Two Changelings, in a World of Foes

by Orkus

Chapter 3: The Hatching of Plans

Chapter 3: The Hatching of Plans

A lone changeling flew as hard as his wings could carry him, through the cold land of the north. Snow was everywhere, as far as the eye could see, and just seeing the endless landscape, and the mist that left his teeth-chattering mouth every time he breathed, just made him feel that much more miserable. Despite the clear, starry sky, which had finally cleared up from the cloudy scene it was an hour ago, it was absolutely freezing.

"Of all the l-luck... I w-w-was the one t-to g-get the short end of the st-stick..." he grumbled to himself in a rather high-pitched tone, as he had been doing for the last hour to entertain himself from the sheer boredom the flight. When he was done mumbling, the changeling looked to the note that was strapped around his right foreleg, making sure it was still there and intact.

His misery was lifted, but only slightly, when he spotted a green glow coming from a cave below him. It was bright enough to see from in the dark, but was very dull. Like a moth to a candle, the changeling flew down to it, landing on the snow just outside of it with a plopping noise. After shaking the powdery substance off of his hole-covered hooves, he entered, but very slowly, and cautiously. When he looked in, the cavern, despite its glow, appeared as if it stretched on forever.

"H-hello?" he greeted, an echo going out through the cave. As if a magic switch had been turned, the faint green light at the end of the long tunnel that made up the inside of the abode faded, leaving only the moonlight to illuminate the entrance.

"Who... enters?" a booming, deep, guttural voice spoke from deep inside the cave. The magnitude of the sound echoed throughout the entrance, and the icicles that lined the ceiling above rattled together like chimes from its force, causing a few to break and fall, harmlessly, on the shaking changeling's carapace below.

"W-W-W-Weavel the messenger!" the changeling replied, in more of a yelp than a voice. "I b-b-bring news from the hive! An important message! F-f-for Vile Faux the halfdrake!"

"A message... for me? And it's from the hive, eh?" the voice replied, which Weevil noticed was, ever so slowly, becoming less booming, deep, and guttural, until it was at a more-or-less normal tone. That wasn't saying much though, for the presence was as threatening as ever, and to make matters worse for Weevil, it was clearly coming closer.

"Whatsit for?" the voice asked again, as a silhouette emerged from the darkness. Weevil gulped nervously, as he saw who it was. The figure, Vile Faux, was abnormally skinny for a changeling, and tall to boot, but not as tall as Queen Chysalis. He had a long, jagged horn that emerged from his forehead, and the webbed mane that stretched from his neck to his tail, short as it was in height, was tall enough to droop to the side slightly. His eyes lack the monochromatic feature that most drones, workers, and soldiers possessed, and were instead white, with icy blue irises, and black, reptilian, slit pupils.

"I asked you a question, messenger," Vile repeated, impatiently, snapping the changeling out of his sightseeing. With great haste, Weevil pulled the paper he had been carrying off of his leg, and used magic to levitate it to Vile, shuddering all the while.

"I-i-it's f-from the q-q-q-queen..." he stuttered. Whether it was from just being cold, or fear, Vile couldn't tell. Without a second word, he snatched the floating note from the air and tore the ragged seal off of it with his mouth, before unraveling the dirty, wet paper. His eyes moved to-and-fro as he read the parchment, stopping only when he reached the bottom. When he was finished, a wicked smile of pure malice stretched across his face, until he was grinning from ear-to-ear.

"A traitor? Two traitors?" he inquired to the messenger in an overly-excited tone, his head snapping rapidly from the paper, to his guest, causing the frozen changeling to flinch. "In need of being "taking care of?""

"Y-yes," he replied. "Th-they're in the town known as P-P-Ponyville. We g-got info on them wh-when w-word got out that two "f-f-f-friendly" changelings were living there."

""Friendly," eh?" Vile repeated. His menacing grin was swiftly replaced by a psychotic smirk, his narrow eyes widening until they were practically white-and-blue saucers. "Oh, boy! I cannot wait to play with their adorable little minds!" he then shouted, his hooves crushing the paper that they held in anticipation. As he fantasized what he was already planning on doing to his newest victims, Vile appeared to forget that his guest was even there for a few, brief moments, turning back to him when he finally remembered.

"Go! Get out of here..." he growled to Weevil, his expression going from childish, to serious, and without emotion. "I have much planning to do, and little time to do it. Leave, before I bleach your pathetic brain, and throw what's left of you in the snow, to get lost and freeze."

Ready to make good on his word, a sickly, green glow began to form on the tip of Vile Faux's jagged horn. "I... I-I..." Weevil whimpered, before turning about, and quickly leaving the cave as fast as his small wings could carry him, not needing to be told twice. When he was fully gone, the glow on Vile's horn faded, and he went back to smiling his twisted smile.

"So... my newest playthings are some "Thoraxis, and his daughter, Skia, whom is most precious to him?"" he cackled to himself, reading straight from the now-crumpled paper. "Yes... yes, I know what to do! Oh, the suffering "Thoraxis" shall endure... knowing that what is most precious to him will be... gone!"

More laughter echoed throughout the cavern, before dying down.

"But how will I get them both to my lair, without ? Perturbations..." he mumbled. "It's all the way out here in a frozen wasteland, a great many miles from Ponyville." For the next minute, he sat there. Many thoughts, all evil, all as wretched and depraved as he, swam through his head. The only noise to grace his ears was the sound of the wind, howling outside. At last, he thought of what to do, and jumped to his hooves.

"Oh, but such a plan sounds so foul... so heartless and cruel... only one with no soul would wish to do it..." he said sorrowfully, before smiling, and chuckling once more. "It's brilliant! I must set out immediately!"

Vile stalked to the front of his cave, until he was just outside the entrance, and looked up at the stars that littered the blackness. His eyes were wide, his blood was pumping, and an aura as unpleasant as his first name started to radiate off of him.

"Oh, Skiaaaa!" he shouted to the sky at the top of his lungs, the look on his crazed face begging the stars to answer back. "You're about to receive a visitor!"

---

After placing the third, and last book into her green-colored backpack, Skia hefted it over the wing casings on her back. She had been up most of last night planning on what to do with the mysterious bird she found in the woods the day before, and like a trap, it was now set. With a jolly grin of pure optimism on her face, the young changeling left her room, and skipped toward the kitchen.

Thoraxis was gone; working at the pet store for most of the day, as he did most days of the week. Moredread, however, was there by the sink, cleaning dishes with a combination of soap, water, and his magic. He looked over his shoulder when he heard the sound of footsteps, and smiled warmly when he spotted Skia. "Your lunch is in the box on the table," he spoke, his spectral tail motioning to the red, metal, cuboid box with a dynamic picture of Daring Do on its front, which he had made for her after she spun a little white lie about "going to a friend's house." Nearby it was a bowl, filled with remnants of the medicine from a few days previously.

"You're the best, Uncle Moredread," she thanked, as she picked lunchbox up in a hoof, and put it into her pack. She buttoned it shut, and started for the door, when she suddenly stopped before she could reach it. "Hey... Uncle Moredread..." she began, as she re-approached the table, and peered at the bowl in the center of it. "How exactly does this medicine work?"

"Why would you like to know?" he inquired back, as he used a rag to dry the soapy water off of a glass mug, and put it on the drying rack.

"I'd just like to know what other uses it has," Skia shrugged. "Ya'know, the science around it, and stuff. It's something I've been meaning to ask since a few days ago."

"What an odd question..." he said. "But one that I can answer. The medicine was a curing tonic that Zecora created using a wide assortment of herbs. She told me that it was made for those afflicted by disease, burns, minor bone injuries, and several other ailments of that sort."

"Burns, you say?" Skia inquired, eyeing the bowl with a much more interested glare, a hoof placed thoughtfully on her chin. "Well, well, well... how does it work?"

""How does it work?" You just drink it, and then the healing process begins..." he started, nonchalantly. While he went on explaining the intricate details, he was completely unaware of Skia as she telekinetically pulled a glass jar and cover out of the nearby cupboard, less than a foot away. With Moredread's back turned to her, and while listening diligently, Skia scooped a large portion of the potion from the bowl into the jar, and screwed the lid over it, before tossing it into her backpack, just mere moments before he finished the last dish in the sink, and turned to her again.

"...and within a day or two, the sickness or injuries should be fully cured," he finished, oblivious to what had occurred. "But I think that's enough talking for one morning. You should have left for your friend's house fifteen minutes ago! Off you go, dear."

Skia ran up to him, and gave him a quick hug on the leg, before dashing off to the door. Just as she reached it, she stopped, and turned around again. There was another question she had been meaning to ask, only this time, she meant it.

"Before I leave, there's something else I want to tell you," she said. "It's about Dad."

"Thoraxis? What about him?" the shade asked, returning his full attention to her.

"He was looking at a couple yesterday in a very strange way," she started. "It was weird. Really weird. Like, it was as if he was observing them. I think something was going on in his head..."

"How peculiar," Moredread responded.

"I know he's told me that changelings can't really feel love, and this may sound a little strange, but... he loves me, doesn't he?" Skia went on, albeit slowly.

The ghostly alicorn's helmeted, hornless head bobbed up and down, laughing silently. "It's not just parental instinct that guides him," he replied reassuringly, his eyes, ever so briefly flickering from their supernatural green, red-irised color, to a stranger, "normal-looking" cyan hue with white sclera, before changing back. "He does indeed love you, as I do. It's as thick as blood can get. Perhaps he stared at the couple because he senses something is missing from his life..."

"Then... why does he keep telling me that we still can't?" she asked again. Before he could answer, Moredread, with a pained grunt, suddenly clutched at his chest armor with a phantom hoof, and dropped to the floor, as if one of his front legs had given way. Skia, with a gasp, instantly ran up to him, and helped his larger form back up before he could fall completely to the ground, pushing his shoulder armor with great effort.

"Uncle Mordread? It's happening again..." Skia groaned, when he was back on his hooves. "That's the third time this month you've fallen like that. I know you're an intangible ghost, but you're starting to act like you have a heart problem."

"Heh..." he chuckled weakly, before strength came back into his tone. "It's something to do with my heart, that much is true..." He stretched his large wings out, before letting them fold up by his side, and gave a look of confidence to the young changeling, telling her he was fine.

"But let's not focus on me," he spoke again. "You said you want to see if changelings can feel love, yes? Well, it so happens that I'd like to know, too."

The way he phrased his last sentence piqued Skia's interest. "What did you have in mind?" she whispered, in a blatantly secretive way, as if Thoraxis was in the room with them. "A test to see if he's right?"

"A spell that finds the closest living creature that his soul has the most in common with... and then asks them to go on a date with him," he spoke, in a somewhat proud manner. "A blind date, to be precise."

"Wait... really?" Skia inquired again, in disbelief. "They actually make spells like that? That sounds overly complicated, yet strangely specific."

"It's a combination of spells and writing, really," he started again. "I just write down a note asking the pony if they want to have dinner at a set location, send it to them, and then give one to Thoraxis asking the same thing."

"Hah! That's brilliant!" Skia shouted, jumping up-and-down, clapping her front hooves in glee, until she stopped, and a serious expression curled over her face. "But how would we be able to do that? I don't know the spell, and you don't have much magical power."

"I may not have my power, but I have my concentration," he answered back. "Concentration, no matter how magically frail you are, can accomplish a great many things, at the cost of some stamina."

"Oh. Well that answers my question," the changeling nymph replied, her expression soon turning to one of excitement. "I can't wait to see the look on Dad's face when he sees the letter!"

"I shall see you tonight, Skia. Have fun with your friends," Moredread , as he watched the young changeling walk to the entrance of their home. With a final wave, she finally exited out the door, and the sound of it closing behind her heralded the fact that Moredread was now alone, and, more importantly, peace and quiet once again reigned.

A few minutes after Skia had left the household, Moredread took a piece of paper, a ballpoint pen, and a red envelope out of their respective drawers, and trotted to the table with them, each levitating a few feet from his head. After putting the paper on the wooden construct, and with a snap from the button at the pen's base, its tip came out of its shell, ready for use.

"Let's see... how should I begin?" he pondered to himself. When he thought of what to write on the invitation, he put the pen on the paper, and began to delicately draw words with skill and patience to match an artist, attempting to make every sentence as perfect as physically possible.

"Ah, yes. "To whomever this letter reaches...""

Comments

[Grekoy]

Loving it.

[Skye Mist]

First half: DUN DUN DUNNNN!
Second half: Skia, you sneaky little changeling! I 100% approve!

What Twilight?
Nothing, it's nothing.
Okay!

[Texus]

I don´t think that I like this story very much, I´m pretty sure that it isn´t perfect, but I know that it isn´bad, but I´m not interessted anymore.

[Draco Dei]

Ball point pen? Not a quill and ink pot set-up?

[Cursed Quill]

still liking the pony play on Mordred.
7278824

a ballpoint pen,

I must agree with all the HP fanfiction authors who have Hermione and others use superior modern stationery.
Moredread is clearly willing to get with the times.

On thinking about it, Celestia has no need to update, because she's had so much experience. Moreover, ballpoints (if extant in Equestria) are going to be novel and frowned on by nobility, and she's from a time far before them anyway, so she's used to it. Being her personal student, Twilight learned from the best how to use it, either because Celestia thought it'd be good for navigating nobility, or as a fine-magic-control exercise, which Twilight would have needed to work on a lot to dial down her firehose of power.

I like his plan.

I'm still chary of the Pursuer's role in the story, but I'll wait to see how it plays out.

---

"W-W-W-Weavel the messenger!"

W-W-W-Weevil

Whatsit for?

:manure: What's it for?

"In need of being "taking care of?""

I don't like the internal doublequotes. They're a little bit bad style. That said, you're consistent with it.
Should be 'taken' instead of 'taking' though.

"Uncle Mordread?

Moredread