//------------------------------// // Chapter 11: Inspiration Bears Darker Things // Story: Antumbra // by Ice Star //------------------------------// A blank page is said to be an invitation, and Hasad always found them to live up to that old mare's saying. He made a small snort. He supposed mares could hardly be called old since they were all but mortals. He had spent thousands of years dealing with them, listening to their problems, and utterly immersed in their culture like a swimmer in water. Why the divine dealt with them as they did instead of destroying them was a stupid and dreary thing - gods ruled mortals, they laughed with them, fought alongside them, accepted them, guided them, and even some managed to romance and lay with the pitiful toys of flesh and bone. Even the more reclusive and less forgiving of immortals would not be so murderous towards these whelps, at least not on a large scale. Vendettas sprung and there was the mortal who found themselves caught up in some toying scheme or making a bad bargain from time to time, but not much more. Flesh and bone. Hasad longed to pull at that, to hear screams, cries, to bring a great and senseless violence to these beings. The thought of it was pleasurable, and the minds of those who killed and butchered their kin and fellow mortal had Hasad's envy too. They were free to destroy, desecrate, contaminate, and violate - everything Hasad sought to do on a worldly scale, to be the salt and fire of the earth, to rake it and scar it. To taste mortal flesh and blood, and so much more. He could pluck a pony from their home, lure them from all they'd ever know, force them to where he wished and have his absolute unleashed power and will over them, but then... that little taste. He would not stop. He would not have enough. There would be no way to lock himself back up again, and for so many thousands of years this aching message had been carved into his mind since his days of youth. All or nothing it would be. Tastes of violence would not satisfy him. Samplings of brutality would not sate him. Ponies could not be all he yearned to break, it was not just the face of this world, the terra firma that he wished to raze. He lived among Alicorns and other immortals still. There was much more he could do to them. Their suffering could be prolonged in so many ways... However, if a blank page is an invitation, then what is an entire book whose pages have not even seen light? Hasad considered that to be a calling. Around him were various ink wells and quills all lined up neatly and surrounding the new volumes that needed his words to be laid bare on their leaves. Everything around him was utilitarian in design. Plain desks, chairs, vases, and other furniture. There was no dust or imperfections in this room, everything was as crisp and neat as the paper. Envy still flowed through him. He felt it in the back of his mind, in recent times it had fueled him, for every time he had to look at his worthless sister. So he put it to use, for feeling did not truly exist in him or add to his life. It was as plainer then the surrounding objects. Inside his mind there were no bittersweet recollections, happy memories, or even that faint feeling of knowing you misplaced something. Hasad really was blank. He levitated a quill into the air, truly without a care in the world, and began to write every theory and magic formula he had forged and perfected in his head over the past fifty years since the coronation of his sister and the demigod who became the Shaman of the buffalo, one of Elinora's mortal pets. The quill found its way into the ink pot, and from there Hasad began to write. He wrote of jealousy, burning so powerful it could not be contained within oneself. He wrote of the twisted perfection embedded with his own mind and his desire for the crumbling and fall of the dreams of others crept into every scratch of his neat and spidery writing. Envy worked its way into every drip of ink and after hours Hasad was finally done. Every single book was crammed with hundreds of thousands of passages of magic, yet Hasad knew no exhaustion from his task. His expression was blank and placid, as unmoving as a statue's features but his stillness was more unsettling than any stone idol could ever be. Hasad was positively eerie. Silence dragged on and his mane and tail rippled. There was still nothing to break this. Any other individual would have been nerve-racked as Stellaura. Hasad had written out a new kind of magic and was going to test it to its full extent immediately. For a mortal this would be a death wish, but that was nothing compared to the effects that such recklessness could have on him. One screw up, a single thing out of place in the sloppy rough drafts of magic he would be using and the effects of such a disaster would be permanent. From there it depended on how discreetly a toxic backlash could be concealed. He couldn't have another soul find out about such practices. It would only become more dangerous from here as he perfected his forbidden arts, constantly revising and maybe even scrapping entire concepts. For each of these experiments he would be using himself to test every spell since too many complications and other risks would be involved if he tried seeking another to test this on. His research was too precious as well, so it was out of the question. Hasad did not worry about any of the consequences one with everlasting life like himself would face by engaging in such pursuits. It was not out of arrogance or the inability to comprehend such a thing but rather his desperation and detachment. As long as Hasad got what he wanted he didn't care if it destroyed him. The air next to Hasad fizzled before opening as if someone had sliced the air itself. The prince's horn stopped glowing and his magenta aura faded. Anywhere else his magic would risk detection, he had to practice elsewhere and where better than a quiet space he ripped into the fabric of things? ... Hasad's Royal Voice screamed throughout the expanse of the empty gray, and even though there was no beginning, end, ground, and sky within his shouts caused tremors to shake the void in which he stood. The spell books had not worked, at least not for him. They were sloppy. Every time he tried to activate everything contained within those words he failed terribly. The books were trying to fragment his soul and separate it to create a phantom of all the wondrous corruption that resided in him, and manifested it as his mania, a powerful spirit of his own insecurities, vengeance, and strife. It wouldn't work and it never would. The soul of an Alicorn cannot be split, it is always whole and forever present. He levitated the spell books so they might be scrutinized by his gaze and decide their fate. Every other day his eyes would match the faux expression on his face, happy, sad, anger and so forth. Never did he possess any telltale signs of these constant lies or a placid or glassy look. Today they bored through the books, his eyes truly looked like one who'd seen everything, as if this books could encompass everything he was disgusted with. Hasad's horn was cloaked in the magic he had used to master these books and to open this domain to his. At most this could extend the mortal lifespan for centuries and perhaps enable them to cause minor havoc, like razing a hooffull of cities without any survivors, nothing big. But mere power was not enough. It never was. Purple and green danced across the covers. These were too precious to destroy but it would be dangerous to keep them, even in here. But for now they would be worthless to keep. He had to hide them. The magic continued to envelope the failed creations. It would be best to send them somewhere so far away from the desert. Someplace cold... but equally barren... not so sandy either... perhaps mountains instead? It couldn't have any ponies either... The magic swirled furiously before it and the books vanished with it, a preservation spell upon the tomes. They had gone to where ever it was that Hasad had envisioned in his mind. After the first of many creations were gone Hasad resumed his bellowing and shooting off his magic in random directions, utterly ruthless to the one place where he let the mask drop. He didn't want to wait. He had to wait. Hasad had to become magic, in a way, and then he had to destroy himself. But that's only if there was anything left to destroy...