Zealousness, Fervor and Righteousness. The words that rang through Anonberich Von Mussberg's very heart and soul. He was a Witch Hunter; a proud and skilled slayer of evil, the unholy, and the profane.
The lands he called home were a dark place. The beasts that stalked them were grim, it's peoples seeped with distrust, roads preyed upon by all manner of foul invention, with nary a sliver of hope hanging in the air. It was tireless, dirty, thankless work -- but Anonberich would have it no other way. For he was a Witch Hunter, proud and true, raised with a steeled will and an iron clasp of morality. It was his duty, his burden, to return hope to their hearths and light to their eyes, no matter how it must be done.
Master-Class in his role, tutored by the famed Witch Hunters of Old, his Tome of evil creatures and the methods to rid of such were vast, his array of weapons and tools easily matching. Crucifix on his belt, cross on his necklace, pistols under his coat and rapier to his belt; it was through Faith, Fire and Silvered Steel that he would always see the brilliant light of the next morning, and the warmth that came with it.
Vicious village-slaughtering beasts, power-hungry cultists and aberrant abominations had met their end at the tip of his silvered rapier, under the black-powdered hail of his pistols, feet dangling from the noose he hung them with.
Which is why is current predicament was... an odd one.
After traversing through a thick, encroaching fog, he'd emerged in a vibrant forest unfamiliar to himself, where he happened upon... small horses of a variety of colors. That could speak.
The stench of fear was thick upon their coats.
They claimed something was terribly amiss in their usual, sunshine world. That villains ran rampant and unchecked, that their royals had gone silent; so they sought to lead him to their little village. The eclipse that hung in the sky above seemed firm, and unwilling to move; each of their little faces staring up at him with a mixture of fear and desperation. Like they were looking to him for hope.
He checked the book, but talking horses were not a profane act in of itself. He stayed his hand, for now. This entire situation would require some thorough, likely invasive investigation.
Though, the book didn't quite seem the same as it used to be... and some of his tools were... different. Translated. Several entries offered new and strange solutions, several items in his repertoire have been replaced, and his crucifix now bears an additional, sun-like ring to its center.
It was clear these were not his lands... and perhaps, in this realm, not the lord as he knows him.
Hrmph. No matter. Trust in the Tome, trusting your Teachings, trust in the Lord, Anonberich Von Mussberg. They will not lead you astray.
Her shimmering-blue shield could only hold out for so long, and that time was quickly dwindling.
Starlight Glimmer, student to the comatose Princess of Friendship, maintained the magic bubble as long as she could, as the light spiraling from her horn formed into the translucent orb that surrounded herself, and the others. Weary from effort and worry well worn on her face, she glances back and forth in panic. The dense fog roils around the edges of her vision, obscuring the distance between the trees.
They were deep in the Everfree. It was a gamble, and it had utterly backfired on them.
Princess Twilight, in a desperate move following the Princesses failure to return her letters, had tried to rebuff the Eclipse that loomed over Equestria by desperate force, lacking other options. The kick-back from trying to move both celestial bodies sent her body, and magic, into shock. Now, she remained indoors in the Castle of Friendship, being watched over by Rarity.
Canterlot had gone silent, the roads between grown dangerous. Shadow-creatures prowled the edges of Ponyville, forcing Ponies to remain indoors, and several of the Elements had already fallen to other issues, like Flutterbat's return and Applejacks attempts to keep her from devouring their main food source. Their options were dwindling, fast.
So, Starlight and Spike made a plan to brave the Everfree, in hopes that Zecora might know of a cure to get Twilight awake again; or at least, help diagnose the issue. Idle hooves would be the end of them, was a point they both agreed on. Once they hit the edge of town, they realized they were being followed; an intrepid Apple Bloom was tired of sitting around, and demanded she be allowed to come along, having snuck out from the Castle after them when Rarity wasn't looking. (She'd been sent to stay with them, during the ongoing Flutterbat incident.) A little too late to send her away, and acknowledging her relationship with Zecora, they agreed.
Though, their gamble might have actually been their end, instead.
Timber Wolves, larger than a Pony and born of gnarled dark wood, their glowing eye-holes billowing an unusual, nightmarish darkness; prowling and circling around the weakening bubble. They would claw and gnaw at it, Starlight flinching, before resuming their growling and pacing. They knew it just as well as the occupants trapped inside; this bubble would not hold. The fog sifts and swirls between the trees, disturbed by the Timber Wolves steps and hops, as if waiting for the inevitable carnage.
Spike leans over Apple Bloom, trying to help staunch the crimson liquid that pours from the claw-mark on her thigh, Apple Bloom stifling back tears. She's trying so hard to be a tough filly, but the marks run deep. "S-Spike? Ah'm s-sorry, ah shouldn't have come."
"Starlight, we need to do something!" Spike exclaims, glancing back towards her, worry written all over his face.
"I know, Spike, I know! I'm thinking!" She snaps back.
Starlight purses her lips, trying to think of their options. They were closer to Zecora than they were Ponyville... but Starlight didn't know if they could find their path in this dense fog. She wasn't nearly as familiar with the Everfree as the others... but now Apple Bloom got hurt. Buck, Starlight, think. Think! Think, you bucking idiot, you got them into this mess!
The magic in her horn starts to sputter, her concentration waning. She'd had to work it up on the fly, and she hasn't been at her best for a while now. She's getting tired, and the Timber Wolves can tell; the bubble wavers, losing its sheen and getting thinner.
She shares a worried glance with Spike. He's looking to her for reassurance -- but she's not Twilight. She's lead before, sure, but never... good, like she did. Maybe... she can make the bubble burst and throw the Timber Wolves back for a moment; buy Spike enough time to grab Apple Bloom and... there's no way he could carry her fast enough.
She shoves a particularly nasty thought of leaving Apple Bloom deep down, her guilt swelling at even considering such.
Oh Celestia, there was no way they were all getting out of this. She shouldn't have tried to preserve her magic and just teleported them.
One of the Timber Wolves ears twitch, and growls quietly to the other. Their encircling is closing in, getting tighter.
One of them won't stop clawing at the border of the shield, leaving marks against it. An ill sign she wouldn't hold out much longer.
Panic and a drumming heart are deeply set in Starlight's chest. She needs to do something, anything, fast.
A guilty look slowly settles towards Spike and Apple Bloom, her next few breaths trembling.
This blasted fog, heavy and wet, was impudent. Invasive. Oppressive. It's very presence made Anonberich's lip curl in disgust. No doubt, the defensive blanket that shields some vile action, performed unseen from prying eyes.
His thick leather boots crunch through the underbrush and the mud. This forest... he had heard whispers of a foul presence from the locals. Bordering one of the nearby villages, there had been rumors of hunters going missing. This was affirmed when he found their remains; and the culprit, only a few meters into its depths.
Hounds born of bark, with sap-like blood, and an all-consuming appetite for something that could never fill it's not-existent belly. It was promptly returned to the roots of the forest through boot-heel and silvered hatchet, but it's very presence disturbed Anonberich; as did the wisp of darkened smoke that uttered from its agape, deceased mouth, which promptly departed deeper into the woods. Deeper in the growing fog.
Ents, Leshen, Wendigos, Dryads -- all creatures borne of nature. Yet... knelt over this 'beasts' remains, there was little to show any relevance to previous encounters. The book told him nothing. This was new.
New was bad, Anonberich found to often be the case.
He ruminates on a course of action, as his shovel meets muddy ground; a proper burial for the deceased, guarded from further evils by a blessing from the Lord. Such was a common preventative against Undead measures.
Obviously, investigation was mandatory. Urgency, was necessary. Such a situation could not go tolerated.
A meaningful prayer, and a pair of sticks to serve as a cross to the fallen.
Nerves steeled and Righteous fury brimming, threatening to boil; Anonberich trudges deeper into the awaiting gloom, the twisting and curling gnarled branches of the grim canopy swallowing the light; so he offers his own, striking a torch alight and holding it aloft.
He isn't sure how long he travels for, but something is deeply amiss.
This forest feels... odd. Wrong. Incorrect. It prevails itself as normal, but its trees bear cruel faces; sproutings of far-too-colorful flowers sit tantalizingly to the side, as if to beckon. It's as if someone with a child's grasp of evil was tasked with planting a most vile woods.
At some point, it feels as if he has passed... through something. Anonberich checks himself, his gear -- nothing is amiss... mostly. He himself feels fine, but it was as if he walked through a vertical, invisible film of water, with none of the wetness; no matter how many steps back he takes, he cannot recreate the sensation. His gear... his most holy, most devout selection of weapons against the vile, the profane, the aberrantly abhorrent, appears... altered.
His crucifix, a solid hunk of the finest blessed gold, now bears a hollow sun-like symbolization.
Odd. Time to check the book.
...The book is changed. It now bears some... Equestrian Horse-Like symbol on its front, embossed on the cover. Some of these entries are altered. Not all of them, but a fair amount. There are new ones as well, scrawled upon some of the deeper, yet-to-be-written (or were yet to be written) parchments.
The newest texts were in a language he could not understand.
Or they were.
A dull pulse aches the back of his head, forcing him to squint, to reel. A hand roams to his skull, hissing loudly.
And then it is gone.
Anonberich's hand flies to his sheathed blade, staring through the fog for an aggressor.
...He finds none.
Scowl firmly beset on his face, cautiously, he looks to the book again, worrying it to be compromised by foul intent. Instead, he finds the passages... legible.
"Timber... Wolf." Anonberich mutters. Wolves were no more, it seemed, according to his newly altered book; the entry, originally pertaining to the Grey Wolves of his home and the details about them, their Dire-variants, behaviors... all the information was changed. Lead by a Timberwolf King, apparently, forged of nothing more than logs, sticks and branches, homed only to the Everfree Forest.
Perhaps some intrinsic Fey-work was at play. Druids? It was becoming clear enough this was no longer the same neck of woods he had entered previously; treading carefully would be paramount.
He wastes no further time, the book slamming shut, returned to its holding within the depths of his bag. Something was afoot, and he--
He pauses, glaring out the corner of his eye, peering from beneath the brim of his hat.
One of the nearby trees lurches slowly, its trunk groaning as its bark creaks, one of its branches looming towards him. A prompt wave of his torch in its direction has it thinking twice, and it leans away, emitting a low groan.
"...Haste wouldst suffice." Anonberich mutters.
Zecora
Zecora coughs, groaning softly, bedridden. Her sickness has a deep grasp on her, and there's little she can do for it but try to suffer quietly. The spots that speckled her fur overwrote her stripes, and even now, parts of her were slowly hardening; even a branch was beginning to grow from her head, to her displeasure.
Her tree-home is quiet, cauldron still and unused, her shelves awkwardly bare. She dare not put on any lights, darkness thick in her home, lest she draw the corrupted beasts that lurk in the woods. It had never been this bad; and it was the Everfree. It got pretty bad, sometimes.
She planned to remain quiet, and stay hidden. Hopefully, this would come to pass; the Ponies were eager to tackle the problems that loomed in these lands. Yet, the Eclipse refused to fade, day and night locked in an unnatural state.
Zecora hadn't been able to make her usual harvests in weeks. Eventually, she was forced to risk trekking outside of her abode for supplies. Her usual route was rife with misery, beasts with shadowy eyes and sharp-toothed snarls. In an attempt to escape them, she took an unusual shortcut, a path she had not taken in a while. She slipped on unsure footing, and plunged into the swamp; while she evaded her pursuers, it seems she settled for a long-term end, rather than a short one.
She was thirsty, but the strength to rise from her bed had long left her. She was hungry, but she had eaten what little she had days ago. Silently, tearfully, Zecora had pleaded, cried for help, but none of the Ponies ever came.
Now, she was tired, waiting for the end.
The quiet of her home was disturbed by crunching. Hoofsteps? Something was walking around her Tree-House, circling it. For a moment, she worried it was a curious beast... but the worry faded, perhaps the grim blessing of a quicker end.
That too, faded, when she realized that whatever it was, was holding a torch. Braving the Everfree, displaying itself with a beacon of light, and undeterred by the threats that lurked in these darkened times.
The flickering flame pauses outside her window, as it lowers, reaching the same level; she squints, as the orange glow illuminates its holder.
She has never seen a creature like such, but... it wears clothes. Thick, sturdy clothes, likely meant for protection, embellished with metal. This was not a creature of the wilds.
Anonberich
Anonberich was surprised, to have found some form of an abode nestled in this seedy, grim woods. Though judging by the outsides lack of care, overgrown grass and general dismay, it was not one well maintained. No lights; no flames, nothing. It was quiet.
A witches den, perhaps? Or a local druids hideaway. A bandit hole. No, unlikely to host vagrants; hopefully, it either currently held the resident responsible for the ailing woes that seeped through this region, or would soon. He could lay a trap in waiting for it.
Circling it, there seemed little he directly recognized; but the merit, he did. Numerous jars, some filled, some empty, hung from branches. Letterings and well-made minor crafts; wards. Witchcraft, of a sort, but the presence of tonics foretold either Witch, or Alchemist. The lack of any minor gardens or attempts to meticulously grow specific plants foretold of one more in tune with nature. Likely, a Witch; of the Natural, or the Voodoo kind, if the masks were anything to go by.
He pauses beside one, hung on the trunk. A very... elongated face. Equine, almost, like a horse. There was the Horse-Based imagery again, like what now emblazoned his Witch-Hunting Book.
Anonberich leans down, peering through the window. No curtains, no no blinds, just sticks to support it. Torch held close, he peers inside to the equal darkness.
A quiet cough alerts him that the home isn't as empty as he had presumed, his other hand quietly resting on the grip of ones of his pistols, under his coat. He is tense; but, Anonberich is equally curious. That cough sounded... ill. Sick.
"Wouldst thou be responsible for the ailments of those who reside beside these woods?" He calls out.
There's another quiet cough, as the occupant tries to clear their throat. They're tucked away in an alcove, in what looks to be a bed. The angle of it hampers the light, making it hard to see.
"...No, the fault lies not with... me." It rasps out.
Anonberich's hand falls from the pistol. This individual was likely on their deathbed.
"Thou art but another victim?" He calls out again; a little softer, with less accusation.
"I -" It tries to speak, but hacks heavily. Did... bubbles, just float from it? " -- Apologies, I am... deeply ill. I recommend you steer clear, lest you..." It trails off, running out of breath.
"Plague is not a foreign concept to me." Anonberich retorts, reaching into his bag. He produces a thick rag, tying it around his mouth, covering his nose before rising to his feet.
Zecora
Zecora can only watch as the creature rises, leaving the view from her window; and rattles the door. She didn't want them to enter; it was far too late, and the Swamp Fever still bore no known cure, evading her knowledge. But any words of warning are met with ears that do not listen, Zecora cursing its foolishness, and her lacking strength to do anything about it.
Or, she would; her opinion changes drastically as the creature enters, ducking through her doorway.
It's massive, easily taller than two Zebras with one stood on the other. It isn't just dressed, either. It's heavily armed, and prepared, numerous weapons and tools quietly rustling beneath its coat. Multiple tonics and pouches speckle the belt across its waist, and the belt that runs across its chest, over its shoulder. A wide-brim hat sits atop its head, and a thick coat surrounds it. Every part of it, minus the eyes, is covered. She's curious how it can even be comfortable.
Once inside, it shuts the door behind itself. It has to take a hunched position to move through her hut, but it places the torch it bore carefully on a sconce by the door, glancing around.
"Be you Alchemist, or Witch?" It asks, running a hoof over the lip of her cauldron... no, she isn't sure what that is. It's like Spikes claw, but encased in a glove, and appears far more dexterous.
"...Shaman." She answers simply; it's all she can muster. Speaking, even so little, has taken much of her dwindling energy. She is tired, and her rhymes... she can hardly manage speaking at all.
Eventually, it reaches the side of her bed. Even hunched, it towers over her, staring down with piercing eyes, far smaller than any Ponies; but seemingly so much deeper. It's scanning her, looking her over; even with the rest of its face covered, she can see the confusion twist its eyes.
Zecora watches as it produces a book from its bag, flipping it open.
"...What, and who, art thou?" It asks. Slightly amused even amidst the pain, Zecora finds it speaks oddly similarly to a very blue, very melancholic pony, who holds her own local holiday.
Or, did.
Zecora holds a weak chuckle, reminded of the Ponies of Ponyville when they first laid eye on her, the distrust. She glances up, searching his eyes.
They're piercing, and stare back at her. She feels... judged. This is a creature of conviction.
"A Zebra. I am... Zecora." She manages.
It waits a moment, before it flips through several pages, holding the book closer to itself.
"...So thou ist. Strange. A... striped horse. But, bereft of thou usual scale." It mumbles to itself. She isn't sure what a horse is, but it's clear this stranger, is also strange.
"What ails thou?" It asks after a pause, glancing from the book again. It leans down slightly, inspecting her. It seems particularly interested in the stick-like protrusion currently growing from her; the first branch of many.
"Swamp... fever. No... pony knows the cure. My end... I am sure." She wheezes, slightly surprised with herself. She managed a rhyme. Though, it may very well be her last.
"...Pony?" It mumbles, flipping through more pages, though he expected to find little. The Book pertained primarily to entities of the unholy matter, not diseases or their ilk. "The Book speaks little of thy illness. Very well; let us begin." It states, slamming the book shut, and tucking it away.
"Hmm...? What are..." Zecora starts to mumble; she watches as the creature produces a small vial, pouring it onto its gloves, and rubbing it in. Then, it promptly leans down, and carefully grasps her face. She is long past having the energy to resist, forced to relent to its touch.
Anonberich
A Zebra. Anonberich had never heard of such, but it displayed some similarity to horses... if the hooves were anything to go by. But, it was no breed of horse he knew of. Nor, did he ever hear of horses that could talk; nor had he met one.
But, seemingly, now he had. As odd a creature as it was... it was ill. Sick. And Anonberich had found nary a single connection from this abode, or this creature, to the troubles that drew him here. Which, as duty beheld him; meant he was to assist.
Plague and Illness were hardly new topics for him, familiar with the sicknesses that would sweep villages, used to tracking their causes, easing their symptoms.
First, identification. The creature groans in displeasure as he handles it, but it's hardly in a situation to argue. It seems to recognize fairly quickly his intent.
"Swamp... fever." He mutters to himself, as his thumbs and fingers slowly work over the creatures fur, ensuring he keep his face a safe distance -- especially from the odd bubbles it seemed to cough. He opens its mouth, holding open its lips, checking its teeth. They were taking a bark-like appearance, as well. Hrm.
Spots speckled its fur, likely irritations of the skin, considering how they interacted with the stripes. Far along, he assumed, by the... tree branch, growing from its skull. Dryadic or Druidic curses or magics to form one to a 'Natural' state were uncommon... but, didn't seem to be the case here.
So, likely an illness. Something contracted through interaction, introduced to the bodily systems. An infection that slowly turned one into a tree... and without a cure. Well, the creature clearly didn't have time to lay about as a test subject. He'd need a brute force option, instead.
Sanitizing his hands again from his trusty vial, which contained a concoction of disinfectants, he muses over his tonics. The ones he kept readily available, were those orientated to combat, or requiring quick application. Instead, he dives into the pouches of his bag, rummaging. He had some general cures and salves, speckled between different forms of invasive illness, and a few specific remedies, like resisting petrification. Something more general would likely, at least, ease the creatures suffering.
...This would suffice, Anonberich muses, producing a small vial. A deep, orange-red viscous liquid swirls inside of it. Hardly known for its taste, this was a rather potent curative that heavily swept the system, purging it of most foreign objects. Good for hard-to-diagnose situations or general uses, though a touch pricy, brewed with a mixture of ogre blood, Teep-Weed, and Spin-Cap mushrooms. Ogre blood was the key ingredient; incredibly unpleasant, but the Ogres natural resilience made for a potent ingredient that would often override other additions effects. Troll Blood, or Flesh, was even better for curative properties, but required heavy downsides to combat it, lest the Trolls regeneration become a poison to the ingested. Bad for Potions, great for Curatives, once the impurities were counteracted by the Teep-Weed and Spin-Caps, both minor medical herbs.
Zecora
Zecora, finally released from the creatures grasp, watches quietly as it shuts its book, and rummages through its bag. She doesn't recognize the cover... but her attention is torn to the vial held close to her, the cork promptly removed.
It's a thick, honey-like liquid, the way it moves in the vial. A mixture of orange, swirled in red, and rich in color.
"Drink." It commands.
...Zecora hesitates. How would this creature hold the cure to an illness that held no cure, when it didn't even know what a Zebra was? Or... perhaps that is exactly why it knew.
The energy and will to argue had long left her, the corners of her vision dark. She had only two options. Give in, and... become a tree, inside her own treehome.
Or, hold to that sliver of hope, that this... happenstance of a stranger upon her home, and unto her, would truly help her. It didn't seem ill-meaning... if a little forceful.
The vial is held closer. "Art thou too weak to hold such?" It asks surprisingly softly.
Zecora tries to lift her hooves, to take the vial -- but a bout of coughing, bubbles included, racks her core. The creature flinches back with surprising speed.
It doesn't wait this time. Zecora finds her mouth grasped by its limb, its 'claws' (for lack of a better term, as they're surprisingly blunt) holding her mouth open. Before she can so much as protest a noise, the liquid is forced into her mouth, and her lips held shut.
"Its taste will be trying. Resist the temptation to upend your innards." It warns. "Steel thyself for the pain. It will cure thy body, by force."
Her eyes bulge as it hits her throat -- it's vile. It burns. It hurts. She wants to scream, but he has her mouth firmly latched shut in a scarily tight grip, and refuses to let go.
Anonberich
With his other hand, Anonberich holds the 'Zebra' down, pinned against the bed as it twists and contorts, its cries of pain muffled by the hand that holds its snout firmly shut.
This type of tonic never went down well. But, if the reaction was this bad, then his assessment was correct, and it was a significantly deadly illness, or very far along. Which meant it had much of the body to work through, and much to quell. It would be excruciating.
Over several minutes, a firm grit held to his expression, Anonberich holds the writhing creature down as tears pour down its face, flailing. Slowly, the spots begin to fade, the bark-like spots on its skin, and the branch growing on its head, dries out and falls to the floor.
Finally, it ceases, panting heavily, sweating. It looks upward, distantly.
Only then does Anonberich remove his hands from its maw and its chest, reaching to his belt.
Zecora
Zecora's body was numb, soaked in sweat. Over her lifetime, she had used and brewed innumerable concoctions, potions, tonics, brews -- and nothing she had tasted before was this potent. This... foul. The idea of just what was used to make it worried her. Or, it would, if she could form a proper thought.
That was agony. The pain brought a spur of energy, and now, she was drained, pinned to her own bed by a stranger.
That had offered her a cure.
She tenses, watching out of the corner of her eye as it reaches for something else, holding it out to her. She flinches back instinctively.
It's...
"Water." It states simply, as if aware of her dubiousness to whatever else he might try to shove into her. A waterskin.
Her grip is poor, but eventually, she gets a grasp on it, eager to drink -- it's cool, it's refreshing, a vital liquid she had been sorely missing.
Anonberich
Anonberich watches as the creature downs most of his waterskin. Well, that was its purpose, after all. He would boil more, later. Surely this creature knew where an untainted body of water may lie, if it survived long enough to make itself a home here.
It's gasping for breath after chugging. He takes the waterskin back, sealing the cap.
"Wouldst I be correct in thee assumption thou hath not eaten?" He follows up.
Slowly, the Zebra nods.
Turning to sit, he leans his back against the frame of the bed, setting his bag beside himself, and producing one of his dried, road-ready rations, unwrapping the string that keeps the parchment closed.
Inside, was a mixture of foods meant to supply him with the necessities to keep him travelling comfortably on the road. Salted pork, a jar of pottage, a few slices of cheese, half a loaf, grilled leeks and carrots, and a helping of beans.
...From what he remembers, most of this should be edible to a horse. He, unfortunately, preferred traveling by foot. In his line of work, Horses were more akin to... a meal, for the evils he hunted. Well, not the pork.
Shifting in his seating, he helps position the Zebra into a... he isn't sure they should quite be able to sit like this, but 'Zecora' assures him it is comfortable, before laying most of the ration out in front of her. He sinks back down to the floor, unwrapping the rag from around himself, tucking it away, and taking a bite of the pork.
Zecora, understandably, is quick to eat. She carefully inspects each thing placed in front of her, often taking a testing nibble before promptly devouring it. Bedridden for some time, he assumed... and with none to care for her.
Eventually, roughly halfway through the meal, she slows, looking towards what Anonberich is eating.
"...If it would not be rude of me to inquire, what is it that your mouth seems to desire?" Zecora asks. It's tone is quiet and voice raspy, but seemingly already sounding much better -- but now speaking in rhyme. He hadn't seen anything about that in the Zebra section... but, she said she was a Shaman. Perhaps it's related to that, since that tonic is bereft of side-effects.
"This? Pork." He answers simply.
He can see her tilt her head slightly, confused.
"The salted remains of swine. Pig. Butchered, and processed." Anonberich clarifies.
A pensive look seems to take the Zebra, looking him over again with more cautious eyes.
"Ist that statement beheld to strangeness here?" He asks, watching himself be... observed.
Eventually the Zebra seems to settle; his choice of food had hardly been an issue before. Usually, it was the creatures that he sought whose choice of meals were the problem. "...To most, but... your diet is not a marker of your attitude; your kindness has already revealed to me your aptitude. Though, while I find it harder for you to be any more kind, a softer touch, I would not mind."
"...Hmph. As thou say. I will assure thee, I've no interest in tasting thou, if that is thy worry." Anonberich retorts. "Is thy rhyming a... Shamanistic aspect?"
"One could say it is quite so, though you are hardly one to judge, no?" Zecora turns it back to him, working at one of the carrots.
"I fail to follow." Anonberich chews, noting Zecora's gaze leaving him as he does.
"Never mind; perhaps in the future, the reasoning, you will find." Zecora relents, turning back to the meal.
He had numerous questions of course, but they could wait until the creature had regained some of its strength. There was no language barrier, thankfully - Anonberich was curious if that skull-pulsing sensation was the reason behind it - but he didn't want to push her just yet.
Instead, he rests, gathering his own thoughts for the moment.
Eventually, the Zebra has finished most of the meal, Anonberich bundles the remains of it back up, storing it away. Waste not, want not.
And already, its eyelids begin to droop, its breathing getting heavy. Actual, proper rest that was not at the expense of its health was sorely needed.
"Find rest, Zecora. I shalt purvey the surroundings in the meantime." Anonberich assures, patting the bed.
The Zebra seems torn, but, eventually relents, sinking into its bedding -- with what little energy that had returned to it, likely spent suffering through the tonic.
In moments, its chest rises and falls in peaceful slumber, likely the first in a while. It likely had little choice in the matter, dragged to sleep by the simple fact of how draining surviving such that had occured.
An odd creature. This land forebode oddity. This would be unlike most of his hunts, if the few entries he skimmed would prove true.
Quietly, Anonberich rises, slinking his pack over his shoulder again, plucking the flickering torch from its sconce.
The zebra snores softly, tucked under its blankets.
Anonberich huffs to himself, shutting the door as he leaves. That was not a cheap brew he offered... when it woke, he hoped it would provide an ample summary of the local flora and fauna. He would need to discover substitutions to his likely to dwindle stock.
His boots crunch forward, intent on purveying his surroundings while the zebra, this Zecora, rested.
It's only partially alarming how quickly the little striped creature's abode slips away into the dense shadows, the selected path threatening to swallow him whole in this murky, swirling fog. The surrounding woods were equal in the grim and greyness they exuded. This was no place for true, good life.
It seemed whatever was lurking in the shadows was intent on remaining nearby for the foreseeable future... unfortunate. Eyes, glowing and furrowed, followed him from the deepest shadows all while glaring at the flickering flames of his torch, kept away by it's threatening embers. Evil was deeply saturated in this forest, its claws gripped in tightly. The source would need to be expunged, and likely in a brutal fashion.
Anonberich crosses a bend, slowly rounding a large cliff-face from the bottom, staring upwards. Until he could learn the significance of the local flora, or found the time to experiment within a neutral setting, he gave it all a wide berth. Especially the very bright, blue flowers that sat in coiled bunches. Something about how bright they were in contrast... alarmed him.
The path pitters out here. He'd likely need to cut the long way around the cliff... it was a sizable berth. It would take some time. He's about to shift his pack, and push onwards and around, when his ear catches something.
He could hear something, distant, far, muffled. Coming from above, atop the cliffs. More of those wood-wolf creatures barking. Normally, one would best avoid... but if something roused the latent evil in these woods, and were willing to lead Anonberich right to them... Anonberich doubted they made such noises for little reason. A swift and total crushing was in order.
Resolute in his new choice of action, Anonberich let's his stare wander upward, along the cliffs and rocks. Foothold. Places to hammer in a support. It may take some time, but...
His brow furrows, as his ear picks out... a yell, between the barking and snarling, ever so muffled. So quiet, so distant.
His gaze upon the cliffs alters, now driven by urgency; slowly it rounds the surface of the cliff. What parts of it he can see through the fog, anyhow. A slant, steep incline. It takes a few moments to select the part of it that lacks it's steepest nature... an awkward, craggy break in its surface is soon found, nestled between the larger rocks, offering numerous holds and cracks. He could climb this, if he was careful.
He stifles his torch, the fog growling as the flames dissipate, moving quick.
Starlight, Spike, Apple Bloom
It had spared them moments, but not nearly enough -- a fresh streak of leaking crimson carved across her side, splitting her cutie mark.
Starlight overloaded her shield with the remnants of her magic, bursting it like a bubble; the shockwave sent the Timber Wolves flying, buying them precious seconds.
At the cost of a throbbing pain that now coursed through her skull, her horn bearing a new crack. The tip was darkened with strain, akin to a bruise -- and she did her best to stifle the searing pain that saturated her side as she freely bled. Starlight hoped, and prayed, that Zecora had some bandages.
But... she deserved it. For the horrid thoughts that she had when considering her options.
How she considered leaving Spike and Apple Bloom to save herself.
That was how she used to think -- only for herself. But she was Princess Twilight's student now. Starlight could only imagine Twilight's disappointment if she found out her hesitation. She had to be better. This was pain she deserved for even considering it.
Apple Bloom is slumped over Starlight's back, gasping for pained breath. Spike was running beside her, trying his best to make sure she doesn't fall off. The trio dart through the Everfree, desperately dodging trees, roots, bushes -- and the lingering, roaming shadows that whispers and crawled from the fog.
The Timber Wolves were not far behind them. They could hear their growls and howls, claws tearing through the dirt as they gained on them. Roots were torn up, bushes ripped apart, the trunks of trees used to launch off of. They were gaining, and quickly. "S-starlight! They're getting closer! What do we do?!" Spike yells, watching behind them with fear.
A last ditch gamble to get to Zecora's. If they couldn't, they would die. "Starlight?!" Spike begs, now looking to her.
Another guilty thought, buried deep. He's a child, Starlight -- why did you bring him?! He acts mature, sure, but he's basically a foal, like Apple Bloom. You should have expected this... you dragged two foals to the woods to be devoured by Timber Wolves, Starlight.
Starlight's lungs are on fire, the pain from her injury, the stress from overusing her magic, the weight of Apple Bloom... the corners of her vision darken, her throat raw as it gasps for more air. It's too much.
Up ahead and closing fast, the trees start to thin, their oppressive branches that loom and leer getting thinner. An opening? A clearing? Starlight begged Celestia that it was something, anything that would offer them a chance, a gap to get distance. To catch their breath. Anything.
They burst from the tree line, panic wrenching on their faces as they come sliding to a stop. It's a cliff. A harsh, steep drop by near a hundred hooves.
Starlight feels a pit drop in her stomach. If she hadn't been burning out on her magic so harshly, trying to find Trixie, she'd have enough. To just teleport them, or float them down now. Or Tartarus, just to have done it from the start.
But this is nothing but a drop to another section of the woods. She can't even see Zecora's from here... the fog sweeps and looms, coating the canopy and making distinction impossible. Even Spike's face falters, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.
They turn slowly, back to the tree line as their pursuers emerge. Snarling, sap dribbling from their barky teeth, blood still fresh upon their wooden claws. Slowly, six of these creatures emerge from the fog, the woods, spreading in a cautiously confident semi-circle, growling and chuffing to each-other. Likely the only reason they hadn't been rushed, is their assumption Starlight still had some of her magic, and that she might try to pull something.
Starlight and Spike finally share a mutually worried look -- and a pang of guilt settles in her chest as Spike sees just how burnt out and at the end of her wits she truly is.
He presses against her side, wrapping his small claws around her and Apple Bloom, sniffling.
The Timber Wolves are closing in, sharpened paws rending the loose grass as they near. Merely hooves away and closing, their glowing eyes betwixt with shadowy vapor.
"I'm sorry, Spike... this is my fault. I shouldn't have brought you." Starlight manages, her words nearly getting caught in her throat as her own emotions finally rise, the hopelessness settling. They could... jump. Would that be swifter? Kinder? An end she could condemn Apple Bloom to?
"No, Starlight! I chose this too. We'll... figure something out, right? There's always an option. Always a way." Spike retorts fruitlessly, his brave words meaning little when she can feel him trembling and shaking against her.
Apple Bloom holds Starlight's back tight, hooves wrapped around her underbelly as the filly clings firmly.
The Timber Wolves close in further. If Starlight had any magic left, she would have used it by now. They know it.
"I'm so sorry, Spike. I... I wish I..." Starlight trails off, choking softly, closing her eyes. She's too scared to walk backwards, to take that one step. Her eyes shut, bracing for their teeth, their claws... would her body save Apple Bloom, if Starlight fell first? Would Zecora find her?
Oh, Trixie. Where did you go?
...
"Starlight?" She can hear Spike whisper.
She slowly opens one of her eyes, glancing to him.
The Wolves are... still. Their backs are hunched, and they've paused, growling. That isn't the sound of a confident hunter. That's...
"Starlight. What is that?" Spike asks, gently pressing her side, pointing behind them. At the cliff?
Starlight turns, unsure of what could possibly...
That's a hat.
No, there's a creature, half-hanging off the cliffs. It's pulling itself up from over the lip of the edge, grasping the very rock itself as it climbs.
Anonberich Von Mussberg
His fingers find little issue surmising cracks and holds in the surprisingly soft stone, pushing upward with each new step and foothold he takes. At least on this rockface, the eyes that watched from the shadows were distant and below, the branches that offered them disguise now distant. For the first time since entering this forest, he felt alone, sat exposed on the side of this cliff. A gentle breeze, an open sky...
Now, no longer contained under the harsh canopy, what ails this world is clear. Hanging from the cliff, Anonberich spares himself a distant, skyward stare. An Eclipse, of sorts. It does not harshen the eyes when stared upon, but fills his chest with... cold. Magic was at work here, so deeply seeded into this land that the very functions of the world were twisted and altered. He would sorely need answers; the book could only offer so many.
This feeling of being alone, and secure on this cliff, was not a sentiment that Anonberich let himself slip into. To allow himself a false sense of safety would be a folly. Gritting his teeth, he faces the cliff again. Something capable of flight could just as easily emerge, or any manner of ill surprises. Anonberich doubted that Zebras would be the strangest thing he finds. He stays cautious, and ready.
Another foothold, another lift, as he pushes onward to grant himself another few feet upwards. A slow process, but caution was proving useful. Falling would quickly mean his death, or an injury that would leave him victim to the creatures prowling these woods. As much as he would have liked to prepare a proper anchoring, established a rope... this was not the time for it. Something was occuring.
The voices were getting closer the higher he got. They sounded near the cliff -- and not alone, if the barking and growls that equally grew louder were anything to go by.
They sounded worried, panicked. More of these Zebras? Already?
While the one... Zecora, had mentally braced him for oddity, Anonberich was truthfully unprepared for what lay atop it's climb, starting to heave himself up its lip. One hand flings up and over, digging into the grass for friction as he lifts himself.
Three very colorful creatures are the first things to greet his eyes. Two matched the entry for 'Ponies' he'd skimmed earlier while looking for 'Zebras', one a significant amount of purple with a blue streak cutting through its hair, the other smaller, yellow and red. Both lacked the markings the Zebra held, but were similar in stature, being Waist-height creatures. Also unlike the Zebra, one bore a strange marking upon its rear, though the yellow one that sat on the others back was small. A child? Both were injured and freely bled from their sides. The third creature was... some kind of stunted baby wyvern? Anonberich recognized draconian features, but was entirely unfamiliar with such an oddly shaped thing, the way it stood on it's back legs.
Past them, and their wide-eyed, surprised stares -- and likely the culprits for their injuries -- were a recently familiar, notably hostile sight. What looked to be the rest of the pack of those strange wooded wolves, like the one he had put down on the villages edge.
Slowly, the three creatures of a profanity bright color turn to watch him, eyes glued to him as they stand frozen. They mutter between each other in a hushed, worried tone, the Wolf-like creatures behind them spreading out to size him up.
No matter. His concern was the vileness behind these 'Pony' things, crawling from the depths of the forests darkness. Those and their intent, he was familiar with. The way that shadows wished from their glowing eyes... such was unnatural for a druidic creature, and the natural form was their entire focus. There was but one solution.
One of cold, forged steel.
Starlight, Spike, Apple Bloom
Starlight had never seen, nor heard of a creature like this. For a moment, what little room left she has emotionally fills with a new, tense dread -- but her familiarity with particular individuals with a habit for dressing oddly has her pick up on something. This creature definitely was not of the Everfree, not the way it was geared.
It scales onto the cliff alongside them, forcing them to decide between being right beside this new unknown, or inch closer towards the Timber Wolves.
It's... tall. Towers over them. But it's gaze, hidden under the wide brim of a hat... it stares only at the Timber Wolves.
Spike, sweet Spike, tries to put himself between it and Starlight, holding his arms out.
It glances down at him, and huffs quietly in placid interest.
The biped unclasps a worn, sturdy pack made of odd materials from itself, and drops it at their hooves. It's heavy, and rattles with...
Starlight's eyes widen. Tonics, potions, bandages, salves, surgical tools, vials, rags... as well as weapons of steel, a bedroll, a waterskin...
Starlight barely has a chance to glance up from the sudden supplies, and it's already stepping directly over them. In a single stride, with legs longer than their body, Starlight and Spike flinch down as it vaults them, and puts itself between themselves, and the Timber Wolves. It messes with it's gloves, before pulling a sap-stained hatchet from its belt.
It lowers its stance, holding the axe aloft. The other limb, holds outward, nubbed claws like Spikes poised to grab. The Timber Wolves snarl, challenged by the recently arrived element to the situation.
"Starlight, is he a friend?" Spike asks with confusion, looking to her for answers.
Only, Starlight has no answers. Only questions. She's breathing heavily, trying to focus. Carefully, they lower Apple Bloom off of Starlight's back and down onto the grass, huddled together as they try to inspect the fillies injury.
Starlight grimaces, teeth grit. She had a loose idea of medicine, but... well, her overreliance on magic was biting her in the flank right now. A worried glance at Spike spurs him.
"Oh! Uh... Twilight had me read some first-aid books! Mostly for paper cuts, but I remember most of it. First, we need to... clean it, and then stop the bleeding." Spike quickly explains, looking to the bag dropped in front of them.
There's a lot of stuff. It's quickly overwhelming.
"Spike, reading about --"
There's a snarl, followed by a disgusting thud of wet wood being split, cutting the growl short. A thud, and distant, upset noises.
Spike is looking past her, eyes wide, lip trembling. Starlight reaches out, pulling his attention back to her. "Spike. Focus. I need... I need your help."
Spike snaps out of it, nodding quickly. "Right. We... take some bandages, and --"
"Dab, do not wipe, thy wounds clean with fresh bandage, and discard thee bloodied materials. A most pungent green salve in thee round jar. Tis a curative; smear upon thy injuries, and wrap tightly." The creature suddenly cuts in, between measured, calm breaths, startling them both.
Starlight grants herself a quick look behind herself, the same view she denied Spike -- the creature is still squaring off with the other Timber Wolves, the sixth laid still under its... hoof? The twisted shadows are gone from it's eyes, and it slowly crumbles into loose twigs and chunks of bark. A slow wisp of darkness seeps from it, twisting into the fog.
Apple Blooms strained breath pulls her back. "Spike. Find the salve." She quickly instructs, fighting through and ignoring her own pain. She barely knew what was going on, and a pounding headache pulsed through her head from her horn... but they had been spared a moment thanks to this creature, and couldn't afford to waste it.
Spike starts rummaging through the pack, pulling out what they need. There are several tonics, vials and salves jammed inside, carefully organized and cushioned. They vary in color, viscosity and size... Spike freezes as he finds a particular pouch.
"Spike, the salve. Spike...?" Starlight mumbles.
Spike snaps out of it, quickly finding the green salve. He pops the cap with some struggle, and a powerful, herby smell punches the air.
Another snarl. This time, a delay... a pair of thuds. A sickening flurry of sap-spilling crunches can be heard, as Starlight swears she just got splattered by some. But she keeps her focus on Apple Bloom, and instructs Spike to do the same.
Starlight keeps Apple Bloom distracted, as the brave little filly does her best to put on a strong face despite the tears that wet her cheeks. Apple Bloom is barely aware of her surroundings, breath shallow.
It's a morbid rhythm, neither step pleasant. Each time they progress in handling one of their injuries -- Apple Bloom's cut on her flank, and the laceration along Starlight's side -- another dull, sickening thud. Or the sappy, gooey crack of bark, or a snarl or bark, cut short into a muted whimper.
Apple Bloom is bandaged reasonably, for the moment. And as Spike aids Starlight, wrapping fresh coverings around her body, Spike's eyes suddenly widen. "Duck!" He shouts, grabbing Starlight -- they both flinch downwards, as the snarling, writhing shape of a Timber Wolf soars over their heads, nearly taking them both off with it before bouncing off the edge of the cliff. It's howl is long, winded, and grows quiet as it falls.
There's a delayed, distant crunch as it hits the fogged ground deep below. Starlight's head snaps back towards the forest line, and the strange creature.
It's hatchet and limbs are soaked in dripping sap, but looks none the worse for wear. As far as she knew, it used no magic. It physically took on a pack of half a dozen Timber Wolves... and now it's rubbing the dribbling, bloodlike substitute off of its weapon, and itself.
Anonberich
These Wooden Wolves were a problem, and a nuisance all in one. Their 'King' as the book claims, was likely the issue here. But... the depiction lacked whatever was occurring to their eyes. Holding the damaged head of a now limp Timber-Wolf, Anonberich watches as darkness slowly seeps out of its eyes, that glowed but moments prior. It ebbs back towards the forest, merging with the shadows.
Something had likely usurped their natural structure, and uses them.
He stands, wiping the hatchet on the side of his cloak, ogling the three small, colorful creatures from under the brim of his moonlit hat.
Anonberich considers demanding their names... but they look as panicked as the Zebra he'd found not long ago, staring at him with trembling, fearful eyes.
In need. It seemed many of the denizens of this strange land were.
They're burdened with injury, the little scaled one still places itself between them. Admirable.
The biggest one of them, which is about the size of the Zebra, meaning up to his waist, is an off-purple color and bleeding heavily from the flank. Claw marks rake its side, dribbling crimson. Seems they bleed like people, and speak like people. And compared to things that bleed tree-sap... things that bleed blood may be the only friends he has here.
The smallest is a bright yellow, with a very similar injury. Though on it's smaller frame, the effect is far more devastating, reaching from leg to midsection. The way these things are colored... is that Aposematism? Do the Wolves not bite them because they're poisonous to consume? Do Wooden Wolves even need to eat?
No matter, not the time or the place. He held no intention of eating them, and their wounds were still open. Either they lacked the usual medical fair, which shouldn't be right -- the Zebra has tonics and potions as well -- or they lack the basic understanding themselves.
"Unversed in Medicine?" Anonberich prompts, watching them flinch as he speaks. Perhaps his height was an issue? He kneels down, knee to the grassy ground of this cliff. "Those are significant injuries. Tending must be made a swift priority, especially on thy child."
"O-oh, no, she's not mine. Well, that kind of sounds worse now that I say that out loud, but... we had a good reason. I swear." The purple one speaks. She's nervous, but pushes through her fear.
"Relation matters little to the blood seeping from her side. If thou lacks the means, I shalt assist. Lay, and hold still. Little scaled one -- fetch them sticks to bite. This shalt not be painless."
"I won't let you hurt them!" The little dragonoid rebuffs, throwing its equally little arms out.
"Then there is no issue, for such is not my intent. If thou has no desire for my aid, perhaps the Zebra may assist. Though she is..." Anonberich hums, scratching his chin. She may still be resting...
"W-What did you do to Zecora?" The purple one shouts, pushing itself to a widened stance -- though it takes noticable effort.
"Cured her of... 'Swamp Fever', if I've thee name correct."
"What? That's not possible. There's no cure! You couldn't have."
"To remain accurate, I did not. I brute-forced the symptoms with a tonic born of far harsher ingredients, that would wrest the Fevers place in thee body, but leave much more desired side-effects." Anonberich explains, tucking the hatchet back into his belt.
"You... really?"
"Thee little one needs help."
"Who are you? Why are you here?"
"Anonberich Von Mussberg. In the simplest of terms, I hunt evil. Help is also within my means, but not if we remain idle."
The larger pony, and the little scaled one, share a nervous look.
They finally turn to Anonberich, and tentatively nod.
Anonberich, Starlight Glimmer, Apple Bloom, Spike
The littlest one is Apple Bloom. A child, who accompanied them without warning. Her injuries are severe... but the Timber Wolves do not utilize a poison or anything of that worrying caliber on their claws. She should recover.
Anonberich cleans out her injuries, wrapping well over half the little thing in bandages.
Next is the bigger one. Starlight Glimmer, as she introduces herself, is a Unicorn and student to a Twilight Sparkle. Her injury isn't great either, having ripped deep into flesh, and will need proper stitching. For the moment, however, cleaning and a firm bandage. This was hardly the place.
And finally, her friend, Spike. He is, in fact, a Dragon... but a juvenile. Uninjured but tired, and tormented by what has been witnessed. Anonberich doesn't blame the little creature, but keeps an eye on it.
"Ponyville, our home... it's entirely overrun." She says, watching Anonberich work. He's tying a rope around Apple Bloom, and tugging at it.
"Monsters?" Anonberich questions.
"...Ponies. Twisted and turned." Starlight states somberly.
"I see. And thou left to seek aid for thy cause? From thee Zebra"
"Yes, with Zecora. She's a Shaman in these woods, but from what you said... well, the Everfree was already dangerous. Now it is far, far more so. I'm just glad she's alive..." Starlight sighs, holding her head in her hooves. She's clearly exhausted, the horn on her head looking... burnt.
"Princess Twilight is in a Coma, from trying to solve this Eclipse. It's the work of Nightmare Moon." Spike explains.
Anonberich's gaze casts upward again, squinting at the time-locked solarity.
"...Save thee rest for later. We're to return to Zecora's home, and recoup. By what thee say, this 'Ponyville' is hardly a place of safety." Anonberich hazards -- before tying Apple Bloom around his torso, strapped to his chest. A soft, warm little creature that leans into him, mumbling.
...Hm. Anonberich tugs at his coat, covering more of it.
"I... wait, do you want to go back down the cliffs?"
"I do. Ist this problematic?" Anonberich questions.
"I don't... my magic. It's limited. I've used too much of it." Starlight sighs. She's... tired. Celestia, she's so tired. And yet, she had to do more. "Spike..."
"I can find my own way down, don't worry about it! We'll figure something out for you, okay Starlight?" Spike prompts, trying to remain some level of confident. It unfortunately doesn't seem to spread easily.
Magic. Anonberich isn't unfamiliar with the term... but a further explanation at a better time would be demanded.
Starlight watches as Anonberich ties a long length of rope around one of the less-scary looking cliffside trees, tugging it taut and giving it a few testing pulls.
She then yelps as Anonberich picks her up, holding her against himself, other arm wrapped in the rope.
Spike's eyes are wide as he walks backwards off the cliff, swinging downward. "Starlight!" Spike shouts, running to the edge.
They're barely a foot below the lip, Anonberich's feet pressed again the cliff-face. "Thou said thine can get down yourself? Climb down after me. We've much to discuss at thee Zebra's." He states simply, starting to rappel downwards.
Starlight clings for dear life, no magic to cushion her fall, grasped in the tight arm of a stranger. Apple Bloom rocks back and forth on the edges of consciousness, mumbling. Spike quickly scrambles to the rope, trying to figure out how to scale it.
The impromptu group are quick to move, mostly because Anonberich won't remain idle, quickly taking the forested path back to the shamans.
