Dear Reasonable Story.

I have come to believe in the course of this investigation that this is definitely a story that may save our paper. It has upper-class intrigue, insanity, corruption of youth by the highest of powers, and the ever present lure of finally showing the common masses of sheep (as much as I hate racist terminology in metaphor you know it’s accurate) that this society isn’t as harmonious as the propaganda claims.

Due to the nature and location of this investigation, which as you know (or I hope you know… maybe they’ve been editing my words again to keep you out of the loop) is in the upper districts particularly around the school. In order for me to properly stake out and understand this story I request a pay-raise to cover the overtime which I’m putting in just getting here each day.

I wish I could talk further, but they’re always watching and seeking to undermine our efforts to find out the truth.

Sincerely,

Screwy Words

Dear Mr. Words,

First and foremost, if our paper wasn’t in the position to become a subsidiary of The Daily, we would actually be able to raise your funds for your misguided interests ‘investigation’, but as it stands you’re aware that (or I pray for your job that you at least feign awareness) we can barely keep the press going at this rate. If you desire to afford your, investigation as you call it, get a second job.

Secondly, your anti-government positions, while previously valuable to showcasing issues of corruption and investigating the nobility with relentless enthusiasm, is clearly clouding your ability as an unbiased reporter on this case. I would suggest a vacation if the Union didn’t mandate that it would have to be something we’d have to pay you for.

Finally, please be aware that this is the final warning before we start marking you for your non-friendly speech towards the fine sheep of the land, and the relentless accusations of their fine and many qualities being something that you can feel free to slander.

-Head Supervisor of “Equine Inquirer”: Reasonable story

Post-Script: Your investigation is hanging by a thread, if you mess up our reputation as a paper, again, I will see to it that your reputation in the industry is forever tarnished. The only thing you’ll be writing for is the bathroom stall in the homeless shelter.

Journal Entry #0457

By the time I made it to the home of the most corrupted youth it was well past the foal’s bedtime... well it should’ve been. I guess corruption of the soul also breaks a kid of their fear of curfew. I expected to find one Master Ostoba at the location, but I wasn’t to have that sort of luck last night.

I suppose that while I remember it clearly now, it will be lost in time unless I actually write down what I think is one of the biggest leads yet.

The home was what one could expect from a family with both a lawmaker and soldier as the heads of the estate, completely orderly and not a sign of any of the discontent surely beneath the surface, what little decoration was in the corners of the fine-kept lawns, simple statuary and a small garden were the only signs that ponies lived here that had passions beyond blindly marching to the state’s commands.

The ramp to the door was made of damn oak; it’s strange what one will remember in times of a mindset such as curiosity. A single knock was all it took for the door to swing open and be greeted with the visage of a smiling mare. I’m still curious if that smile was an optical illusion of sorts, the teeth she showed were too many for me to be comfortable with, I felt like a predator was excited and ready to swallow its newfound prey whole. Her rapid gestures to come in and repeated assurances that everything would be safe did little to curtail my attitudes, once a slave in the service of murder for the state always a servant of death to those who would oppose it. Ignoring my mind’s warning signals I walked into the hallway ordained with paintings of lawmakers past and present. The things I do to gain insight to what is hidden from the sheep.

The wheelchair supporting her wounded legs had one of those silly purple gift bags hanging off of one side. The goddamn scent that was defining this investigation wafted from it. That alone told me that despite her disabilities she was still drafted to serve in the plots of the higher machinations.

She slowly trotted past door after door, frequently looking behind herself and giving a small, I guess maternal is the best word, smile at the continuous revelation that the strange stallion in her house at the dead of night was still trailing her down a hallway.

I don’t know how many right turns we took, but it caused me to suspect that the home was more like it’s owners than I thought possible. The internal confusion was probably intentional on part of the architect, make it more difficult for somepony unfamiliar with the layout to get lost and be easily neutralized should they have ill intent, but it seemed poetic enough that it could’ve been just another aspect of the universe’s innumerable warning signs for those going where they should recognize no magic will assist them should they need it.

We eventually made it through the maze to a door that after some inspection and knocking by the mare seemed to fit her standards. She opened it slowly, stuck her head in, and made the clicks for her errant child, when nothing happened she opened it fully and lit the lights and did her odd gesturing for me to enter.

The study was stereotypical of a wealthy household; the books on the shelves could’ve been untouched for generations. Plush brown chairs were in various locations, all wide enough to support lounging relaxation and reading. Low hanging lights to aid with reading, the white-red light softly glowing with the force of stored magic coursing through their artificial metallic veins. There was a foal’s block or two lying around, and the heavy desk had to deal with the defilement its current user forced upon it one stuffed animal at a time until it just became a glorified shelf.

Madam Ostoba was scrutinizing my wandering eyes, but remained relatively stationary before making small coughing noises to get my attention. Her motions for me to sit down in the chair by her side were rewarded with me choosing one facing her occupied with a stuffed fish, she had me where she wanted, but I was going to do my best to make her understand I was there under my freewill and control. She didn’t care much for my disobedience, but at least the only demand I had to put up with was to take my fat ass off the plush fish (or ‘Mr. Current’ as she called him) and give it to her. Her controlling nature was probably from the military, but being an unemployed servant of higher machinations could mean that she was open to lashing out in what little ways she could.

Her opening line to the conversation was “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you”, which after my quick glance at the door was met with a giggle and the lie that “The big meanies out there won’t take you away”. She was a mare who knew how to take advantage of me for a lark, and knew that she could get away with it.

All my questions to her were met with silence until I asked her what I’d have to do to make her talk; her response was to tell me that I’d have to play a game first. Given that my only alternatives were to walk out and get lost in the maze, or to ask my questions to a mare who would respond with either clicking or silence I took her up on her offer. I don’t want to write about what the ‘game’ entailed, nor do I need to, I’m certain that the depravity of the acts will haunt me for the rest of my life, and if they don’t then having them written down will just open up the possibility of reintroducing memories better forgotten.

Although she tried to convince me that my reluctance and revulsion were unfounded because her foals all love this game, it just served to open my eyes to the more base nature of the corrupting influences throughout the kingdom, possibly the entirety of what lies underneath the sun. The garrison of plush on the desk was fully scattered around the study by the end of it and served as a reminder throughout the remainder of the visit of my weakness and desperation for some sort of answer.

After the interview I was offered to stay until breakfast was served, I chose to wash my hooves of the affair and declined on the basis of having a job to get to. With a look of resignation she gave me the bag that has been hanging on her wheelchair since I first arrived and told me that it would hopefully help me out on accomplishing my investigation. The kiss she gave me on the cheek just left me feeling ill.

When I got home the immediate concern was a desire for sleep, but the bag was supposedly my next objective, and with a possibility of the truth hanging from my teeth I knew there were higher priorities than sleep. The most worrying thing was the name tag, namely that my name was written in the ‘To:’ section, the ‘From:’ was left blank. In the bag was a bottle which had the aforementioned scent, a few white instruments of containment and control, and a book.

The book, titled ‘De Rerum Pedestria’, had a note attached, warning of potential knowledge that could hurt my ‘widdle’ head, but it also mentioned that it wasn’t the watered-down modern rip-off… I decided to store the book in my home safe. The other objects of corrupting influence were tossed into the trash for disposal. If this tome was somehow dangerous, it might be best to find the ‘watered-down’ version first. At least now I know the form through which the higher machinations have chosen to deliver their evil through. I don’t know if this was her final remnants of free-will trying to help me unravel this situation, or if I was just falling for a trap and about to become just another cog in this conspiracy, but I felt like the truth was near. The rising sun was for once not a symbol of the Celestial powers of the state, but rather a sign that the gauntlet was thrown.

Me: You’re a sick b****, but I did what you wanted, all of it, an-

Her: You were creative with Mr. Current, such a clever boy at your age, Mama’s proud of you.

Me: Can we get to me asking the questions rather than you demanding actions?

Her: rolls her eyes I don’t know.

Me: Why are you doing this? What’s the end goal?

Her: Doing what?

Me: Engaging in actions that are blatantly immoral, having your son act in ways no foal should ever act, and doing things for the government without thinking of the repercussions of said actions.

Her: Young stallion, I just do what all the foals of the world want me to do and teach them a bit of self-sufficiency, I can’t be there do to it for them everywhere and all the time. And what’s this about the government? You’re too young to worry about such things.

Me: Are you seriously insinuating that all foals, even those too young to know the seasons, desire sexual relations with adults?

Her: Honey, of course it’s true, everypony who has ever been a foal knows it, and you proved it yourself.

Me: Those bastards…

Her: LANGUAGE!

Me: They took it all from you didn’t they? Your legs, your self-confidence, your youth, your control, your ability, your self-respect, and your clarity of mind. And wouldn’t you know it? Your foal’s innocence is a small price to pay for them. They don’t even care about the brave mare deep down in there, they only care about the sacrifices you’ve made, you’re making, and with your ability to function as a good loyal servant completely gone, pretty soon they’ll find a way for you to make your final one.

Her: You’re far too young to be worrying about me hun, I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but mama will keep you safe while you’re here, that’s a promise.

Me: They, the higher machinations as I call them in my notes, already have you. You’re just a mentally degenerate foal fiddler now thanks to them, but can you answer a final question. Why? To what end do you think this activity with foals would accomplish? Provided, hypothetically, that it was immensely unhealthy, immoral, and illegal to do so.

Her: Pondering silence for five minutes You have some imagination, if only I was your age again I might be able to keep up with you. But, if it were those things, the only reason I can come up with would be to hurt them somehow, and keep them hurt. Sorry for giving you a sad answer.

Me: It’s fine; at least enough of you is left in there to confirm one of my suspicions. In fact, if anything that gives me something to work with in concrete detail. Out of curiosity where’s your son?

Her: Oh, my husband is out running a few errands with him.

Me: At this hour?

Her: The boys have a lot to get done.

Me: It’s 0400, Do you think your husband is trying to keep your son safe from somepo- something?

Her: Well, he’ll always be looking out for him. As long as I get my mother-son days and pick him up from school I can be sure that he’s fine and growing up into a fine stallion.

Me: Thanks for answering my questions.

Her: Would you like to stay for breakfast?

Me: Sadly, I think I have to get to work, and it sounds like there’s quite a bit that needs to be done.

Journal Entry #0458

I’m writing this from the library, out of a desire to express my frustration at something is the best explanation I can come up with. The book’s so called ‘modern version’ is out of stock, the higher machinations either corrupted Celestia herself with this disease or the book club is but one of many lies. The latter preferable, the former would be unsurprising. Putting a book, which leads a mare to commit unholy and lustful acts on her own foal, onto a list of public recommendation by the widely adored puppet-ruler of the state was one of the few acts that I thought the higher machinations were above. Certainly it being just a watered-down version isn’t something that improves the situation. Celestia, the friendly felt puppet for the sheep to bow to and enjoy the pretty flow of her mane, is also one of the individuals who I hoped would one day cut the strings and reveal that she is but a marionette. I clearly had too much faith in her, one of the ones who knew true loss on a grand level might feel that being a completely empty shell for the higher machinations to use as a front would be better than taking a stand and losing everything from the life of luxury to the divine status. Maybe she’s always been a but a tool for the higher machinations, wouldn’t be surprising, but then the question then becomes,

WHAT DID THEY SEE IN CORRUPTING THEIR MOST POWERFUL ASSET????

Lemon Blunderbuss: Calling the final petitioner, Screwy Words, to the Throne Room.

Mr. Words, Cream unicorn with an unkempt gray mane enters, and doesn’t bow before her royal highness, even after given explicit instructions to do so.

HRH: May I ask what brings you here today Mr. Words?

Words: It is to my… und-understanding that you promoted a book recently, correct?

Her royal highness laughs

HRH: My little pony, you could ask me that any day and I’d answer yes. Reading is one of the most important activities my subjects can engage in, a good novel can open the mind’s ability to imagine, and even a seed catalog can give the farmers of the land an idea that they wouldn’t have had otherwise; promoting higher yields and food stocks. With your name I’d take a friendly wager that you already were aware of that however.

Words: Did you promote a work titled ‘De Rerum Pedestria’?

Sir Blunderbuss and Sir Rapier leave their assigned positions and near the current petitioner, Mr. Words notices and edges forward towards the throne.

Words: If the state is this insecure in its book promotion, then it needs to get a better critic.

Her Royal Highness smiles and motions for the guards to edge back, Sir Blunderbuss and Sir Rapier comply but appear to be letting their professionalism slip.

HRH: Do you know what that book is my little pony?

Words: Given your repeated use of the phrase ‘little’ it might be fair to say that you’re familiar with it thoroughly. No, I don’t know what it is beyond being the mechanism ye sic are using to corrupt the innocent and pure.

Sir Blunderbuss and Sir Rapier are gritting their teeth at this point; their armament is visibly close to being readied.

HRH: Ponies engaging in what they desire is hardly the worst thing imaginable, I do indeed care about all my little ponies, and that also includes those in more undesirable trades. The topics of the book would help revitalize certain industries and it was also partially on the basis of removing the old illegal, but similarly titled book, from public memory once and for all.

Mr. Words: And tell me, on what basis was the old book illegal?

HRH: It was indecent, promoted unspeakable crimes, and undermined the establishments of society. It was prohibited because the fear and uncertainty it caused, along with the toolset it gave to those willing to use it. More important things than myself, such as the wellbeing and health of the population, demanded that it be removed from print once and for all. Higher machinations than concern over a book brought you here today Mr. Words, would you care to explain what you’re really here for?

Mr. Words: I don’t see how promoting a book with watered-down content and the same title will do anything to prevent the same issues from reoccurring.

HRH: The things in the original that would harm society and the so-called education it offered was removed, and the entire book rewritten to have a less offensive rhetoric. By promoting, an admittedly scandalous, work the entirety of the stock of the old book that was a danger to the regime would be replaced with something more suitable, if distasteful, to society. Are you certain that’s everything Mr. Words?

Mr.Words: I got what I needed, thank you for your assistance, or what little you have the ability to give me.

Journal Entry #0459

Celestia was more than willing to tell me what I needed to know, too bad she couldn’t say too much. Supposedly the two versions were different, but one the higher machinations deemed a threat and the other was deemed as an acceptable alternative. If the higher machinations were willing to allow Celestia herself to be humiliated in order to remove something from public memory, and flood the market with ‘non-threatening’ versions, it meant that they actually saw the original as the so-called manticore in the bed.

The differences between the two would be the key to finding some of the weaknesses and fears of the higher machinations, something to use to fight, and something to use to allow ponies of all creeds the ability to have true control over their lives.

Granted, I still have no clue how a book about abusing foals in such a way is something that would be viewed as such a threat to the systems in place, but given that the modern edition doesn’t sound too far removed in that respect, the foal abuse is probably just the pre-text for the cover-up. What actually was covered up is a damn mystery until it becomes my turn to have the book loaned out to me.

Journal Entry #0460

I don’t understand, once I managed to get a proper copy it was just full of sexual activities directed towards consenting adults, rather than the supposed content of the old one being much the same but with the caveat of the focusing on youths. Are the higher machinations actually bucking fearful of innocence being taken away? While it fall in line with their ‘harmonious’ propaganda and agenda, it undercuts their actual actions. Part of me thinks that they’re actually being honest in this effort to keep society together and harmonious… but this could have been done in so many ways other than getting the Celestia-Damned Celestial Princess Celestia to sacrifice dignity and the projection of purity through promoting of something so bucking deviant.

There has to be something here… somewhere, am I too dense?

Or is it so simple that the higher machinations just… just warped our moralities to assume that anything anti-higher machination is inherently bad or evil? I regret to say that further investigation is required.

Journal Entry #0461

I requested further involvement with Madam Ostoba, as she, while lost to the corruption, is the only one involved in this damned state of affairs that even remotely comprehends what this means. What this entails and what I can even do to combat it. I knew that I had to drag those damn corruptive influences out of the bin, they were bucking key to this affair, even if thus far all I’ve seen of them was their inevitable end result behind the home where Twilight was under control, and the scent in the damn chicks section of that poor school being repurposed to serve vile ends. She required them previously, and I thought that in order to get anywhere I’d have to reengage in that perversion of sane existence and order she called ‘playtime’. Maybe I should’ve thought that it was already too late, but hope is a funny poison, it keeps you going even if cutting it short would prevent you from being destroyed and hung, your corpse being a future example to those who pressed on due to their hope and naivety that things might actually turn out in their favor.

The walk this time wasn’t punctuated by anything, the moonlit sky hanging still with nopony below to enjoy in the splendors of the dancing stars. They clearly thought that I wasn’t worth bothering with, maybe they’re right, but at least Lore gets a break from all of this madness. That tea-slurper deserves it for following my old rump around.

Chateau Ostoba was slightly more unkempt than the last time I came, or at least I was noticing the cracks in the walls and weeds in the lawn of the once noble home. I suppose the same could be said about the home’s matriarch waiting at the front ramp leading to her home, her greasy coat and messy mane smelling strongly with only faint traces of the corruptive influences.

She looked at me with the wet and haunted eyes, before failing in her attempt at smiling while weakly holding open the door. No talking, no looking back at me, just slowly walking and winding through the maze of hallways to our destination. She kept her head down the entire trip, seeming to be more focused on the patterns of dust on the floors rather than moving forward.

The study itself was actually cleaner than the last time I was there, granted the ‘playtime’ involved did damage and likely stained a few pieces of furniture and the surrounding floor. The stuffed animals were solely on the desk, with the chairs repaired and all the books dusted, shelved, and organized.

I didn’t expect her hug, she was damper and more acrid than most mares who saw fit to hug me, but I needed to persevere. Her lunacy was thus far non-hostile, just uniquely capable of ruining the lives and souls of those who she gets engaged with. She also had more knowledge, or at least I think she had more knowledge, than what I did, and if our previous encounter was any indication she wasn’t entirely under the sway of the higher machinations, more of her was bucked up by those darker carnal desires.

She asked me if I brought back the book, the answer of course was a yes. She asked me if I read any of it, and I answered in the inverse. She looked like she was disappointed in me, but then she perked up a little and asked if I wanted it read to me. I agreed, mostly because she likely had a built up immunity to whatever effect the book has on the reader. I should’ve seen her request for me to put on the corruptive articles as soon as she made offer, but this isn’t exactly a field of expertise for me and I pray it never becomes one. Sitting on the floor in front of her was better than the other alternatives offered.

She started reading from the cover, which resulted in my hearing to the title twice over, along with some interesting information such as it being printed thirty years ago by ‘The Fallen Press’ in Fillydelphia on the initial cover… the author wasn’t mentioned anywhere beyond the foreword mentioning that it’s an older tome with disputed authorship, more likely due to opponents of the ponies listed as potential authors putting forth claims in order to slander their reputations rather than a pony even thinking of claiming to have had a hoof in the construction of the unholy tome.

The tome itself seemed to be written in nine sections containing various subsections equivalent to lessons or small teachings to a so called ‘disciple’, presumably the reader unless the work was dictated to an extremely diligent note-taker learning of these crimes. She only read the first two sections to me during this meeting, wanting me to “try to be big enough to read the rest of it” myself. The two sections were oddly and poorly prosed, but they seemed to have a bizarre message to them that worries me greatly and provides additional insight into why the higher machinations might have seen it fit to be marked for censorship and destruction.

The meeting was cut shorter than it should’ve been by Madam Ostoba looking at the clock and muttering about the coming sunrise, seemingly anxious or worried. She stopped ‘story-time’ and apologized for “not having enough together time to change [me] or [my] ways”, another damp hug and I was sent on my way into the outside world and the approaching dawn.

This book, it may be more than I thought it initially was…

Section 2:1

The true and eternal power,

Old as it may be,

Lies in the innocent flowers.

Initial terror is but the precursor,

For the methods of harnessing these energies,

are not seen by the amateur as the foal’s liberator.

The truth dear disciple,

Is much simpler than what those above tell you,

Their sweet innocent forms are archetypal.

Before the great catastrophe and the sundering,

We were all similar, innocent, pure,

And looked at the eternally twilight skies eyes wide and wondering.

The ascension and creation of the heavenly spheres

Lead naught to anything as promised,

But rather gave left us nothing but mortality and fear.

Those who are young remain true,

For they have yet to be here long enough to lose the raw power

Given to all ponies, but only remains in those who are young and new.

Journal Entry #0462

It’s a tract of thought I had before, or one similar enough anyways. It’s common among those who have only base ideas of the higher machinations to blame the Princesses as being secretly or openly tyrannical and manipulative of the ponies. Section one tells of the purpose of the work, the mysterious author thinks that the truest forms of magic are represented physically, what with those who can manipulate the weather having wings, those who can manipulate the flowing energies having horns, and those who can manipulate nature having thicker hooves. She, or he as the case may be, takes this to the conclusion that aging and maturing are symptoms of the ‘purest’ magic being stolen, and is represented as the life cycle that we have supposedly just ‘grown accustomed’ to. Section two deals with the larger philosophy and belief systems, she thinks that the princesses orchestrated this as some sort of trade, what we supposedly got in return beyond sunlight, the dancing stars, and an absolute ruler she also hasn’t heard of Luna apparently, then again neither have I until a little while ago isn’t elaborated upon.

It seems like the standard conspiracy whackaroo drivel that gets pumped out unnoticed and regarded as a non-threat by the higher machinations or the state on a daily basis… with the exceptions that it supposedly allows access to ‘pure’ magic through decidedly impure acts that are described in the rest of the sections and that it struck a chord with someponybody in the higher machinations, maybe she was right about some of her historical hypothesis of what she describes as the ‘pre-sundering’ and her declarations to use these forms of ‘pure’ magic as a tool against the forces in power and to take back the fates of the common pony would otherwise resonate strongly with me if they didn’t involve spilt foal’s blood and sexual fluids deposited in arcane patterns. Most of the time there weren’t any patterns, it just seemed like she performed a trial-and-error process to gain useful patterns and combinations the author found many situations which she (or he) just found thoroughly enjoyable.

She can’t be entirely correct, no matter how sure she is, or her disciple is for that matter, because if she was correct then either this tome would be completely unavailable, or the higher machinations would already be in the dustbin of history along with other failed controlling machinations like the Nightmare Cabal and the Discordant Remnants.

The sections after two are about specific goals one has in mind, with sections six and seven being gender specific on the ‘instrument’ or ‘resource’… sick things to call an innocent child. Section four was most intriguing to me because it was about patterns and methods to channel this ‘pure’ magic into service of enhancing the user’s capabilities, such as strength, intelligence, or luck. Section three however, was the most sickening (relatively speaking, just reading the thing makes me worry about my soul) due to it being about methods to capture, subdue, manipulate and harness the ‘instrument’.

In search of truth one must look past the pleasant lies and illusions maintained by the state, accept that there’s a reason why many ponies intentionally choose the illusion, and work on determining if the truths you thought you uncovered aren’t just another layer to the charade. Madam Ostoba, if she was just a tool being used for our collective subjection, would likely just confirm what the book states in order to keep on this potentially false path. In order to be sure… I’ll have to experiment.

Section 1:5

She sits upon the ivory throne and with every breath

Our past sin haunts us and weakens us to the eventual dust,

For she knows that without resistance we accept our death.

In the time since the establishment of the current state

We all have toiled, loved, fought and died;

But my disciple, with this grimoire in your hooves you can take back ye fate.

Journal Entry #0463

I was beginning to enjoy the transitional period between day and night, night and day. Light and darkness, forever switching places in a dance meant to serve them and show to those of us below those spheres how powerful those who ruled over us were.

Not powerful enough to protect her though.

Section 3:12

Disciple, you must’ve learned by now that the darkness is your ally,

The transitional period between the spheres however is best,

The powers that be can’t protect their weakest from being made to comply.

A combination of both perhaps, an area of darkness during the dusk.

Many of the instruments are not yet reigned in, and are not under her eyes.

It’s best to tell them the truth of wanting to help them, to earn their trust.

Although they possess raw power, they are quite incompetent to resist.

Many are trusting; due to the lies and manipulation she spread.

For the few who fight against this honorable service, bluntly and forcibly insist.

Once you have acquired the new resource you’ll take advantage of the encroaching night.

Darting from alley to alley is inadvisable, just act like you found what you were looking for.

Once you finally make it back to your base of operations, it’s time for delight.

An old bad habit, during times of difficulty I’d write out my issues and stresses to a notebook, or as the guys like to joke ‘my diary’. Regardless, the putting down of thoughts and emotions is an outlet that prevents them from overly clouding the mind during operations.

We don’t have much to go on, some hair from somepony’s coat, a few barely coherent hoof prints, signs of a light struggle, and remnant magical energies, but that’s it. Although we know that we have a filly to save, we don’t have enough to go off on, and the statement issued to us to watch out for ponies with an orangeish coat doesn’t exactly convince us that we’ll find out who did it. Such an event hasn’t happened in years, it’s rare, and it’s not something that we’re proud to know happened while we were supposed to be keeping the ponies of the land safe and secure.

Here’s what I know, the entire affair happened in, at most, five minutes. With the filly initially putting up a struggle before simply being thrown against a wall and being carried off. It might have been more helpful if she was a runner or screamer, but she was a fighter who was too little to put up a competent resistance. The perpetrator then went through the alleyways, and walked out onto Sassafras Street, where multiple ponies did report seeing a pony carrying away a filly, but when pressed for further details the eyewitnesses often didn’t have much in common with their testimonies. One mare blamed her neighbor, citing the fact that she rarely lets her cats out as evidence that she has a gap in her heart that she’d result to filly-napping to fill, while others blamed everything from a stallion in a trench coat to a mare who tricked ponies into letting her go along by apologizing for her ‘daughter’s’ rude behavior. Despite the relative weakness of eyewitness testimony, we know when it happened, and the rough direction they were heading thanks to it. They were heading eastward, towards the mountain and the lower-tier housing, and it was almost nightfall, which indicates that the location of the filly isn’t too far from where she was taken. So we’ve increased our presence in both the local area of the foal-napping and I’ve had the good fortune to have my patrols be moved from the Sparkle case to an area where the guard and other law enforcement officials are seen as threats rather than protectors.

Her parents want to know that she’s safe, but knowing the statistics on the time she’s been missing, it’s unlikely that she’s unharmed; we’ll thank the princesses if she’s in a single piece when we find her. We can’t make any promises to them on their daughter’s safety, but we can hope that a ransom note will eventually come, or that this was just a bad break and we actually are somewhat competent.

I guess there has to be some difficulty, it can’t just be hall monitoring and dragging off crazy stallions that drank too much punch.

‘Dear Diary’, words which I hear the others say, with an irritating lisp, when I took this thing out to write down my thoughts when I feel too clouded or irrational after another day of frustration and despair at this scenario.

It turns out that what I once thought was something mostly inconsequential, the whole remnant magical energies thing, turns out to have some useful signatures to it that can be pulled out of it by a trained specialist, and I owe Gum Shoe a proper apology for thinking that his job title of ‘Remnant Energies Specialist’ was just something that got him paid more and to justify having an educated unicorn on the staff who knew how to get in easily with the pricks at the various educational establishments.

We now know that we’re looking for a stallion, which narrows down the search a tad, and that he’s mostly untrained in magical technique. This narrows it down to pretty much every unicorn male that isn’t at those previously mentioned educational establishments. I’m impressed that he could get that much from just reading the energies a day after it happened, but most of that information was already inferred from the other pieces of evidence. The more useful thing is that it gave us a signature to compare with previous criminal records, but outside of crimes which have one’s magical signature as a key piece of evidence we rarely keep such things on file, so we’ve narrowed it down to being a perpetrator who has never done a crime before (or at least hasn’t done one which had their magic as a key component), which in this land doesn’t narrow it down much further. On the bright side, if this happens again we’ll be able to tell the parents that we have proof that it was the same perp who cut the Amber filly into bite sized chunks and tossed them into the public playground.

Gum Shoe did state that he would be more than happy to compare and contrast various suspects’ signatures with that of the remnant energies, but the bigger deal in my book is now we can now say we have solid evidence on a fair few traits of our criminal, and it should narrow down who we’re looking for if we put up a public notice.

Amber Ale

Last seen in the Aurora Dawn neighborhood saying goodbye to her friends

After a long afternoon of playful activities to head home. Her parents ≠End

That she didn’t make it back home, and they began to worry. They co≠ye sins

The local authorities a little after sunset to help look for her. A few trac≠for now

Magical or non-traditional were detected of her or any suspects. ≠you’ve begun

Said that we must stay strong and remain on the lookout for an≠the oh so ‘dark’

Individuals in the area. The royal guard has been contacted≠path to knowledge.

And they state that while such incidents are rare it’s be≠You desired it didn’t you?

At all times, for even rare events do occur. Amber≠The filly is begging and pleading

And currently sans-mark, she responds to ‘Amy’ ≠and yet you know what to do to

Likes things associated with plant life and ≠with her don’t you? Section 6:12, should do.

If you find her, immediately contact th≠Oh so wonderful peasant guard who serve her?

And tell her that her mommy and ≠Daddy? Mommies and daddies only serve them.

Very very very very much. ≠Disciple, you’re still reading this torn piece of paper, get

They miss her and are ≠working hard to liberate the power needed to acquire the truth.

The reward is ≠It’s what you wanted right? Knowledge, truth, and all that… or did you forget?

At address≠Did your path to enlightenment take a turn you didn’t want? Well, everything

Funeral≠has a cost, and in order for you to gain the same enlightenment as I have,

You’ll need to play by my rules disciple, to gain what I have as I have.

Journal Entry #0464

The daisy in her auburn mane, the short breathes she was taking, the flaxen coat moving up and down, in rhythm. She was cute, I’ll admit that much. I won’t admit to desiring her in the ways the higher machinations were, apprehensive towards, but I’d be willing to adopt her if given the opportunity.

The initial meeting was rough, she took a little bit more damage than she had to, but she eventually realized that she was needed to see if what the book said was in any way accurate. It’s always wonderful whenever a young mind is opened, in spite of the current circumstances.

Is the book in anyway true? I can’t just get the materials for experimentation without doing the experiment itself… and I can’t bring myself to do it. If the book is inaccurate, or a fake, then I’ve just fallen into a rather well set-up trap. At my current point, I’d just be jailed, but once I cross the line, it’s all over for my hopes of not being banished in my lifetime. As to where I’d be banished to, it’s almost certain that the state uses the term to refer to a death penalty, and don’t want the public to know that they can engage in the barbaric acts of capital punishment. I don’t want to die, but at this point it seems like that’s the only option I have, and I’m not getting any younger either.

If I’m going to die, I might as well either deserve it or have the tools to fight my fate. It might be easier if she had her mark, but alas nothing seems to be simple, straightforward, and easy these days. They’ve been wondering where Amber went, she’s been wondering when she’s going to go home, and I’m wondering when I’ll finally work up the guts to actually try to get something of an answer.

Speaking of public notices, they’ve actually helped us narrow down the search to a radius of a few blocks. It’s difficult to wonder where the suspect is when the area where they’re most often taken down is roughly where we expected them to head, and with a frequency that exceeds the neighborhood’s notoriety for ignoring or destroying the things. One probably shouldn’t try to prevent the others in the neighborhood from identifying you when said neighborhood never does that anyways, at most it bought him a day or two, but more likely his actions just cost him a solid week of us narrowing down things. Less time for him to do whatever he was going to do with her (or more likely, he’s already done it or is still using her). Although I am content that we’re slightly less likely to come across a cum-filled corpse which will have to be thoroughly cleaned before we even think we could present it back to the family.

The rumor is that they’ve already started to plan out for the worst, a bit of a pessimistic bunch if you ask me. Granted, they’re probably smart in doing so, but normally parents and family are infamously irrational in these sorts of affairs. Gum Shoe stated that he’s open to doing a door by door search, and would like some guards to assist with the manner, I did happen to get volunteered for the operation, but I would’ve done it of my free will regardless.

Whomever did this is going to pay, provided that it isn’t just a punk who is tearing down public notices around his house due to her recently reading some anti-governmental material. Who knows, maybe we might inadvertently stop other crimes while in search for the specific one.

Journal Entry #0465

Today, I’ve done it.

It had took me all my strenght, and to set aside my repulsion. But I’ve finally put in practice what the book said, gone against higher machinations with some success, even if it was in a way I’d never guessed I was going to go.

I need, for the duty of chronicling, write down the events that happened today, in all their glory and horror.

After waking up the “borrowed” filly and Ma’am Ostoba’s little colt, they were getting something in their stomach for breakfast in Madam Ostoba and mine presence. While the colt ate his oatmeal slowly and evident lack of liking in it, the filly was faster and had put some milk and cinnamon atop of the mush to give it something resembling taste. At the offer of having some of… that fudge, I declined, opting for just coffee and bread (even if stale) instead.

While I ate in company with the two soon-to-be instruments for channeling, I could not help but look at them and think. Think about what it meant to try to fight the unseen controllersof the system with actions that I wasn’t sure if they were wrong because they were dictated by common morality or because of the propaganda imprinted in the mind of most. I even questioned if what Madam Ostoba and the book were saying was actually true and not an elaborate ruse to trap me, or a dangerous dead end. I wasn’t sure what to do… not that I do now, all thigns considered, but I’m directed now.

Anyways, after some thought, some bites on my lips, and some moral qualms begin silenced, I gathered my courage, and, not without stuttering and timor, asked to try to use the ‘instruments’ for the first time.

She got almost too glad in answering me.

She said that ‘as soon as my cup was empty,’ we were going to ‘meet the playmates closely...’

When my cup of coffee had only the small pulverized leftovers of the beverage on the bottom and my bread has been eaten thought, she brought it all back in the kitchen, along with the empty bowls that the two young ones had used for their breakfast. This done, she wheeled her wheelchair along, telling me to follow her in the ‘playroom’ where her son and the auburn-colored filly could properly be used, or, as she preferred to call it, in a sick show of humor, play.

The walk in the maze-like hallways was faster than all the previous ones I had. Understandable, as I was extremely nervous and divided… almost devoured by doubt. But I guess that’s how it goes in this kind of things.

We reached that wretched study again, and, this time, she took a box, one that I had never noticed before, from under the chair where I sat the first time I came inside. When the top was removed, I could see a dark red gruel contained in an opened tin, along with several condoms, whose future use in the context was, sadly, predictable.

She told to her son to get his training pants off and lie down, and told likewise to the filly. Neither of them protested that order. Then Ma’am Ostoba dipped her hoof in the gruel, before asking to me which power I’d wished to boost at the time, and, as I much I felt that improve my vision was tempting, I decided to settle on improve my strength temporarily, as I feared about the idea that it meant to put my dick in the eyesockets of either of them.

She told me to sit down and let ‘mommy take care of your willy.’ I’d be lying, if I didn’t say that feeling her hoof painting two couples of stylized legs bucking something on my crotch with the dark red gruel didn’t arose me, but, as soon as I saw her paint up ten thunderbolts around the filly’s untouched privates and a smaller version of the legs painted on my crotch, I felt guilty in popping it.

Then again...

Madam Ostoba told to his son in a sickeningly sweet voice to ‘get up and put that cute lil’ penis in there,” and the colt, to much of my surprise, gulped and went near her, as the filly looked confused at both the colt, who was smaller than her, and at the colt’s mother, who was smiling. The colt suddenly touched the top of his sheath, making his naturally-small penis erect and ready for penetrate and deflower the older filly. The filly gasped when the colt had put it inside her vagina, but, once the colt had started to desperately push harder and more inside, she started to moan slightly, asking what was going on and why was she feeling funny down there. I was almost going to answer, but I couldn't, as I had noticed that the signs painted on the two small children's crothes had started to glow weakly of a purplish light. I didn’t recognize it, but, by the look of it, it wasn’t a good sign.

All of sudden, the filly let out a long, stretched-out musical note, clearly a sign she had reached orgasm. When that was done, the gruel fell off little Ostoba’s coat, turning into a very fine ash, while the painted thunderbolts on the filly's lower areas turned purple. At this point, Madam Ostoba told me and the filly to wait for her to ‘take the game rules book out’ and ‘read the rules to us ’.

The steps for boost your strength, according to the De Pederastia, were to make the child (or, as it is called inside that book, ‘ instrument’ ) tickle your testicles, then lick them, just before giving it a couple of stroke, then make the child give a mouthjob.

Madam Ostoba read out loud the first instruction, and I lied down, so to allow the filly to reach my family jewels easily. But Madam Ostoba said that I had to stand up for this. I got up, and let the filly tickle me. My chuckles were on-par with my growing desire to have sex… but with a wench, not with a young filly. Then Madam Ostoba read out loud the second part, and the filly reluctantly agreed, and, as her tongue passed on my balls, I felt my desire growing, until it broke the threshold where I could discern not-right from right, now just wishing for somepony to screw me, moaning loudly and almost salivating. I went in full-on salivation as soon as the filly stroke my penis, whispering something unintelligible, likely something about the works of adult male anatomy, especially my likely-oozing semen. I suddenly felt my penis engulfed by something, and I realized that now the filly was holding my penis in her mouth… and that she was sucking. I started to grunt, moan, yelling out phrases of lustful pleasure, until I came in her mouth.

I came. In her mouth. Cumming, in a filly’s mouth.

Anyways, when the filly detached herself from me, she commented on the taste of my semen, commenting it was ‘yucky’ and that ‘she didn’t want to ‘put anymore boy’s parts in her mouth.’ Madam Ostoba sighed, and asked her if she had liked something else… and she said that the ‘colt putting her parts in my vagina’ part was enjoyable.

I honestly don’t know anymore.

Finally we got somewhere, after days and days of waiting. We had got a where and a likely whom. We discovered was actually Screwy Words, that conspiracy theorist guy that had caused a lot of petty crimes in the National Gallery and in the Council of Nobles, that had kidnapped the filly. We also discovered, to much of everpony’s surprise and horror, that an honorable veteran, Arma Smussata, was the commissioner of the kidnapping and, apparently, the main “user” of these foals. The filly showed some damage… down there, and her legs showed signs of wounds caused by chain tied too tightly. I prefer not to think WHAT she had to go through, but I’d rather not think too hard about it, as the idea make me almost want to puke. But at least she’s alive and that her parents will get her back, albeit very changed.

Journal Entry #0466

IT WORKED!

Granted, the whole horrid affair was something that I never wanted to do, but I guess there is something up there looking out for me. Now, if I were to find another place to keep investigating, that would be nice, as Ma’am Ostoba is now behind the bars, the gruel’s can has been destroyed on the spot, and the book narrowly avoided destruction only because I had put it in my bag just before leaving for a coffee.

But at least the state and the higher machinations failed to catch me while I tried one of the many methods to try to subvert them. Sure, the system for fight them wasn’t the most moral or cleanest, but it could have worked, given it more time and material to experiment on. But I can say I coudl be in a worse state than I am now.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Oh, yes, Fillydelphia is a good idea. Cheap ticket, big city, and a dissolute hellhole where I could get material, just as long I spoke to the right dealers of it. Now, I could check at the end of the De Pederastia for look for any name of an ancient family of sellers. Who knows if they went back to that business.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

No such luck. Found this poem written on tear-stined paper instead:

Lugete, o Veneres Cupidinesque,

et quantum est equorum venustiorum.

Filiolus mortuus est meae aulae,

nam mellitus erat meumque norat

ipsem tam bene quam puer patrem,

nec sese a gremio meus movebat,

sed circumsiliens modo huc modo illuc

ad solam dominum usque pipiabat

et bellus et tener corpus dabat ad me.

Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum

illuc, unde negant redire quemquam.

At vobis male sit, malae tenebrae

Orci, ac maleficae plagae

quae omnia bella devoratis;

tam bellum mihi filiolum abstulistis.

O factum male! O miselle filius!

Tua nunc opera me flendo rubent ocis.

Et, pro suam memoriam, omnes pueri,

qui mecum remanere et teneri corpi dabat,

libertate et domi concessum est e mea delibratio.

This poem… I’ve got no translation for it. It doesn’t look like anything written before. It deosn’t look like a closure page… it doesn’t look like anything!

I must find a translator of Old Litalian, as it would reveal what the author meant to say in the poem...

By: Injected Ink

Editor: Winter Quill of Terrificato.

CANTERLOT PAGE ONE: Young Amber Ale was successfully recovered by the proud members of the Royal Guard from unspeakable crimes (Adults, please turn to page 8 and cover your foal’s eyes, information to keep them safe is contained in a pamphlet within) in an old veteran’s house.

Miss Ale is being cared for at Canterlot General Hospital, and is expected to make a full physical recovery within a week. As per psychological recovery, we may never know, our only hope begin she won’t get involved in scriptures about this subjects with unusual types later in life.

Her parents are happy to be reunited with their daughter in one piece, and are being given full support of the government and Princesses to outlast these chaotic times. Princess Celestia also seems strongly invested in the subject, but, besides a statement of support towards the filly’s family, no reasons have been given.

Haven’t seen Screwy Words in a while, normally that’s just due to him being Screwy. However, when I normally don’t interact with the stallion for a period of time it’s more due to him being off on a hare-brained scheme that causes some minor kerfuffle with the nobility or the guard. I don’t usually suspect what happened today, or really ever suspect the guard to bust in with a warrant for Screw’s arrest. Well, that was the pretext at least, I’ve never seen a group of stallions rip and tear apart an office with that much ferocity since the time the exterminators handled Ink Press’s pet parasprites.

Poor mare never did manage to appreciate the cat we got her to make up for it.

Anyways, this isn’t good. We sent him on something simple, straightforward, and easy…. and he somehow manages to turn a low-tier investigation of foals barely past toilet training, if that, to something that lead to our offices being considered a crime scene. Not like last time when we were considered ‘sedationist’, no, he did something that we can’t make up excuses or talk out of, despite us not knowing a damn thing after the whole ‘Yeah there’s something up gals” filler he sent us. Bucking twit.

There are a total of three things that could’ve caused this, he either discovered something big, did something that will put him away for the rest of his life, or he finally managed to try to take out the diarchy for a so-called ‘Republic’. My bet is on the second, personally, although we always expected it to involve gunpowder, glue, and a parrot, not small children. Then again he could’ve used the small children as glue.

I figure the less I know the better. I want to remember the stallion which pushed boundaries and got results, mixed ones sure, but results. The Inquirer lived with him, and died with his actions, whatever they were. I guess it’s best that we close a chapter on a failed newspaper with a failed stallion.
Juice Reviews will be a bit bitter now, but it we’ll dedicate in memory of whomever he hurt.