The Forging of Harmony

by The Sweezlenub

Interlude - Malevolence

The once-florid hills of South Verdim lay torn asunder by brimstone and wrath. Flames smoldered lazily in the fields and meadows as foul smog howled over the rocky coastline and black clouds oozed into the grey sky. The fresh rivers once azure ran grey and black with ash, and the cottages along the sides of the Verdim Fjord lay charred in ruins, as if they had been struck by lightning. Cinders wafted through the town, shuddering in the scorched air as thunder rippled through the murky sky. It was the work of a being of great darkness incarnate who floated in the center of it all.

Malevolence was his name. He was a Draconequus, a chimeric fusion of equine, dragon, and chaotic magic. His face was reminiscent of a pony’s, save for the addition of two horns, which jutted from his temples and followed the smooth contour of his skull until twisting out, down, and forward. Both tapered to elegant and deadly points. Swathes of flame encircled his muscular draconian form and liquid shadow swirled at his clawed fingers. Enormous, bat-like wings dominated the surrounding air on either side, and a lithe, serpentine tail coiled behind him. Great scales armored his enormous body, which, unlike a pony’s was bipedal, though the two feet he had were distinctly cloven. His eyes were a pure, inky black and had no visible pupils or lids. They stared unflinchingly from his terrible, twisted face. He was the spirit of wrath: the living embodiment of anger. He had risen from the depths of Tartarus last Tuesday and had made his way north through the tangle of Deep Southern Badlands and across Frelna’s sea in search of intelligent life forms on whose hatred he could feed.

His malefic sorcery was almost complete. The remnants of the lower Fjordlands trembled before his terrible power, and those who remained in Verdim scurried helplessly about in the ensuing pandemonium. They could try to hide from him--for now, at least. But they could not run away. The massive force-fields he had erected at the edges of the city made sure of that. Those who had fallen in the assault on this coastal northern verge were unharmed. He had made sure of that as well. Soon they would all be his minions, corrupted by the festering anger and strife among them. With his dark magic he could use this seed of rage to brainwash his victims into servitude.

They would proceed north. The rest of the Fjordlands would crumble before his risen army, despite the fact that they would doubtlessly receive reinforcements from the rest of the tribes. The act of war itself will spell their demise, he thought to himself gleefully, for war was aggression based on fear, and fear and aggression were his playthings. He was a force that could not be resisted: a grip that would not be relinquished: endless suffocation that could never be escaped. And inescapable his powers were, for even now the ponies who once cowered before him were beginning to flock like crows to his darkness. Fire burned in their collective eyes. That same fire would corrupt their very souls and leave them malleable beings of hatred: an army ready to command.

All of Windsreach would be soon be under his ungulate heel.