• Published 1st Mar 2020
  • 458 Views, 13 Comments

Tartarus Raiser - Moosetasm



Legends whisper of a pastry box containing not merely sweets, but a gateway to the farthest reaches of culinary temptation. It is a box that wishes to be opened. And it shall be, heedless of its cost, or calorie-count.

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Prologue

A few years ago…

Summer in the Dragon Lands was mercilessly hot, even in a region known for its incredible heat year-round. The sole saving grace of the sun-baked pony embassy town of New Asbestos came from its buildings, or rather their namesake materials, which contrasted sharply with those of its two predecessors: Thatchburg, and New Kindling. But while members of the visiting pony delegation rushed from the shade of one building to the next in futile attempts to keep cool, the native dragons in the streets revelled in the inhospitable temperatures, and basked in the occasional breezes, which were actually hotter than the still air.

But one pony pushed his way through the stinking press of creatures choking New Asbestos’ town square, worked his way down a series of dilapidated side-streets, and finally halted outside of a small, run-down restaurant. The light-gray unicorn’s azure eyes surveyed the structure’s pitted fire-proof shingles with disdain. Years ago, he could never have imagined himself entering such a place, or even making the trip to this forsaken country; but now, even as the heat and the weight in his saddlebags threatened him with collapse, his desire drew him onwards.

The restaurant’s door creaked, as if threatening to drop from its hinges. It was almost loud enough to cover the bustle of the room beyond. Indeed, he saw that every seat was filled with one lump or another of draconic flesh—all except for a solitary chair across a table where a most peculiar dragon sat. She was weirdly elongated, and of a dark emerald color, with what appeared to be actual gems encrusting her scales in a seemingly random distribution. A pair of cone-shaped horns sat atop two googly eyes, a slack mouth, and lolling tongue.

On one edge of the table was a small pile of sugar cubes next to two ornate glasses filled with a black liquid that he assumed was not tea, mostly due to it giving off a faint aroma akin to motor oil. But in the dead center of the table was a sight that set the unicorn’s heart racing.

By appearances, it looked to be a pastry box covered with complicated golden filigree patterns that reflected faint rainbow hues. Within the patterns the pony could see what appeared to be runes, though even with his encyclopedic knowledge of dead languages and ancient obscura he couldn’t tell what language, nor even what alphabet, the symbols originated from.

The box drew him forward. He seated himself opposite the derpy dragon, never breaking his gaze.

"What is your pleasure, Mister Stygian?" the dragon asked in a warbly yet knowing voice.

Stygian wasn’t fazed that the dragon knew his name. The research that had led him here had warned him of the otherworldly aspects of both the box and its cursed keeper. And though he knew he should be cautious when slaking his desires to hold pieces of antiquity—having once borne the cursed mantle of the Pony of Shadows during past dabblings—he was also unfazed by the fleeting reflection of his grime-encrusted hooves and unkempt grayish-blue mane in the box’s surface. He only desired one thing now, and it lay in the center of the table.

"The box," Stygian said intensely.

The dragon continued to regard him with a single uncaring eye, while the other one followed an errant fly.

Stygian reached back into his saddlebags and produced a large sack. He dropped the bag onto the table, causing dozens of bits to spill out and across the surface. Hundreds more lay within.

The complete vacancy in the dragon’s crimson-dot eyes and the slack-jawed lolling of her tongue made her look uniquely unimpressed. With a filthy claw, she removed a cube of sugar from the pile on the table, and delicately placed it into her drink.

Stygian narrowed his eyes as he reached into his saddlebags again, this time depositing a sack filled with priceless gems onto the table.

The look on the dragon’s face did not change as she spoke again, neither eye really focusing on him: "Take it. It's yours."

Stygian shot up, hoofed the box from the table, and stuffed it into his saddlebags. He gave one last look at the derped out dragon before turning and galloping out of the establishment in such a hurry that he did not hear the dragon’s parting words:

"It always was."


Stygian’s coat was drenched in sweaty anticipation by the time he dumped his saddlebags out upon the floor of an unfinished, darkened room deep within the embassy. His horn flared for a moment, sparking at the wicks of candles around him until a small square of them flickered in the dimness. Their guttering illumination seemed somehow fitting as he turned the box over in his hooves. There were no visible cracks in its surface, and it betrayed no hints as to how it should be able to open.

Yet as he felt along one of the golden filigree designs, he felt a pleasurable tingle. The sensation was not unlike electricity running into his hooves from the box. It was almost like the box was rewarding him for feeling along the surface in certain patterns.

Stygian began to experiment. His hooves moved across the intricate golden patterning in a manner that began to remind him of kneading dough. And the box responded to his delicate ministrations with additional tingling, as well as the faint clicking of internal mechanisms.

Suddenly, one of his hooves caught an unseen ridge at the center of one of the box faces. He felt the unmistakable tearing of invisible tape as his hoof carefully lifted the hidden flap. Salivating slightly, he pushed down on a button that had been concealed under the flap. One side of the box began to rise in his hooves and the incomplete tune of a haunting melody began to issue forth, seemingly from the gaps between the moving pieces.

Stygian’s eyes went wide as foalhood memories forced their way into his conscious mind. He hadn’t heard the old, familiar tune of The Gonk in a long time. But then part of the box that had risen slid across the surface towards him; it later slid backwards and, with another series of internal clicks, reconnected to its original raised position.

He pushed the raised part of the box back down. But as he did, a loud clanking sound, like that of a door unlocking, could be heard in the room. Another complimentary set of notes joined the first, making the melody sound more complete. Pale blue light began to filter into the room through the slats that were visible through the holes in the unfinished plaster of the walls. The walls and floors creaked, as if the foundations of the building were shifting or settling.

Stygian briefly considered the ominous changes to his surroundings. But, not one to be easily distracted from a goal, his attention quickly returned to the box.

On one surface the pattern was split into sixteen pie-shaped sections surrounding a large golden disk. He ran his hoof around the circular portion in a counterclockwise manner. As he did so he was rewarded with yet more clicking from within the device. It vaguely reminded him of mixing cake batter as he continued to caress the box. Then, the box itself started to split apart. Half of the sixteen sections remained in the hoof upon which the box sat. The other half rose with his touch.

When the sections were no longer in each others way he turned the top portion of the box clockwise, causing yet more notes to join the others. The melody almost sounded complete. He forced the two halves back together, forming the box into a new shape reminiscent of a star.

The music stopped.

The pleasant tingle the box had been producing suddenly turned into a painful jolt of electricity. Stygian gasped and fumbled the box, which fell just out of his reach.

A mournful sound like a slow, distant egg-timer going off suffused the room, seemingly from beyond the walls. The golden disk at the center of the box's star pattern folded open like the petals of some strange metal flower, revealing an opening that led to the center of the device.

Stygian leaned forward with an eager expression on his face. He felt a little wary of the box now that it had shocked him. But all that was visible from where he was sitting was darkness. Darkness, and pink, web-like strands of what could only be cotton candy stretching between the pieces of metal.

He leaned closer, his azure eyes filled with desire.

There was a sudden burst of movement. Stygian had no time to react as multiple black licorice whips shot forth from the opening, wrapped around Sygian’s limbs, and held him fast. He was wholly unprepared when a glob of frosting caught him in the eyes, causing him to scrunch them shut in both shock and pain. More and more varied confections began to make themselves acquainted with his coat.

When he was at last able to pry open his frosting-shot eyes, gasping from the abruptness of the assault of sweetness, he could only gaze in stupefaction at a room that looked nothing like it had mere moments ago. Countless strands of sparkle-encrusted frosting dripped from the ceiling. Two rotating pillars held pieces of kitchen cutlery, including tongs, beaters, and long pie servers, all suspended from wicked-looking rubberized hooks. Cherry filling and small bits of cake had been spattered across every surface. The pale blue glow from earlier, which now seemed to come from a single lightbulb inside a small pink oven in the corner, illuminated everything.

Stygian finally gained the wherewithal to begin screaming as a large metal spatula descended on unseen currents and began slathering grey butter-cream icing all over the top and back of his head—though not even he knew whether the outburst was born from agony or ecstasy. Two large piping bags started to crisscross behind the spatula, dispensing thin lines of dark-blue gel. Other instruments of cake decoration streaked across his cheeks, the center of his left haunch cutie mark, his legs, his ears, his barrel—nothing was spared from the sugary caress. Then tiny tendrils of sucrose sprang from all sides, driving rainbow candles deep into each intersection of the gel lines on Stygian’s caked head.

Bound in congealed food starch, covered from head to hoof in a quantity of confection that would surely take many moons to wash out, and bristling with tiny candles, Stygian let out a low moan—

—Which was heard by the pair of pegasus guards who finally forced the room’s door open and entered, weapons at the ready, eager to aid the poor pony whose otherworldly screams had put the entire embassy on high alert.

Yet they beheld… nothing.

The frosting, the pillars, and everything else that hadn’t been there before Stygian had begun working on the box, was gone. The room was completely empty. It was as if Stygian, or neigh, anypony, had never been there. The two guards exchanged occasional confused looks as they explored the deserted, previously desserted, room.