A Silent Sun

by cthulhufhgan4

Donum

The heat of the Badland Sun was one rivalled only by that of an open flame. Its rays, uninhibited by the lack of tall vegetation and thin atmosphere, scorched the ground and killed any life that tried to grow on its surface. The land was perpetually hot, save for the long, arduous nights, when the burning sensation of the desert light gave way to the long, freezing cold of the dark. Thistle had never known it to be any other way, but he hated it nonetheless. Pulling on the strings which managed his hood, he tightened his garments, trying to protect as much of himself as he could from the radiation of the sun.

Thistle stood out in the open desert of his home, his sore hooves resting on the hot, dry ground. The flat, red earth stretched about him for miles on end, only ever interrupted by the occasional mesa or plateau. His bow hung at his side, half concealed by the tan cloak that enshrouded his entire body, and strapped to his chest was a small quiver of white arrows. Around his mouth and chest was wrapped a thin, white scarf, sewn tightly enough to block out the sun, but thin enough to not be a nuisance in the heat. Over his eyes he wore a pair of thick, dark goggles, to protect his vision from the harsh light.

He stood still for a long while, scanning the flat environment for any sign of movement. To an outsider, the act may have seemed foolish; no life grew in the desert, and any beast that roamed the land would stand out like a mountain against the horizon, its body stark against the blue and red of the earth and sky. Thistle, however, knew his prey, and knew exactly what to look for.

His eyes quickly caught an abnormality at the edge of his sight. Turning his gaze towards the blemish on the horizon, he saw what he was looking for. There, where the earth met the sky in a seemingly effortless transition of red to blue, a small, oblong bulge stood out, just barely poking above the razor thin line that marked the horizon. Dust waited a few more moments, staring intently to make sure it wasn’t a trick being played by his imagination, before hoisting the bow at his side to his shoulder. From a satchel on his left side, he pulled a single, white arrow. Its tip was blunt and hollowed out, with circular holes carved into its surface, giving it the appearance of a hornet’s nest. Drawing the arrow to the bowstring, he let loose, firing the projectile towards the small blemish in the distance. As it flew through the air, it began to make a high pitch, whistling noise, like the sound of a tea kettle boiling over. The whistle grew surprisingly louder as it gained velocity, dipping into a steep dive towards the small lump on the ground. It bounced off the tip of the lump, just as Thistle had hoped it would, shattering on impact.

Suddenly, the lump lurched forwards at a tremendous speed, rising up from the ground as it did so. Ten long, spindly legs lifted it off the ground, carrying it across the flat floor of the desert at a pace no pony could match on foot. Still, Thistle did not move, instead choosing to draw another arrow and fire it towards the beast’s left side. It veered to the right as the arrow found its mark by its feet, sending it wobbling towards a patch of earth less red than the ground about it. Thistle continued to fire more arrows, ensuring the beast never ran off course.
As the creature’s feet hit the patch, the earth under it lifted upwards, sending the monster onto its back. It tried desperately to turn itself over, its long legs writhing frantically in the air, but to no avail. It was completely immobilized, unable to move its body into the position it needed to flee.
From the hole in the ground where the patch had once been, four small, dark figures leapt forth, gliding towards the creature with ease. The encircled the monster, which was massive in comparison, and inspected it, making sure it was truly incapable of fleeing. One of the figures turned in Thistle’s direction, and called him over with a quick gesture.
Quickly and with little trouble, Thistle ran over the cracked earth towards the figures, meeting them in by the hulking monstrosity which lay in their wake. As he drew closer, the shape of the figures became apparent. They were earth ponies, like him, their bodies enshrouded by the same tan robes he wore. The only difference was the small, crimson apple clasp they wore on their cloaks, marking them as senior hunters, and Thistle’s teachers. They nodded to him as he approached, signaling their appreciation for his help.
“Your skills with the bow grow greater with each hunt,” the pony who had gestured to him said. He had a thick, deep voice, with a drawl that was common among the eldest families in Thistle’s village. Though his body was covered by the garments he wore, Thistle could see that his hooves were a bright orange.
“Thank you, Gala,” Thistle replied, bowing in thanks for the compliment. The other two ponies remained still, continuing to watch the creature on the ground.
As Thistle and Gala turned towards the beast, the immensity of the thing became apparent. Its body was ten feet long, a thickly shelled thorax headed on each side by a small, bulbous knob, giving it the appearance of two conjoined bugs. Its long legs were nearly twice the length of its body, though as they tucked into protect themselves, they gave off the appearance of being almost nonexistent. Finally, along the inner belly of the thing, a long mass of pink, squirming tentacles grew, covered in a light, mossy substance that coated them like fur.
Thistle couldn’t help but admire the strangeness of the thing. When he was young, his mother had told him stories of the Badlands, and how the old god of chaos had made the beasts that wandered it in his own twisted vision of true beauty. When the land had grown barren and desolate after the god’s fall, only they had survived, built by their creator to endure even the harshest climates. They were sustained by the magic that the deity had planted within them, and from their tentacles grew the pink moss which thrived on that magic as well. That moss, fed by the arcane power flowing through the beasts, held enough life energy to sustain a pony for an entire day .The people of the old world had called the beasts the striders with two faces, but in Thistle’s village they were given a more affectionate name. They were the donum discordia, or the gift of chaos.
“A beautiful catch,” Gala said, climbing onto the donum’s stomach. “And a good amount of moss on it, too.”
Reaching down, he grabbed ahold of the tentacles below him, easily pulling off the pink moss that lined their surface. Thistle and the other two ponies jumped onto the beast, and began to do the same. The donum never once struggled as they did so, never feeling pain as they removed the moss from its underbelly. When they had gathered enough, the ponies hopped off, leaving enough moss on the donum to grow back in time.
After storing the moss into a large bag, they reached underneath the beast, and proceeded to lift the creature over and onto its stomach. It rose in an instant, and in seconds had scrambled twenty feet away. Within a minute, it was on the edge of the horizon, soon to be no more than another shadow against the flat, red earth.

“It is stunning how fast they are,” the two unnamed ponies said in unison. Thistle turned to them, surprised that they had chosen now to talk. The two ponies stared back at him, their eyes peering through their dark goggles and into his own eyes.

“It amazes us,” they continued, “that such a fast creature could be so easily subdued. Truly, it speaks volumes to you own skill at the bow, young thorn.”

Thistle bowed, assuming they were referring to him. The two ponies did not return the gesture, but simply cocked their heads to the side, staring deeper into the young stallion’s eyes.

“Thank you, Cameo,” Thistle said, not sure if the pair had noticed his gesture. “And you, too, Jazz. I try to improve my skills with every shot I take.”

Still, the pair did not respond. Behind him, Thistle heard Gala shifting on his feet, clearly as bothered by his fellow hunters’ behavior as he was. Thistle knew that Cameo and Jazz had always been strange. They had been born with the gift of clairvoyance, which until their birth had all been but restricted to the purest of unicorn families, and were marked from birth as some of the highest authorities in the village, their status lifted even higher with their place in the prestigious Apple family, from whom all the village councilors were related in some form or another. However, he also knew that when the pair grew silent and still, it meant they were looking at something others couldn’t. Slowly, Thistle coughed, trying to get the two to respond. Their heads snapped up in response, and they quickly spoke again.

“Excuse us,” they said, any sign of embarrassment lost in the eerie effect they had when speaking as one. “We simply were contemplating your lack of a fate sign. It is strange for one as old as yourself to not have proven worthy of one yet.”

“Wait,” Gala said, stepping forwards to stop the pair from continuing. They merely turned to him, their burning gaze stopping him in his tracks.

“Now is not the time for hesitation,” they said, their voices growing cold with impatience. “You agreed to this affair, and it is your duty to carry it out. Explain to the boy why we have brought him here.”

Thistle looked at Gala in confusion. Hadn’t this simply been a hunting trip? His teacher returned his gaze, and sighed as he gave in to the inevitable.

“All ponies need a cutie mark,” he explained. “You know this as well as I do. It’s our mark in life, the sign which shows us where we fit in the village. But you also know it isn’t easy getting one. You have to work hard, and train until the council sees you as worthy. That’s why you’re here today, Thistle. We brought you out here because we wanted to make sure you were ready for your mark, and we think you’ve proven yourself more than ready for that responsibility.”

Thistle didn’t say a word. Instead, his mouth hung open like the lid to an open jar. He knew everything about the cutie marks and what they meant for his people. They marked you for the four tiers of society: hunter, scholar, doctor or craftsman. Without a cutie mark, a pony had no place in the village, forever an outcast in their own homes. He would have never guessed, however, that this was why he had been brought out to the desert. Thistle’s flank tingled, the hairs on his body standing on end as Gala continued to speak.

“Do you know how a pony gets their cutie mark, Thistle?” he asked, speaking softly as to not startle the young stallion any more.

“Y-you have t-to find your c-calling,” Thistle replied, his voice shaking. “I-it appears when you’ve f-found your purpose in life.”

Gala sighed, and shook his head. Behind him, Cameo and Jazz laughed in amusement at Thistle’s statement.

“Foolish colt,” they said, not bothering to hide their laughter from their companions. “Where did you ever here something so ridiculous? Was it your mother who told you such things? You should know by now that such tales are simply that: stories to amuse fillies in the night, and nothing more.”

“There’s only one way to get your cutie mark, Thistle,” Gala followed the pair’s laughter up with. “We have to take you to the one person with the power to give that to you. You need to be evaluated by the Pink Lady.”

If Thistles demeanor had seemed feeble before, now it seemed ready to crumble. His legs were shaking in a mix of excitement and dread over what his teacher was saying. The Pink Lady was the matriarch of the village, the eldest member of the Apple family, and the one who led his mother and her people to safety during the plague brought by the darkness. No one ever saw her; some people whispered she was too weak to venture outside, while others dared to say she had never existed in the first place, and was simply a tale to inspire hope in them. All Thistle knew for sure was that she was the closest thing to a god he had ever known, and the prospect of meeting her face to face filled him with the kind of dread a priest might have felt before meeting with the old goddesses.

“Fear not, young thorn,” Cameo and Jazz reassured him. “This is nothing to fear. This is but another change, and you will emerge from it stronger than before. The Pink Lady will see to it.”

Gala stared at Thistle for a while, waiting for him to speak. Thistle only mumbled something in response, unable to hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat. Gala sighed, placed his hoof on Dust’s shoulder, and began to lead him away towards the western horizon.

“Don’t worry, kid,” He said. “This’ll all seem simple at home.”