The Dark Origins of the Windigo

by Schattendrache

Day 5, 6, and 7

November 27, Approximately Noon
Our fate is the grave, and our tomb, The Spires.

We set out shortly ere the break of dawn, or what can best be known to be such a time as the storm prevents all such light from breaching the cruel formations of swirling haze. While such pleasures as a soft mattress alleviate many an issue that manifest after a protracted venture through the Frozen Wastes, only so much can be done to assure a sedate stupor as achieved.

While my dreams remained unassailed by ill thoughts or sporadic natural rousings, my arousal this day seemed to have come far too oversoon. My eyes refused to remain unobstructed, as their lids seemed to take their parting as some form of offense, and endeavored to rectify such a slight at every possible moment. It was with great personal exertion that I managed even to extricate myself from the walls of the quarters I had been given.

Musing upon why I had been burdened with such a condition, my thoughts inexorably returned to the racket of the storm. The inescapable discord that was the outpost could not be described in any other way but all-consuming. A small blessing it had been that the night prior was naught but a pleasant venture through the realm of unconsciousness.

I must think this, I must strive to wholeheartedly accept this to be the catalyst from which my condition had developed.

If I do not, I must face the stifling fear of my mortality, and the crushing lamentation that such would create in you.

I can not ponder such, as its mere flight through my mind results in my stomach knotting up and threatening to evacuate what little it contains upon the snow and frozen granite.

Even now, imprisoned within what passes for a cave, I can not accept the reality that looms above us like an even more stygian storm. A storm not of cutting winds and life devouring cold, but of stillness, and a quiet so total that even the sound of one’s pulse is but a half-formed, hazy recollection.

I write this now, I write this in the harrowed disposition I find myself in as a consequence of witnessing the death of Iron Hoof.

The detestable state of the Spires is naught but the greatest means by which to dissuade any sane being from challenging them. A dark, looming threat of a long-forgotten god too vindictive, hateful, and merciless to allow even its death to cease the senseless extinguishment of life.

But we, we who embarked upon this ill devised farce of a mission are not sane. How could we be? We were but subjects of a stolid queen, and upon her brow rests a crystalline band that capacitates said neurosis to spread.
I was but a single pace before him. The firmament that betrayed him was but the same rock I and the remaining party had tread but a moment prior. Following a sudden updraft, the granite behind me fragmentized, a significant length of what we had thought to be unmoving rock had simply collapsed, falling an unknowable distance down the face of the Spires. And with the rubble, Iron Hoof unwillingly followed.

A horrified cry, it was the last sound anypony would hear from the soldier. A scared, defeated, pleading noise that refuses to extricate itself from the forefront of my thoughts shall be the last memory of his voice.

I know not if I could have helped, and the endless means by which today may have progressed invariably assail my every thought. If we were to have tied ourselves together, if I had turned around faster, if I would have pushed for us to move quicker. Each alternative does naught but dilate the breach in my soul.

Even now, the contemptuous storm that assails the entrance to this cave mocks the three of us who remain. Its malevolent winds rush past the mouth and creates a discordant tone not too dissimilar from a wheezing, drawn-out laugh.

I am sure now that the storm is in itself a living thing.

A creature of thought and emotion.

A creature of antediluvian evil.

I can say with full confidence that this evaluation is correct after what I have experienced this day.

Prior to the events that transpired which now consume my every thought and weigh heavily upon every survivor’s heart, our party had been contemplating a withdrawal from the Spires. Being as our state at that moment was unenviable, being buffeted by gelid winds which not even our gear seemed to offer protection from and blind to all but the sleet and granite nearest us, we had been in the middle of a trudging conversation as to ascertain whether we should return to the outpost for want of better coverings.

Upon my utterance at the notion of us seeking more optimal gear, the storm broke upon us, as if it were a stalking predator, waiting for its prey’s guard to be at its lowest, positioned where its escape was but a flight of fancy.

It broke just as we were exiting a section of the mountains ascension that could only be described as a fatal byway even should the storm be but a foreboding presence at the periphery of our concern. It was a wonder that we were able to scale it unmolested given the storm at the time. With the unrestrained wrath of the blizzard bearing down on us, retreat was but a quicker manner by which we could slough our mortal coil.

It had been waiting, the storm had been lying in wait for us to reach a point after which it could determine whether or not escape would be viable. It had bided its time in order to draw us in before bearing down on us like a leaden blanket.

We were trapped, with but one way to proceed should we not be inclined to hold position and simply give in and allow ourselves to be consumed by the chill. It took but a moment for our decision to be made, for what little claim we had on our minds not being that of doltish half-wits pushed us to continue our ascent in hopes of finding a means by which we could escape our current situation.

We traversed for I can only guess to be several hours, for the ceaseless grey and oppressive storm have robbed me of my sense of time. Even now, I futilely grasp at what wisps of chronology remain to me. But I digress.

It was during this time that my opinion of Orator soured. The time spent battered by this storm was also spent in prodding the linguist to follow my directions and maintain an elevated pace. Perhaps it was during these damnable exchanges that I lost track of the position the sun should be in. Either way, the tenderhoofed stallion made no small impact on the journey's progression.

I had initially been heading our troop, but the incessant complaints and unsolicited ‘advice’ on ways by which we could proceed drove me to pull back to behind him to assure that he would not hinder our progression. While my patience is not an enviable aspect of my personality, I was able to restrain myself from lashing out at his input, instead reminding him that I had been brought on due to my knowledge of the wastes and my skills in surviving less than hospitable conditions. He quieted somewhat after that, but his constitution was severely lacking.

Now, naught but the condescending wind and our miserable thoughts reach our ears. None wish to speak. And what reason have we? Not one of us wish to discuss that horrible even, for what purpose would it serve? Perhaps a discussion as to what we are to do now, our means of progression? Lest we desire a death no different than that suffered by Iron Hoof, or to know what it feels like to have even the warmth of your breast violently ripped from you, our position within this cavern shall remain.

We have managed to construct a fire from what disposable supplies we possess, but we all know the futility of such a performance.

Our lives now are but a farce, a delusion brought on by our refusal to admit defeat.

I write this now as more of a means by which to chronicle my demise. I have resigned myself to this fate, as my future now wholly rests upon the progression of this hostile tempest.

I hope that should I pass from this world, anyone else who is to pass through these cliffs stumbles upon my and my companions corpses and reads this.

I implore unto you, whatever reasons you might have had prior to finding this journal, abandon them, and flee back from whence you came with all due haste!

You gamble your life here, and be you ignorant or unconcerned of the perils that exist here, I must impress upon you your foolishness. You have no hope of ‘conquering’ these hungering fangs, nor of escaping there wrath, should their mercurial temperament find you to be a satisfactory meal.

Turn back, do what I was too proud and too cowardly to do.

Live.

November 28, after breakfast

The morning of the second day on the spires was as grave as the first. Again, silence and wind resounded through the cave for hours on end. The grayness of the sky informs us merely of the sun’s presence behind them. None among our remaining party even wished to hazard a guess, simply that day had come and still we were trapped.

Orator, to my chagrin, decided that his input was needed in this manner, beginning by stating that we should discuss Iron Hoof. A firm no, accompanied by a glare in his direction made it clear that his idea was not appreciated. Again, he attempted to press the subject, stating something about not addressing trauma, but I was having none of it.

The welp quieted after that. Good. I tolerate him for now, but only just.

My dreams were filled with the events of the prior day, and through them I experienced that horrid instance and all that preceded it innumerable times. In each instance, I came to recognize what had caused the tragedy.

Orator.

The constant complaints and his dreadful pace had slowed our accent, and with it, brought us closer to our doom. Where he to have simply closed his mouth and kept pace like the rest of us, the entire party would have made it past the section that collapsed, and we would have been spared our current predicament.

Without Iron Hoof, the majority of our supplies have been lost. A fire is an untenable proposition. We had started one the previous day for a time to warm ourselves, but to maintain one would be to invite a sooner death. We have only so many items upon us, and with each that gets sacrificed, one option of survival is forever lost to us.

I discussed a plan with Hard Soil to barricade the front of the cave using the snow around the area and create a wall of it that would extend three-quarters of the way to the top of the cave’s entrance to allow some flow of air, but permit the buildup of heat. The principle was similar to structures I would build in the Wastes if I found myself in the open when a storm hit.

After listening to my explanation, Hard Soil, while concerned about the risks barricading us in a cave would pose, relented and assisted me in the creation of the structure. Orator rose to aid us, and while I initially voiced my displeasure, demanding to know why he thought I wanted his help when I hadn’t requested it, his statement that given our present situation, he could either help or do nothing, and doing nothing would just make things worse, I saw his logic.

However, I know what he is playing at. His honeyed words, his skill at warping the crystal tongue to best benefit him requires I trust him naught. On top of that, he was sent by our repugnant regent to serve as a ‘diplomat’.

No, every action he takes will be a calculated farce. A carefully crafted illusion to get those too thick or those too trusting to drop their guard.

I am neither.

Throughout the hours it took to properly fabricate our means of survival, I could see from the corner of my eyes his gaze fall and remain on me for prolonged periods time and time again. He was trying to read me, concoct the perfect mask by which to ingratiate himself to me again.

No.

I want nothing more to do with this ijiraq. While I haven’t the stomach nor the moral defalcation to see to his body never leaving the Spires, the aid I shall give to him will be no more than that which is necessary.

For now, I will examine what supplies we have and determine what we may burn to protract our lives as much as is possible.

I hope though that as time progresses that the wind dies down. The hole left at the top of our barricade seems to be just wide enough to allow a deep resonance to develop in the cave. Not enough to shake the walls, but a quiet, unfaltering drone that causes my ears to flick.
November 29

I awoke sometime in the night to a buzzing of my ears. I had retired early, or perhaps on time, after it became obvious that further actions yesterday were unnecessary. At first, I had thought Orator to be the cause of my ear’s condition, as what I was hearing sounded like the discordant whisper of somepony young speaking in their sleep.

I rose from my position, fully intending to end the source of noise through the application of a thrown stone, when in my half-conscious condition I realized that the noise was emanating from behind me, towards the cave entrance, and not from the two remaining stallions.

I turned towards the source of the noise, seeing the same wall of snow as had been there yesterday, save for the slightly closed hole at the top. I meant to retire back to sleep then, accept the noise as just another oddity of this storm and distract myself with the cruel pleasantries of unconsciousness when from the deepest pits of my mind, a horrific thought threatened to travel down my spine and purged my body of what little warmth remained.

The noise, while heavily that of an unrelenting storm, was indisputably mixed with a sound that could not be described as anything other than whispering.

Drawn in by such a curiosity, I felt as my hooves pushed me off of the ground and propelled me towards the source of the din. Upon my reaching of the wall’s base, I sat down and looked towards the hole with perked ears, hoping that my proximity and undivided attention would serve to decipher what I was hearing.

However, to my chagrin, the words bound to the winds refused to allow themselves to relay to me their meaning. I closed my eyes, tilted my, head, even stood up and propped my front hooves upon the snowy slope, but regardless of my actions, the sound coming from the hole became neither louder nor more distinct.

I was brought from my examination though by the placing of a hoof upon my shoulder. And with this action, what little progress I had had with understanding the voices in the wind was lost, and not only lost, but utterly undone, as the disruption of my attention seemed to also dispel the whispers.

With a scowl, I turned to face the cause of this, only to come muzzle to muzzle with Orator, who looked more than a little concerned.

I will admit that at first I was taken aback by this sight, but my irritation at being disturbed quickly reasserted itself. With a growl, I pushed forward, causing Orator to fall back on his haunches. When I demanded that he explain why he chose to bother me, after stammering for quite some time, he managed to get out that upon both his and Hard Soil’s waking, they found me sitting and staring up at the ventilation hole. They had left me be for some time, but after what they thought to be several hours of me not even moving, they had decided to check on me and see if I had not expired and frozen in place.

The looks upon both their faces were that of deep concern, but I could not bring myself to forgive them, nor excuse their actions. I had been so close.

I will try again to discern what secrets the voices hold. I simply must wait for them to return after their unceremonious dismissal.