a cannon across my mouth, wiping away the last remnants of breakfast. “You—You’re a monster,” I spat. He seemed to take some mirth in that. “Silver, dear,” he said, in the tone of a parent lecturing an unruly child, “please do not be overdramatic. It’s merely a zebra. And he’s perfectly fine.” “You’ve ruined him,” I cried. “Stripped away his equinity.” Quartz clucked his tongue. “Hardly. It’s not as if he was a pony! Zebras have more in common than the apes of this jungle than you or I.” I stared at him, shaking in the grasp of some emotion too powerful to name. “Tell me, do you think zebras are native to these lands?” he asked. “No. Theirs is a land of savannah—grasslands—some distance away. The zebras have been brought here, for the benefit of ponies. You are familiar with Dr. Living Stone?” “The explorer,” I murmured. “Very good! Yes. It was he who first hired zebra porters for his travels, finding their more… animalistic natures to be well suited to menial labour and adverse climates. And really, there are far too many zebras on such a fertile land as is in Zebrabwe. It has been a great boon to ponykind to encourage their migration so it might be better cultivated.” My stomach roiled. “You’re evil,” I said. He let out a long, theatrical sigh. “No, my dear, I am practical.” I shook my head. “No, you’re… you’re—something has twisted you—corrupted you—in such a way...! You think that you are above the zebra? There is no nobility in what you say. You are hardly worth being called a pony at all.” That drew blood, and his sunken eyes bulged outward at my accusation. I saw him visibly strain, one hoof pawing violently at the dirt, before he spoke again, a chill in his baritone: “You clearly need time to consider all that you have seen. We will speak of these matters later.”
He stalked off towards his cottage, the erstwhile zebra obediently in tow. I retired to write these very words. Even now, my mouthwriting is hasty and distressed. I have witnessed fantastic dangers and horrific menaces in my journey to the depths of this wild jungle. But the true evil lurking in this place comes not from nature or even the customs of barbarism, but from an ostensibly civilized source.
Silver Ninth
April 29th, 892 A.L.
I’ve yet to see Quartz again since two days ago. A pair of zebra guards—I will call them as they once were, they deserve that much—stand watch at the door to his cottage. Instead, I took to exploring the encampment. The orange groves extend in all directions on this side of the river. I headed east yesterday morning, towards the rising sun, in the vain superstition that Celestia herself would guide me to an answer. I did not get far before I noticed smoke rising on the horizon, leading me to gallop the rest of the way.
I found a team of zebras hacking away at jungle, machetes in mouth. Nearby, a pile of already dismembered foliage had been set alight, sending a smoky trail up to the sky. I realized—this is how Quartz had established his orange grove, by fighting back against the jungle with his captive labourers. They did not pay me any mind as I observed, not answering any of my questions or acknowledging my existence at all. I suppose they had no reason to be concerned with me—I was imprisoned by the very jungle itself, and Quartz had to know that. Attempting to flee into the tangle would only be a form of suicide, as countless miles of impassible terrain separated me from any form of civilization. I made a circuit of the perimeter of the groves nonetheless. The only other site of note was the rough docks that fronted the river. No canoes were in evidence, and I could only assume that either the zebras kept theirs hidden somewhere else or that they were currently away on other business—perhaps continuing Quartz’s campaign of piracy against other unsuspecting travellers or explorers.
These days have given me much time to reflect, however. I do not wish to throw away my life in an act of petty defiance by vanishing into the wood. Even an attempt at genuine escape seems implausible at the most generous estimation. The Versebreakers sent me to this place to retrieve the Word, a task in retrospect I find myself staggeringly unsuited to accomplish. At one point, in the aftermath of the attack upon the steamer, left alone and half-mad with hunger and fatigue, I questioned the very premise: what Word is worth so many lives? Would it not be preferable to let Quartz alone in his tiny kingdom in this squalid, darkened corner of the world? Having seen firsthoof what he does here and how, I can no longer agree—but not out of the sanctity of the Word. I have decided: with all the evil in this place, there is room for one final malicious act. Faden Quartz will perish by my hoof, or else I will perish in the attempt.
Silver Ninth
May 1st, 892 A.L.
It is the first of May. Somewhere, far from here, ponies are celebrating as summer dawns, frolicking in the grass under the warm comfort of Celestia’s sun.
I do not know what it was about this day that convinced me that my plan must be enacted. I still had not seen Quartz since his demonstration with the zebra. At first I thought he was leaving me to my own devices as another form of manipulation, but upon observing zebras bringing meals to his cottage in the form of steaming orange stew I realized the truth—Quartz was far weaker than even his appearance indicated, and had used the majority of his vigor in his performance for my benefit. It might have been that conclusion that provided the impetus to act, but I think it was something more primal, something innate. For days I felt myself wind more and more tightly around my resolve, stretching like the taut string of an instrument, where the slightest touch would break forth into sound. That is how I felt this morning. That was when I started Singing.
As soon as the first words left my lips, the zebras had immediately ceased in their tasks, drawn towards me by the power of the Song. I thought at first the guards would attack, and indeed I saw the struggle written plain across their faces, but the music had taken hold at that point, a sweeping orchestral score blossoming into being. They could no more stand in my way than hold back a flood. Instead, zebras drifted into line in between the orange trees that lined my path towards the cottage. I felt invincible, all-powerful, and I Sang as much, putting into lyrics my challenge—my purpose. When the door to the cottage slammed open and Faden Quartz strode out, I discovered my folly: the song had empowered him as well—for what climactic showdown could exist without its villain?
He did not seem angered, or distressed, or weak. His sunken eyes glittered and he wore his thin smile, finding amusement in the audacity of my challenge. I put aside my fears—knowing the enraptured zebras observing from either side of us would certainly leap upon me in an instant if my melody were to fail—and focused solely on Quartz, hammering all of the pain and anger and heartache of my journey into a single white-hot point of clarity. I Sang, and the words came from the air one after the other, a direct conduit transmuting the feelings in my soul into linguistic armaments. He started to try and Break my Song—as I knew he would. At first, he tried trivial means, call-and-response interspersed lines with obscure rhymes that I effortlessly twisted to my own purposes. He shifted into true form, the standards taught to every Versebreaker during training, but how does one Break a Versebreaker? I turned them aside with half-rhymes and the music behind us swelled even higher. There was only one Word that I could not answer—the Word he had stolen from us. That was the ultimate gambit, whether he would be willing to go that far to defeat me—and whether, as I fervently prayed, his relinquishment of the Word would also relinquish his control over the zebras.
The fourth stanza moved into the chorus once more, and our pitch shifted a step higher. We approached the apex, circling around each other as the zebras watched, swaying back and forth. He drew closer and closer, our muzzles almost touching as we Sang against one another, baritone and soprano in jarring contrast. I finished my line in one final taunt, leaving his counter-response open. He took a breath, his lips curled back in a grin—and he struck me, hoof crashing into the side of my face, sending me falling to the earth, ears ringing. The impact and the jarring disconnect from the Song left me breathless, face in the dirt, tears welling up in my eyes. He bent down, and I could feel his hot breath as he whispered in my ear: “So sorry. Sometimes the direct approach is preferable, my dear.” I could barely fathom it, my head still reeling—nopony had been able to physically break a Song in decades, certainly not one as momentous as ours had been. The Word empowering him must be truly tremendous, and I quaked, certain in my failure.
It was only then that I realized that the sound still ringing in my ears wasn’t shock, but the music—it hadn’t ceased, only held in a fermata. I looked up to see all of the zebras looking away from the two of us, down the lane of orange trees in the direction of the jungle. A figure was walking our direction—abnormally tall, striped in bold black and white, neck afire as the sun glinted off of gold chains. And in Zohara’s mouth, she held her spear, obsidian tip glittering. “No!” Faden Quartz cried. “It is done! The words are gone!” Zohara did not stop her advance, and the music sprang back to life, the brassy flaring of a trumpet taking lead as it sounded off in a minor key. Quartz screamed, trying to take back the song with his lyrics, throwing out snatches of phrase meant to Break that were parried effortlessly by instrumental answers. He reared back, and once more I caught glimpse of a form alien to his own, of the stolen power burning within his decaying physical shell. And then Zohara reached him, bowing her head in a motion that bordered on apologetic as her spear moved forward to pierce his chest.
Quartz screamed, an unearthly howl that drowned out the music and caused me to clamp both hooves over my ears. Then he fell to earth, hardly more than ragged fur draped over a skeleton. Zohara withdrew her spear and inclined her head to me. I scrabbled in the dirt, pulling myself over to Quartz, watching as his feverish eyes rolled back and forth in his skull. “The Word!” I said. “Relinquish it!” He looked at me, and stretched one foreleg out in supplication. He took a rattling breath, blood flecking his lips, and then let out a whisper so soft as to barely be audible. “The chaos, the chaos,” he said, and then his spirit departed.
Would that I could say the rest were easy. Quartz’s death and his discharge of the corruption of the Word released the zebras that he held sway, but they remain colorless. I hope that in time, their identities may once again return to them. There is much to be done, still. We started in chopping down orange tree after orange tree, piling them into a bonfire where the zebras danced and sang in their wordless whinnies until late in the night. I found myself seeking out Zohara in the midst of the festivities, who kept herself apart from the rest. “You saved me, again,” I said. She merely smiled in response. “But how? I know firsthoof the power of Song, but how could you not Sing?” She lifted one hoof to her neck, and unwound the gold chain there, looping it around her foreleg as the flesh underneath came into view. Her neck was scarred with wounds and I knew then: she did not Sing because she could not. “Then… Quartz? He did this to you? He took away your voice?” Her eyes were distant and sad, but her head moved from side to side, and I understood. “You did this to yourself. Then what—who?—did he take from you?” She would look at me no longer, preferring to gaze up into the stars, but in the moonlight I saw a tear darken the fur of her cheeks.
I do not know where I will go from here. I have completed the task set before me by the Versebreakers, even if through my actions I have renounced my own membership in the order. Perhaps that is for the best. I have seen the corruption and malice that such power can bring in the hooves of one unworthy. I would like to believe that in the hooves of good, the opposite is true, but mine own are too stained to tell. I look out into the jungle now at the edges of the firelight and no longer feel fear or unease. I have faced the darkness and savagery borne of a heart of evil. Now it is time for me to find my own light.
Silver Ninth