> Equestrylvania Adventure > by Brony_Fife > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- > Festival of Servants > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- The sky above Manehatten is choked by ash-drab clouds. The protective forcefield dome around her has daubed everything shades of gray, washing out the colors of Manehatten’s architecture. Buildings stand like shattered tombstones, streets silent as cemeteries—not a single living thing stirs in this part of town. The wind releases a lonely sigh, rustling some paper, dragging it across the hammered road, planting it beneath and over debris. Midnight Vigil cranes his neck about. He’d heard the stories from his fellow officers about this part of town—about upper west-side, and how it suffered the worst part of last night’s attack. These neighborhoods. Decimated. The haunted colors marry upper west-side with the image of a ghost town or an ancient ruined civilization—like in many a Daring Do book. Nervously, Vigil scratches at his police uniform as he takes in the ruins around him. Windows smashed. Broken bodies lining the front yards. Thrown out of their own homes like garbage? Suicide? There’s missing chunks of ground here and there. Huge rocks—upon closer inspection, parts of buildings—line the roads. What could have caused that? Down the street from where he stood, an apartment complex had collapsed, looking less like a building and more like a dropped deck of cards. He dreaded what they might find in there. But none of that is why he came here. Vigil came with a mission. Out of his black leather, police-issue saddlebags comes a small, deep maroon cape. A golden emblem of some kind is emblazoned on it. He adjusts his glasses with his hoof as his horn glows, focusing entirely on the cape. “Trace Track,” he whispers. His horn’s light snaps on his command, his vision coloring everything around him in negatives. Almost complete blackness, save for vague shapes outlined with sharp colors. Vigil can make out the faint outlines of the buildings and the debris and the bodies that line the street. But most importantly, he sees them. Tiny, round, bright white marks—the filly’s hoofprints—are all over the maroon cape. Their light pulsates like a soundless heart. Vigil looks about—and there, amidst the dull red outlines of buildings and the intense darkness of a world silenced, are a trail of similar bright white hoofprints, headed thattaway. Vigil puts the cape back into his saddlebags and follows the tracks. His head begins to hum as he follows them into an alley. Her little hooves pounded the street beneath her as she ran from the burning building. The choking scent of smoke and ash was all around her, as well as the wailing sound of sirens in the distance. It was the sirens that stood out the most to her: they sounded more like long, slow screams of agony. She could hear Manehatten scream as she was eaten alive, feel her death rattle. She could hear something else too, behind her: the heavy footfalls of the Creature that had burst through her home—the Creature that had killed ponies with only a twist of its wrist, breaking them with sounds of grapes being crushed. The Creature’s harsh footfalls were accompanied by a groaning gurgle. It might have formed words. Might have. She rounded the corner, hoping the shadows here could lend her some safety. She hid beneath some trash bags just as the Creature entered the alley. She peeked out from under her hiding place, observing him. The Creature’s eyes were damp yellow beads shadowed beneath a grotesquely pronounced forehead, its skin a pale, drowned blue. Its entire shape reminded her of the apes she’d seen at zoos and in books: tall, bipedal, lumbering. Its colossal arms stretched down, down, down—almost scraping against the pavement as it stumbled about, knocking objects over in search of its prey. Its fingers were easily as thick and long as any of her four legs, its palm big enough to dwarf her body. The clothes that clung to its blued flesh were likely pristine at one time, but were now threadbare and filthy. The sounds it made as it searched for her seemed frustrated. It lifted a dumpster like it was a pop can, turning it over and shaking all the garbage out. After all the refuse was spilled onto the ground, it looked up into the dumpster’s empty stomach and scowled at it. Effortlessly, the Creature angrily threw the dumpster further down this alley, where it crashed through a chain-link fence with a sound that made her wince. That… thing… was incredibly strong. Its brethren—equally terrifying monstrosities that defied nature with their very existence—were tearing across all Manehatten, tearing and killing and maiming and devouring their prey. Even from under all the trash, under the sound of sirens—under the sounds of Manehatten’s own screams—she could hear the lives of unfortunate ponies end, their screams joining Manehatten’s. Sounds of death. She heard the Creature shuffle more, knocking other objects over. Tremors traced the ground with every step it took, and every tremor filled her with fear. Cold tears formed under her eyes as she shivered (No, don’t!) and swallowed a scream (He’s gonna find you!) and waited for the Creature to (find you!!) leave. Her mind raced with regrets and incomplete promises, and images that sped by too quickly for her brain to process. She remembered she was with her big sister, who had only just before put her to bed. Where had she gone? Was she safe? Or did the Creature…? She heard the Creature’s giant hand as it descended, felt as it pulled at a trash bag she hid under. One quick lift and it’d see her—one lift and it’d see her and it’d pluck her up and tear her up, starting with her little legs. Suddenly, above all the noise of lives ending and buildings burning and sirens wailing, an ancient voice barked in a language she didn’t understand. She heard the Creature groan lightly, as if disappointed. The trash bag was let go. Small feet pattered clumsily across the alley’s ground, stopping before the Creature. She heard the ancient voice continue to rant, its voice becoming a series of shrill shrieks. She heard one of those tiny feet thump against something solid, then realized the little thing had kicked the Creature. More barking from the new visitor. The Creature made a slow and awful noise, deep and rumbling like a groan in slow-motion. She heard movement. The Creature’s thud-thud-thudding footfalls gradually went away, further down the street, then gone. Without a moment’s hesitation, she leapt from her hiding place and ran as fast as her little legs could take her, through the destroyed chain-link fence and onto another street, the tears in her eyes smearing the murdered Manehatten around her into an unrecognizable mess. Vigil follows the bright, hoof-sized beacons across the blackness. They lead him through a chain-link fence that looks as if something crashed through it—something heavy. He looks further on and sees the yellow outline of a dumpster. The destroyed chain-link fence behind him—the depressions on the warped hull of the dumpster… He gulps and mutters a curse. If that dumpster was thrown, then… No. Best not go there. The hum in Vigil’s head becomes a dull ache. The Trace Tracks spell was always useful to unicorn police officers, and while a very talented magic user, Vigil had little endurance to keep the spell going for long. He cancels his spell, at least for the moment. The negative colors fade back into ashy reality. The dull ache gradually subsides after a minute or so. Vigil takes out a bottle of water and drinks, not realizing until the bottle is to his lips how parched he is. He drinks too greedily, and ends up nearly choking. He brushes his face with his beige hoof as he washes the dust from his mouth. The moment he looks around, he regrets it. In addition to more bodies lining the streets, there is blood. Bodies torn apart. Organs glistening in the grayed sunlight. One poor soul looks as though he were trying to crawl away after getting torn in half… It’s never easy, being a cop in Manehatten. Don’t get it wrong, Manehatten is one of the most beautiful places in all Equestria, but when it comes to crime, it’s one of the biggest hotspots for it in all of Equestria, although places like Los Pegasus and Fillydelphia certainly aren’t too far behind. Vigil had thought he’d prepared himself to see the very worst Equestria could possibly produce. But as the water he’d just drank shot back up and onto the ground before him, Vigil realized how wrong he was. How unprepared. It was just like Detective Heart had told him. It doesn’t matter what you’ve seen up to this point. What matters is what you’re going to see. Vigil stares down as the heat of his vomit drafts upwards, carrying with it the stench of digestive fluids. His breathing becomes hoarse as he almost chuckles. Good grief, what would Detective Heart—much less the rest of the MPD—think if they saw him now? Vigil, who takes his job so seriously, puking at the sight of vicious mutilations? He thinks he might cry, and surprises himself when he doesn’t. Vigil takes a deep breath—then another, and another—until he feels capable of walking again. He gets back up with a groan. He looks around, observing this horrible aftermath. His little moment of weakness hadn’t been seen by anypony else… therefore, it didn’t happen. Vigil casts Trace Tracks upon the hoofprints on the cape again. The white beacons again appear against the negative. He follows. The windows burst as ponies leapt from burning buildings to their deaths, the glass twinkling around them like falling stars. At first, she was so sure they were being tossed from their windows—and likely, some were—but there didn’t seem to be any monsters in the windows after the victims. Suicides. For a strange moment, she envied them—choosing to die instead of letting themselves be killed. There was an odd courage about it. She looked aside and saw what at first looked like Diamond Dogs. That notion dried up as she ran by them, getting a closer look. They couldn’t possibly be Diamond Dogs—their hair was too coarse and oily-black, their faces possessed too lupine a shape, and their eyes glowed in the whispering shadows cast by the fire ravaging the neighborhood. The Not Diamond Dogs tore at a pony who screamed for them to stop, please stop—tearing her apart, piece by piece, taking everything they robbed from her and shoving it greedily into their mouths, devouring her piece by piece right in front of her eyes. It isn’t long before Vigil’s head begins to hum again. He makes a mental note to further his magic training. It’s one thing to be talented, but it’s a lousy excuse for endurance this feeble. He could hear Detective Blue Yonder lecturing him again: Succeed not through talent. Through endurance. Of course, that was when he was still a rookie—and she was still just an officer. But Blue Yonder rarely speaks, and when she does, ponies listen; and in doing so, they usually walk away wiser. He chuckles, shaking away the memory of his old partner. The white beacons lead him past several oddly-shaped statues. As Vigil turns off his spell for a moment, he inhales sharply as the statues come into better focus. He recognizes a few of them: this one is a stallion who’d been arguing with his girlfriend yesterday… that one is an elderly mare who’d asked him which direction it was to get to Southside last week… those two, weren’t they lovers…? Their faces were frozen in various expressions of horror. Had a Cockatrice rampaged through here? Likely. Perhaps even more than one. Vigil’s mind combs through his knowledge of different spells, landing finally on a Soften Stone spell. Created by Clover the Clever—one of Vigil's many personal heroes—to counter a sudden increase of Cockatrice attacks. It was long erroneously believed that a victim of the Cockatrice stare could only be undone if the Cockatrice cancels its own magic, but Clover discovered that the statue-effect gradually fades over time. The spell itself borrows much from Starswirl the Bearded’s time-based magics, fast-forwarding (or more-challengingly, even slightly rewinding) the amount of time on a victim between his current state and his normal state. Vigil focuses. He’d tried this spell before, backfiring once or twice and accidentally aging a pony either forwards or backwards too far. He could still hear Blue Yonder muttering that she wasn't going to change any diapers. Talent, but no experience; talent, but no endurance—talent, but no focus. He focuses. Focus. Age them carefully, only to the point in which the stone effect wears off. Age them not a day after they become flesh once more—age them not a day more. He hears crackling sounds, the usual noise when a Soften Stone spell begins its work. Suddenly, the crackling becomes the sound of breaking. Destruction. Vigil’s eyes snap open—and he is met with a horrible sight. The statues fall apart. The first one’s upper half now lay in six parts around his fallen-forward hindquarters. The elderly mare’s head has twisted right off and splintered into uncountable pieces. The lovers, once tight in each other’s embrace, are now merely a pile of rubble. So many other statues—so many other ponies he’d tried to save… Vigil feels ready to vomit again. His breathing intensifies as his heart claws against his chest, crying to get out. Sweat rolls down his head. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. No! he thinks. No, this is no time to panic. I am an officer of the law. I need... to be... in control... He closes his eyes, counts backwards from ten. Then he reopens his eyes—then closes them again, this time counting backwards from a hundred. He opens his eyes once more after becoming calmer around thirty or so. This is not the work of a Cockatrice. Something else, but what? She turned a corner. A group of fillies huddled together, with looks of terror, frozen. A stallion with broken legs looked up with his foreleg outstretched, as if reaching for someone. A pegasus held onto who might have been his brother, their faces calm, accepting. No monsters were around. No movement. Just these dark, muddy little facsimiles of ponies expressing horror. Statues? Here? She heard a sound, heavy and awful, from nearby. A quick glance in the direction of the sound revealed a long snake tail—and big, as if the snake it belonged to was at least twenty feet long. It quickly slithered into the darkness of an alley, disappearing like a tide crawling away from the shore, the shivering sound of reptile rattle echoing eerily into her ears. She decided to keep running. The little white beacons lead Vigil down the next street. His head whines. He sighs and releases the spell, wondering what horrors he’d see on this street. Surprisingly, nothing. There isn’t even any blood. Deserted like most of the upper west-side, but at the same time, almost a clean job. Even most of the buildings are intact. Despite this innocuous scene… it’s just too damn quiet. A lonely wind. A slow squeak. Vigil snaps his head to attention as his growing headache subsides. A nearby shop-sign—a pawnbroker, by the looks of it—squeaks on its hinges as the wind lazily slaps against it. The pawnbroker’s window is smashed, the interior looted. Of course. Nothing to see here. The next street was worse. More of those shambling apelike things, these wrapped in ancient bandages that seemed to act on their own, twisting and worming and writhing and grabbing ponies nearby, drawing them into the creatures—not eating them like the Not Diamond Dogs, not turning them to stone like the Big Snake, just drawing them into a burning darkness beneath the bandages. A darkness that cut their cries for help silent for good. She screwed her eyes shut and ran breathlessly through this carnage. In this forced darkness, she wondered where her big sister was. Falling angels. Would she have jumped out the window, away from the Creature? Sparkling. Sparkling like falling angels. Was she safe? Dark, muddy little facsimiles. Expressing horror. Was she even alive? Twisting. Worming. Writhing. The sounds around her warped, distorted. Became something she could ignore. She was pressing her eyes shut so hard, she was beginning to see shapes—shapes that sparkled like falling angels. Like the shards of glass that escorted suicides to the concrete below. Falling angels. Vigil’s head begins ringing again, and again he shuts off the spell. The negative gives way to color, to reality. This street looks like it got it worst: destroyed carriages, bodies, blood, debris, plenty of fire damage to various buildings and other structures. Plenty of piles of debris as well, parts of building that must have fallen at least several stories. A set of bloody tracks—Vigil thinks they might belong to a giant wolf—run from a pool of now-dried blood, down the street, then up a wall. He pops an eyebrow inquisitively at the sight. Quite a few black spots on the sidewalks. They fan out from an empty circle in the center. Small explosions? The shock of previous streets has worn on Vigil at this point. Once you’ve seen stone victims fall apart on you, you’ve pretty much seen it all. Then he hears it: a small, small sound. A filly sobbing quietly. Tongues of flame rolled wildly in the mouths of windows. Monsters leapt from above—monsters of bone and wielding knives and swords—crashing down on escaping ponies, cutting them, eviscerating them. A wolf bigger than a carriage bit one stallion unfortunate enough to be in its path, lifting him as he screamed, his hind legs kicking fruitlessly, the wolf chewing him with jaws like a trap and teeth like daggers. This whole street was bathed in blood and fire, awash in screams and agony. Her big sister once told her about a place called Tartarus, a place where bad fillies got sent for disobeying their big sisters. She didn’t believe the whole story of course, but the idea of a place burning eternally, a place where evil ponies are put away forever… This street. This street was Tartarus. She did not know how her tired little legs carried her through all this madness, just that they kept working of their own accord. Her terrified eyes couldn’t close—wouldn’t close. There was no escaping Tartarus. She heard familiar cackling. Familiar groaning. Familiar thud-thud-thudding footfalls. She turned, and there, stepping through the flames as they parted, was the Creature. It turned its damp and listless eyes to her. And then it smiled, rotted teeth twinkling against the light of the flames. Vigil’s ear flicks. He turns his head in the direction of the sound. There’s a trail of blood up ahead leading underneath a pile of debris. More blood had pooled around a small opening, a big brown blotch at the mouth of an igloo built of wreckage. The ghostly sobbing bubbles forth from the debris pile’s mouth. Slowly, step by step, Vigil follows it. He calls out a name. On its shoulder sat the Little Thing that had before unwittingly saved her life, carrying a candle. Its back was large and grotesque, its face puffy and malformed, a tiny ruin of an eye squinting alongside a bulging, pupil-less baseball separated only by a twisted nose. The arm it slung around the Creature’s neck was heavy-looking, meaty; the cow udder at the end of it might have been a hand. The arm holding the candle was thin and sickly, the hand missing two fingers. The Little Thing’s candle spat small fireballs that exploded upon landing on the ground, sending up a plume of flame that popped like fireworks. It threw its head back laughing when a spark would send a hapless pony flying, amused by their screams. As the Creature moved toward her, the Little Thing looked at the Creature suddenly, speaking to it in that confusing language. Was it asking a question? Then the Little Thing turned its head towards her (which must have been difficult, as it lacked a properly-formed neck), and shared the Creature’s grin. She backed away as they both drew near. The Little Thing’s candle spits another ember, glinting as it rockets toward her. The moment she turns to run, she is lifted off her hooves by an explosion just behind her, a loud boom that renders her hearing to a thin whine. Instinctively, she holds out her forelegs, protecting her face, preparing for a rough landing. The pavement below comes up with an impact that threatens to break bones and split flesh. An initial landing gives way to a series of them, as if she is a stone being skipped across a pond: she lands on her forelegs, on her back, on her face, then onto her stomach, rolling, then sliding to a stop. The Little Thing got a real kick out of the sight. It pointed to her as she struggled back up, cackling and talking to the Creature a million miles behind the ringing in her ears. Pulling herself up proved to be a challenge. The scrapes on her little legs were at first remote, then cold. Then swelling into massive, massive pain. Even though her hearing hadn’t returned, she could feel the heavy footfalls of the Creature as it made its way to her. With a sharp gasp, she forced her body forward, crawling away from the Creature. But there wasn’t anything in front of her but shimmering, shadowy shapes—nowhere to run, nowhere to… As fortune had it, with a quick aside glance, she saw it. A whole bed of fallen brick and mortar, a sanctuary of debris with a small mouth. Small enough for her. As the Creature’s heavy footfalls slammed down behind her, closer and closer, she dragged herself to the debris-pile. There was a fast burst of air behind her as she was swallowed by the rubble’s mouth—the Creature had reached for her, and missed. She settled into her hiding spot as she heard the Creature groan. Her heart began to settle, no longer shaking her whole body. The inside of the pile was quiet—quiet enough that she could hear her own hoarse, shaky breath as it slid out of her lungs in heaves. She crawled back, back as far as she could go into this small bubble of sanctuary. Against her better judgment, she turned her head around, looking out the mouth of the rubble. At first there were the Creature’s bare feet. Then knees and a single hand. Then the Creature’s bloated, blue face and cold wet eyes. “Babs?” More sniffling. Cautiously, Vigil stops just before the mouth of the rubble, the browned blood sticking to the bottoms of his boots. There is a sharp stench wafting out from inside the little igloo, its scent invasive and wilting. “Babs Seed,” Vigil calls, “are you in there?” His heart races faster than it needs to. His horn glows as he lifts some of the fallen debris, widening the mouth of the debris-igloo. As much as he doesn’t like the idea of getting blood on his uniform sleeves, Vigil kneels down and looks inside the pile’s mouth. A twisted and playful smile on its face, the Creature reached inside the mouth of the debris pile, its monstrous fingers extending (in her imagination) as long as pony’s tails. She screamed as she backed herself against the irregular wall of her sanctuary, scrambling away from the reaching fingers and the faux-playful smile and the wet, listless eyes. Suddenly, amidst her impending doom, there was a plink. She’d knocked something out of the rubble behind her—and through sheer good luck, it hadn’t caused her sanctuary to collapse. A glance to the sound drew attention to a metal shard that glittered in the darkness, drawing her attention, and courage, to it. Fate had given her a fighting chance. As the Creature’s fingers wrapped around her left hind leg, she grabbed the metal shard in her teeth, turned, and sunk its sharpest end into the Creature’s knuckle. She heard its scream, warbling and wet, shake the entire cavern. The hand refused to let go. She pulled the shard out. Then she sunk it into the back of the Creature’s hand. Then again. And again. And again. She’d cut the Creature’s hand enough times that it decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. The Creature’s attempts to remove its arm only caused its shoulder to be stuck in the pile’s small mouth. The sanctuary’s ceiling rocked, the danger of a cave-in imminent. The Creature continued to scream as she stabbed—and stabbed—and stabbed. The blood that spilled out, staining the sanctuary’s walls and her face and forelegs, was dark but yellowed and oily as vomit. The stench it emitted was even worse. Finally, the Creature’s hand was unrecognizable. Its fingers were in pieces, the thumb hanging on by a single tendon. From its wrist and forearm hung flags of flesh begging to stay on the bone. With a sudden jerk, the Creature finally freed its arm from the debris—and the ceiling fell, the giant rock that housed this sanctuary sinking down, shrinking the open mouth so that maybe a gecko could have squeezed through. The inside of the sanctuary was different, however. While the ceiling had slanted down, there was still air. There was still darkness. There was still safety. As she lay quietly, bloodied shard between her teeth, fingers and pieces of fingers scattered about her, she listened for the Creature to return as its heavy footfalls ran away, its warbling scream of agony piercing into the night. After an hour of waiting, there were sirens. Manehatten’s screams. The little filly curled up and sobbed. Then she fell into a dark and restless sleep. Inside the crawlspace is a little filly matching the description: short reddish-pink mane and tail, brown pelt, green eyes, freckles, kind of on the chubby side. She is curled into a ball, her eyes wide with terror, a shard covered in blood clenched between her teeth, her face caked with a mask of dried blood. All around her is bloodstains, and pieces of flesh and bone. He hears her breathing sharply, hyperventilating, going insane with fear. Vigil had been trained for this. Rescue is part of the job of a police officer. But the sight of this little filly—in light of all the carnage aftermath he’d just seen—breaks his heart. He gives her a reassuring smile as his horn glows, his silvery aura removing the cape from his backpack and moving it toward her. “Babs, your big sister is worried about you. She asked me to find you.” Silence. Babs’ breathing settles. “…S-Sunflower?” “Yes,” Vigil answers softly, producing the cape from before and dangling it from one hoof. “Sunflower Seed. She gave me your cape so I could find you. You remember me, right?” Babs’ green eyes—beautiful, now that the fear is dissipating—sparkle with recognition at the sight of her apartment neighbor. “…Officer Vigil?” “That’s me,” he answers, nodding. “I’m here to rescue you.” He holds out his hoof. She takes it. As Babs is pulled out from the rubble, the real damage begins to show. Her scrapes need tending to, her tail is burned as well as the pelt on her hind legs, she needs a bath, and… She shivers, then sobs, then breaks down as Vigil draws her into his chest. “You’re gonna be okay,” Vigil says as he looks around the damaged streets. “You’re gonna be all right.” Above them, Manehatten's protective forcefield hums quietly. All around them, the lonely grey streets of this lonely grey city stretch and stretch. A little filly clings to to the only solid rock in this ocean of nightmares, and she weeps in sweet relief. > Bestiary Entry (01) > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- Giant Bat First encountered by Simon Belmont in 1691 (Castlevania, 1987) First Appearance: “Bloody Tears” It descended upon me from the darkness above, its leathery wings easily the length of one man each, and swung with enough force to blow a man off his feet. Its mouth hung open and gasped, shrieking loudly. While I found its appearance dreadful, one lash from my whip proved it to be all bluster. However, I have heard stories pertaining to how such monstrous animals have been able to devour whole horses… ~Simon Belmont Dullahan First encountered by Richet Belmont in 1792 (Castlevania: Rondo of Blood, 1993) First Appearance: “Bloody Tears” I’ll never forget the smile on this creature’s face, how it seemed to split its whole head in two. It lacked any kind of teeth, which did more to terrify me, being naught but a curved line of crimson, pulpy flesh. The eyes, too; dark little circles that appear as though they were put in by a pair of fingers that dug into the head. It drifted independent of its body, which lumbered along with a powerful stride and a spear in its hands. I’d only read of its existence. This bringer of death from Ireland called my name that night, fully intent on ending my quest. Curiously, amidst our battle, he scored a near-strike upon me, and loosened my sidebag, which held among other things gold coins. The sight of the coins startled him, forcing him back as if struck by something invisible. This discovery lent me the clear advantage. Even now, years after my retirement as a vampire killer, I always keep gold on my person to some capacity. Just in case. ~Richter Belmont Chronomage First Encountered by Soma Cruz in 2035 (Castlevania: Aria of Sorrow, 2003) First Appearance: “Bloody Tears” (mentioned), “Demon Seed” (appeared) When I saw it, I didn’t see it. It’s hard to explain. It’s like an image you catch right out of the corner of your eye. There for a moment brief enough to catch your attention and make you question your vision at the same time. And just as you think you see it, you’re suddenly somewhere else, as if hurriedly ushered out. I try again and again to get to the end of that hallway, and again and again, I see it and not see it and end up right back out of the hallway. It kept going like this until I finally gave up this silly game. It wouldn’t be until much later, after I’d acquired yet another soul, that I could see it in all its absurdity: a little white rabbit, wearing the clothes of men, carrying a large gold pocket-watch. It was like something out of the Alice stories I’d read as a child. When it noticed I could see it, it grabbed its watch and there was suddenly this loud click… then nothing. It panicked and ran away. I get the strangest premonition I may be seeing it again. Such a thought turns my stomach. ~Soma Cruz Actrise First Encountered by Cornell “The Blue Crescent Moon” in 1844 (Castlevania: Legacy of Darkness, 1999) First Appearance: “Intermission: Out of Time” I think it’s her eyes everyone she meets is going to remember for the rest of their lives. Not the deceptive cadence of her voice, not the gentle and calculated body language, not the curve of her lips when she gives her poisonous smile. Her eyes. I am loathe to admit it, but her eyes remind me of my own mother’s. I fear it is part of her abilities, to charm others against their will, to shape them and bend them into a form that favors her ends. When she and I first crossed paths, there was a shiver across my young spine. The child in me wanted to follow her, to love her. But the survivor in me knew better: she radiated this kind of hatred that could have frozen the world around her if she wanted it so. When she admitted to the murder of a hundred children—with that same gentle smile on her face—I finally realized what level of beastliness she’d reached by the time I met her. I wonder, even after I defeated her, if she ever realized that she was merely Dracula’s pawn, to be used then tossed aside like tissue paper? To use, then throw away—only to be used and thrown away herself, a well-deserved irony. I suppose the same could be said of all Dracula’s creatures… ~Carrie Fernandez > Memories ~ Fluttershy > -------------------------------------------------------------------------- She hears his shuffling hoofsteps just before he comes in, and cocks her head towards the door. The knob turns with a squeak, the door slowly swinging open to reveal his tired cyan face and his shaggy black mane and his thin lips. There is a heaviness in his purple eyes that purloins the serenity from her room. For a few seconds, nothing. No action is taken, not even breathing. Finally, he releases a sigh he’d been holding, and nods. “Follow me,” he says, his baritone stumbling out sleepily from his mouth. She nods. Her animal friends, their tiny faces pursed with worry, observe her as she gets up on all fours, vacating their tea party. She follows him out of the guest room. The halls in this house are dimly lit, but still easily navigated. The air outside is chilly and wet, an audience of dark clouds above producing precipitation that threaten to become freezing rain before much longer. The autumn leaves crunch beneath their hooves loudly, with no birdsong or cricket-chirp to interrupt it. There’s a scent that denotes the outdoors, a mixture of stench and sweetness that tempts one to poke their tongues out to see if the smell has a taste. Their trek takes them past the animal cages, currently covered in tarps. The animals that tenant them, normally happy to have shelter when it’s about to rain, look upon the two with solemn eyes and hunched backs. Their unusual silence implies an uncomfortable expectation—as if they all know something terrible is about to happen, simply because it must. There, at the end of this dirt path, stands the old shed. Its red paint has aged into a dull pink, the wood chipped and warped by years of fickle weather breathing fierce winds of hot and cold upon it. The dark sky above colors the shed ominously, its single window a sinister black eye staring into her soul. She steels herself as they both stop just in front of the shed. There’s a few seconds of silence, interrupted only by the quiet dancing of leaves and whispers of September’s wind. She realizes at some point—perhaps it’s his lowered head staring at the ground or maybe it’s the awkward way he shuffles his hooves—that he is merely thinking over what it is he should say. Finally, he turns around and kneels before her, a mountain going down to look a young sapling in its eyes. He breathes solemnly, that same heavy look in his eyes from before, and slowly, fatherly, brushes a stray strand of her mane from her face. “Okay,” he says in a sturdy tone, “it’s time. You know what to do?” “The neck. And do it quick.” He nods. “That’s, that’s good,” he says, his eyes beginning to water. “That’s my girl. You ready?” She draws in a deep, shaky breath and gulps, but nods. “Yes,” she lies, “I am.” Another pause. He then turns to the shed and opens its door. It opens with a long and ominously muted creak, revealing a darkness penetrated by only a single lightbulb. Perhaps most disturbing is the small dog lying on a pillow under the light. It used to be a strong, sturdy creature not even as far back as one year ago, with a healthy brown coat of fur and deep, happy eyes. The lightbulb sheds its melting light upon the husk of that creature: shivering and scrawny and gnarled and shaggy and blind. Weakly, it lifts its knobby head to look up at the sound of the door opening. The dog warps as an uncomfortable warmth builds in her face and a lump constricts her throat. She breaths deeply, shakily exhales, and with her head held high she trots inside. “I’ll give you five minutes,” he tells her. “After that, if you haven’t done it, I’ll do it myself.” His last four words sound almost like a threat. But the door doesn’t close. She turns slightly, finding her own eyes caught by his. The heaviness in them grows. “All right,” he says after another strange pause, “I’ll leave you to it.” The door closes with a kind of finality that pinches every vein in her body. She looks into eyes that can no longer see her, into a face that cannot bear to smile anymore. He’s been in so much pain. Both student and teacher had done all they could do—except this. They’d done everything they could to avoid this, going from one medicine to another. After all the money spent in pointless treatment, after her teacher became impatient and angry with her, and after many hours of argument, and many more hours of tears, it has come to this. Her next steps forward are quiet and slow, pulling her along reluctantly to the ailing, dying animal lying on the pillow. It looks up at her blankly, its long tail struggling to wag. Her lips, up to now a thin frown, begin to quiver as she stops in front of the dog. “Hello, Alfred,” she greets. Alfred flicks an ear in response—the same way he always does when someone calls him by name. She raises her hoof and, slowly, demurely, she gives him one last petting. The five minutes drain away slowly as she reminisces: about how she’d assisted in his birth, about how she was sad when his mother and siblings were given good homes and he never got that chance, about how much fun it was to run by the meadows with him in tow, how she felt the day they discovered he was already so sick... By the time she reaches the end of their memory lane, her face is damp with tears. The hoof that had been petting Alfred rises to her muzzle, wiping the snot that streams from her nostrils. Finally, she takes one last deep breath. Now she is ready. One hoof goes around Alfred’s face, touching his too-warm, too-dry nose. The other touches the base of his head, where it meets the neck. Despite his continued shaking, Alfred reaches a strange sense of calmness. Peacefulness. As if he’d been expecting this to happen. She gulps. Steels herself. She closes her eyes with a grimace on her face. “I love you,” she whispers. A single sharp movement is followed by the sickening pop of something breaking. Alfred has no time to yelp, to feel anything. His body ceases its shaking, ceases its constant, constant pain. She holds onto his body as he becomes limp. She folds over onto it. He can hear her sobs from outside the shed. It’s not a place he likes taking her, but the animal graveyard—not too far from his house—only takes them a three-minute walk to reach. They’d been here once this week already, a task he’d taken to steel his student for her odious assignment. It was as silent and dotted with grave markers as it was the last time. A murder of crows fly away as they enter its grounds, cackling as they take flight. On his back is the sack that carries Alfred’s body, bobbing and rocking as he weaves through the graveyard. She casts her eyes on the sack, observing it the way she has this whole trip, the lump still in her throat, the dams threatening to burst again at any moment. Up ahead is a hole. It is rectangular and deep and silent. They stop. He sets down the sack and looks to her. “Do you have anything left to say?” “No,” she answers quietly. “I already said it when he could hear me.” She’s no longer looking at the sack, or at anything really. Her eyes focus on nothing, settling on a distant, lonely stare. A single tear rolls down, glittering just as it falls to earth. He nuzzles her. The dams burst. She buries her face into his strong shoulder, her wailing muffled by his body as one sinewy foreleg wraps around her tiny body. She shivers from the force of her own cries, holding tightly to this sturdy rock of a stallion, as waves of sadness crash all around her. It takes a while, but the tides recede eventually, and Alfred is buried swiftly and respectfully. She helps with the lowering of his makeshift coffin into his grave, and she helps cover it with earth. The whole time, the clouds above grow darker and thicker, the precipitation’s threat of rain becoming more real. By the time they finish, the sound of thunder rolls across the grass along with the wind. “We better go back,” he says. The trip back to the house is faster, but the rain still catches them before they make it to the door. Inside, they meet in the kitchen. Now does not feel like a good time to eat, so instead, he warms her some cocoa—and coffee for himself. They sit opposite to one another at the table, steam rising and curling from their cups as the rain batters the old windows. Her entire form is slumped over. The cocoa sits neglected. The lightbulb above cascades upon her pink mane and her teal eyes and on the tears that still dot her butter-yellow face. “…I think I already told you before, Fluttershy,” he says after taking a draw from his coffee, “when you told me you wanted to be trained to raise animals. This isn’t an easy job.” He pauses, letting the last five words sink in. “There are many parts of caring for animals that are going to hurt, at least for a while. But you just need to remember, animals live by nature’s rules like anyone else. They survive by acting on their instincts. And the strongest always win. “We can bend the rules for them a bit—give the runt of the litter a fighting chance or nurse the wounded in an environment safe from its predators.” He swallows. “But in the end, you have to accept that just as everything has a beginning, everything has an ending. The newborns grow into young and soon become old and die. It’s nature. And nature is cruel and futile.” The pause that follows is dreadful. He drowns it with a gulp of coffee. “Doctors put animals to sleep using medicine,” she says quietly. Slowly, she looks up at him. The sadness in her eyes is traded for betrayal. Anger. “Why did you make me do something so barbaric?” There it is. In the last year and a half of training her, she’d already witnessed the death of animals. It’s not the what, it’s the how that bothers her. He can see the anger—the years’ worth of it that had been festering inside her—bubbling just beneath her eyes. He still recalls the first time she’d physically lashed out at him, and how it ended with her with a black eye, lying flat on her back in a mud puddle… and a lot of lies they had to tell her parents. He takes a slow draw from his coffee and just as slowly replaces the cup on the table. He leans forward, scowling as his next words slither out of his mouth. “Last I recall, somepony in this room wanted to keep Alfred alive as long as she possibly could. And because the other pony in this room was dumb enough to humor her, he invested in medicine after medicine that in the long run did nothing. I chose this method for two reasons—the first being that you selfishly wasted my funds to prolong Alfred’s suffering.” She grimaces. He taps the table gently with his hoof, not breaking eye contact. “Second and most important is that this really is something you needed to learn how to do. You’re gonna find yourself in situations where you’re not gonna have that fancy equipment, especially when you’ve only just gotten your license and don’t have the money to afford it. This way’s much more barbaric, sure… but in a lot of cases, it’s the only way. Either that, or just let the poor things keep suffering until the Pale Horse is done taking her sweet time in showing up.” Silence. Her anger fizzles out. The hardness in his eyes and face softens. He puts a hoof on hers. “Fluttershy,” he says quietly, “I’m teaching you what you need to know about animal care. You already know it isn’t easy, and that some of it isn’t pleasant. It’s better you learn this now while you’re small so you can handle it better as an adult.” Fluttershy’s lips tremble as she forces a smile and nods. “I understand.” “Not yet you don’t,” he says with a wry smile as he lifts his coffee to his lips. “But you will, someday.”