{Chapter 6}
“They called it the witching hour, when the evils of the world would descend upon the innocent and steal them away for their own purposes. Others called it the devil's cloak, a time when the darkness was thickest and ne'er do wells could act as they pleased. For the many, it was the time to hide behind their walls and rest for the coming day. But for the few, for the few this was the day. For the few this was paradise, for the few relished in the darkness and faced the wolves of night with a grim thrill known only to them.” - Weapons_X, 11/30/17

Rain.

It’s nice to look at, or even listen to, but not so fun to be stuck in.

Sure, being cold is annoying, but being cold, wet, and miserable? Normally, one would seek shelter until the rain passed on.

Unfortunately, there isn’t much shelter in the middle of a paddock.

With a snort of irritation, Arcane continued trudging through the mud and muck brought about by the bucketing rain. It had been like this for the last five hours, to the point that even Star had thrown in the towel, disappearing into his mist, leaving the blue stallion to his own thoughts.

The last few days were showing their toll on Arcane, even without his coat being plastered to his skin. His eyes had lost their spark of curiosity, leaving behind a haunted and grave look. His hooves were chipped and worn from walking on days on end, and his mane even more unruly than usual.

Maybe it was the pressure of the Archon? Or maybe the pain of losing his home for the second time was catching up? Or even the stress of being pursued by the remnants of the mercenaries was bringing him low?

Three days. Before now, he’d’ve been complaining about the lack of hours in the day, now, he’s only wishing for a break.

Arcane was exhausted, running on autopilot for days on end was the only way he was able to keep going. Barely thinking, or even talking. Just walking forward with a grim determination, occasionally dodging a guard patrol or a wandering mercenary.

At this point, he didn’t even know where he was going. Away seemed like a nice place. Better than Here at least.

“You!” A tone dripping with hate and malice cut Arcane from his autopilot, bringing his mind back into focus.

Before him was a once proud hippogryph, his feathers worn and dishevelled, eyes reduced to pinpricks and marred by scars and still bleeding wounds. The ‘gryph quiveringly brandished a medium sized curved sword contrasted it’s owner’s appearance uncertainty in his left hand, betraying his difficulty wielding a weapon on that side.

It was of fine silver, polished to shine in the growing darkness, even the hilt ignored the tradition of wood or gold in favour of continuing the trend of shining silver. The only difference between the blade and the hilt being the lack of sharpness on the latter, giving it a simplistic yet elegant appearance.

“I’ve found you, you little shit!” The hippogryph bellowed as he slowly advanced on Arcane, the tattered remains of once elegant leather armour barely holding onto his form. As he approached, a slight grin of mania prominent on the mercenary's face.

Arcane, taking a step backwards in surprise, quickly took note of the long, thick crack running down the right side of the hippogryph’s beak and the two missing claws from his right hand… claw… thing. ‘What was the terminology for their fore-hooves again?’

And, for once, the blue stallion attempted the diplomatic solution… with varying degrees of success

“Who in Tartarus are you?!” Arcane screeched, hoping his natural ‘charisma’ and ‘charm’ would surely save him from this crazed maniac. But, despite swearing that he could hear whatever gods watch over him facepalm in annoyance, his… inquiry had made the maniac pause in his slow shambling.

Instead of answering, the hippogryph began giggling madly; his eyes seeming to shrink beyond what should be natural. Then, with a mighty heave, the ruins of whatever being was once in him launched the silver blade…

Into the ground next to him, much to the relief of Arcane’s blood pressure. As Arcane relearned how to breathe, he saw the hippogryph proceed to lean on his sword for support in his maddened giggles. It was eerily similar to a character from the Batmare comics, the laughter of an insane creature without reason or passion, only the madness spread through its veins like a sickness or poison.

The giggles turned to laughter, even getting to the point that tears of blood streamed down the face and beak of the once proud hippogryph.

“Of course you don’t remember!” He spouted through his mania, “There isn’t anything to remember!”

Leaving the sword behind, he moved forward closing the distance between the two before there was barely ten paces between them. Still fully shrouded in his mania, he proclaimed proudly, “But lookie here! No wolfie to save you now!”

Arcane, frozen to the spot, glanced down to his necklace, mentally pleading for help. But, he only got a feeling of pulsing, burning energy emanating from it, to the point that crackling red electricity danced across the surface of it.

“Ohhh? That’s where he’s been hiding!” The eagle pony continued in his maddened laughter, drawing a flintlock pistol from his tattered armour. With a click of the hammer locking into place, the laughter ended and his voice turned to one of a cold, calculating machine. “No escape for you now.”

“Capture and secure… alive.” A voice, barely above a whisper but still audible to both parties. No emotion, no mercy… and no drive behind it. Only the monotone of something dulled by time and pain. And with the voice, a pitch black shadow fell upon the halfbreed, ignorant of the dull glow from beyond the clouds, “Back to purity, maybe you’ll be of more use for us.”

Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, the eagle pony fell to the matted, sopping wet grass, his orifices oozing half clotted, dark crimson blood. The tide enough to push his eyes from his skull, leaving them to float away with the crimson flood pooling around the body and slowing being sown into the ground from the harsh rain.

Falling back, Arcane put as much distance between him and the body as he could before the raising bile forced him to the ground.

‘Even after all that has happened... and after all that he had been through... he was still a pony... Pathetic…’ A voice weakly whispered in the mind of Andril, who, with the other two consciousnesses, opted to remain dormant, despite the magic of the hippogryph being long since dispersed.

Maybe it was the faint tears in Arcane’s eyes, or maybe it was just the unsettling feeling that came with watching another’s pain. Regardless, Andril, the green-ish wolf, pushed his attention to investigating the halfbreed’s magic.

It was strange, unlike pony magic, or even the magic of the long forgotten demons, this seemed… unnatural, sickly and powerful in an angry, tainted way. Where the magic of ponies would have a warm, glowy feeling, this magic seemed… alive. Alive in the same way that a ghoul was. Alive in a way that just by looking at it, one could tell that it shouldn’t be.

‘Not to mention… Hippogryphs shouldn’t be able to cast active magic. I do remember one who channelled passive, but not active… At least, not without some… interesting deformation.’ Andril pondered, mentally turning over the memory of the magic. ‘It seems… similar to demonic magic, or even changeling magic, but it lacks the… fire of the former, and the malice of the latter. Maybe Jekyll has gotten around to mastering magic transplants?’

‘No. He wouldn’t give something like that to a halfbreed… maybe the influence of an artifact of some kind?’ Andril dismissed before turning his attention back to Arcane.

Said pony had finished ejecting the contents of his stomach and had resigned to gulping the damp air of the fields. Perhaps in an attempt to stabilize his raging insides? Perhaps just to procrastinate looking back to the corpse?

There wasn’t much to be done for the poor stallion, if anything, making their presence known would only worsen the moment. And, unfortunately, Andril didn’t have any philosophical bullshit to fix, or even calm the situation.

So instead, the green wolf weaved together an invisibility spell and emerged from his resting place. With the invisibility, he made his way over to the corpse, making a point not to disturb he who already has been disturbed.

By now, the body had stopped bleeding, and the bulk of the blood had been washed into the earth, leaving only a thin layer of watered down lifeforce coating the fur. Even then, it was slowly dispersing with time.

Casting a quick slash of pure magic to open the back of the hippogryph, he slowly began opening the body and investigating what is left. It was grizzly work, but one necessary to the betterment of knowledge.

‘But that is how it starts... doesn’t it? The ends… justify the means?’ The dark voice softly chuckled in the back of his mind, only worsening Andril’s mood.

A cut, a snip, a pull, a tug. A scan, a ponder, a rinse, a repeat.

By the end of it, there were fewer results than before. With no talismans and no signs of tempering, Andril was left with only speculation. But maybe, just maybe, it was for the better.

The crash of waves battered the weekend hull of an old fishing boat. Breaches littered the barnacle encrusted sides of the ship, and with each passing second, gallons upon gallons of seawater flooded the decks.

The stars glittering and shining upon the black canvas of the sky, looking down upon the doomed vessel with pity and sadness. For tonight, another carcass will fall to the depths.

But not if the sailor had anything to say about it.

The old minotaur fought against the winds and tides, fighting to keep his ship above the murky abyss of the waters. The sail whipped and flailed about freely on its slack tethers, having already claimed the life of his First Mate when he tried to wrangle them.

Cuts and bruises crowded his arms and chest, some from the sail, some from the terrors of the deep. The crimson blood flashing with each lightning strike, the sore and tender muscles stinging with each drop of rain.

It was a mistake, coming out to the seas. He should’ve listened to the signs. Thoughts of grief and self-doubt swam through his mind like the terrors surely awaiting him in the depths.

“Raaargh!” with a mighty heave of the waves, the ship was overturned and the greying minotaur was lost beneath the tide…

…

Long after the ship had fallen, a single scrap of paper, miraculously dry when one considered where it was. Written upon it, in the crimson flowing writing and language of the ancient minotuarian prophets and oracles, it’s words speaking the words of the stars themselves…

‘Another lost to the other side, another clawed into the depths of the machine. Fear no death for none cometh’. Yet ye’ who heeds the siren’s call, fear what thou finds, for only pain awaits.’

And with its message given to whatever gods listen, the parchment was dragged below the raging tide. Leaving only the whispers of pain, and the echoes of the slain haunting the waves and breeze.

But that was the way of the world, no? The cries of the dead endlessly calling out to the living, tempting them with half-truths and lies. And sometimes, sometimes they call with the bittersweet truth, of an existence of the void and endless cries to those who run from Death…

In the end though, Death catches all. Even those who sing the song of immortality, those untouched by time, untouched by pain and fear… for forever is a long time, and Death can wait for even longer…

He knew it was a dream… but he still couldn’t escape it…

It wa-felt real, the pain that spiked with every step, the terror battering at the edge of his mind, like a wolf clawing at the door. And most of all, the fear pulling his sanity into a death spiral, like a pegasus strike with a stray lightning bolt.

The eerie chimes playing a haunting tune, the darkness absorbing everything beyond his muzzle, the cold wind chilling his bones like a windigo, and the salty tang of the tears streaming down his face. All of these feelings, too real for where he was. Too real for a dream... too real for a nightmare…

Memories blurred, names faded and sights changed…

Who was he? Was he Arcane Quill? No. He couldn’t be...

He wasn’t even a pony, let alone a unicorn…

Then what was he?

A... wolf of some kind. A real one, not one of magic like the timberwolves…

Grey fur covering his body… red blood leaking from numerous wounds covering his hide…

Too real… yet so surreal…

Slowly, with each step forward, the darkness was pushed back. Changing from pitch, to the darkness found during the night. Illuminated only by the moon and stars peeking through the slowly appearing forest around him, he started to make out the finer details of the forest around him…

Some shrubbery here… some doe tracks there…

He didn’t even know what doe tracks looked like… yet he did…

Moments pass, but to him, it could’ve been hours. Hours of stumbling forward, fearing what could come from behind any of the trees…

Hours of the damned chimes, endlessly haunting his bloody and battered ears…

The tune seemed… random…

Like the chimes on the front porch, softly swaying in the breeze, playing a tune that would’ve once been calming…

And just as he started to tune it out… it ended.

Leaving only the sound of leaves and the soft pulsing of his heart to accompany him…

Somehow, the silence was worse than the noise…

…

One paw in front of the other, left front, right back, right front, left back, repeated over and over… And with each step, each breath, and each moment, weakness and pain grew ever stronger…

And before long… he couldn’t even walk in a semi-straight line. He swayed from side to side like a drunk, his sight spinning and lurching. The feeling of nails being hammered into his skull, of needles pricking at his muscles, the knives continuously plunging into his gut…

Was this the gods’ idea of comedy? Watching their creation suffer and struggle for their amusement?

Maybe… maybe…

Maybe he should just… rest… here…

He fell to the ground, his strength failing with his resolve…

And with his strength, darkness stretched around his vision… Calling to him… Promises of rest and shelter from the pain luring him into unconsciousness…

And with his vision fading, a hooded figure stood over his broken and damaged body… Saying only one sentence…

“Well… This won't do stranger.”

“Aaah!” A short scream cut through the silence of the early morn’. A few birds, disturbed by the noise, flew off into the sunrise with a flutter of activity. “Celestia damn it…”

“We do not believe she can banish nightmares. Was there not a new Princess for that?” Star echoed through mists of awakening.

“Y-yeah, Princess Luna.” Arcane stammered in reply, surprised by the literal answering. “It’s just a saying…”

“Is that so? Seems a little… egotistical for her to have it that way, no?” Star pondered, leaving his resting spot within the stallion’s necklace and wrapping his body around Arcane like a mother and a cub. “Asking for your leader to smite something whenever you are inconvenienced? Yet only one of the leaders, one of two or three, correct?”

“I-I think so, Princess Celestia and Princess Luna are the only ones I know of at least…” The blue stallion confirmed, “I mean, I guess it’s one way of thinking about it…”

“Unsure even of who is in charge, aware of only one? Tis’ not something unheard of, We believe it was called... tyranny? We believe the leader in question said the same of one ‘Sombra,’ no?” Star inquired, his star-fur… stuff, surprisingly soft against the unicorn’s coat.

‘Surprisingly warm too…’ Arcane noted, “Sombra? Wasn’t he a dark magic crazed manic that took over the Crystal Empire? I’m not too sure, if anything, the Crystal Empire is a footnote in Equestria’s history…”

“Hmmm, We don’t believe magic had anything to do with it.” The star-wolf sighed a sad little sigh before continuing, “But, unfortunately, We are also lacking in Our knowledge of that time. So all We have is speculation. Still, ‘Those in glass houses.’”

“‘Shouldn’t throw stones,’” Arcane finished, mulling over the new information, “How do you know so much about history anyway? I had to dig pretty far to find anything on the Crystal Empire, let alone enough to know about Sombra…”

“We have been around a long time young pup, we... I, was old when your race was only an idea from the void. When your nation has rotten and collapsed into ancient history, We will still be here.” Star explained, punctuating the ‘young’ part with a lick to the side of the unicorn’s face. Lightly smiling at the flailing that followed, he continued, “Your race have your marks of destiny, telling you what you are, have been, and will become. We watch. An unchanging force from beyond time itself.”

“That’s… slightly depressing… Is that what you were doing before… me?” Arcane questioned as he attempted to rub off the slobber with a hoof.

“No.” The wolf grunted in reply, the mood darkening. “That was a dark time. One you need not question, pup.”

With the final word, Arcane was left on his own as Star retreated back into his necklace. Leaving him only more curious on the past of his mysterious friend.

‘If he even is a friend… Who knows what could be happening in the background…’ The stallion sighed to himself, before rising from his place in the grass. ‘I still wonder why Hunter had to… steal, the merc’s stuff… Egh… I feel sick just thinking about it…’

Carrying a dead po-Hippogryph’s belongings was not something he had expected to be doing when this whole… mess started. But, he had to admit, the sword was of good craftsponyship. As heavy as it was on his hip, it did… calm him, if only a little.

‘But, unfortunately,’ as Hunter had remarked, ‘The armor is too damaged to be useful.’

Personally, Arcane was grateful he didn’t need to carry it, much less wear it. His nightmares were bad enough without needing to deal with that.

‘Was there not a princess for that?’ Star mentally jabb-...

‘Wait….

Wait a moment…

Something was wrong with this picture.’ The gears within Arcane’s mind slowly turned, and before long, one plus one started to equal two.

“Please explain. Please.” The poor stallion begged, his ears lying flat with his head as his quick gait slowed to a stop.

‘Explain what, young cub? The meaning of life perhaps?’ Star teased, followed by a deep chuckle instead of any explanation.

“The… telepathy, I believe it’s called… Please don’t play games… I’m really starting to get tired of… everything.” Arcane complained in an almost monotone voice. The wear and tear of the last few weeks truly paying their toll.

‘The past beginning to catch up? So be it, I shall end my fun. Andril, if you will.’ Star replied with a mental wave of his paw.

‘If you wish.’ Andril telepathically bowed with thinly veiled enthusiasm. ‘As you know, we are an old being. Older than your princesses, and older than the monster they bargain with. But, before them, this land was wild. With no ponies to tame it, and no rules to follow. It was our own brand of chaos, the chaos of nature.’

‘Animals that would make the Grand Everfree Hydras look tame roamed the land, each generation stronger than the last. There was no apex predator, only us. In truth, there where those who hunted us. But they never succeeded, as you can see.’ The green wolf weaved the tale, images of forests with trees easily dwarfing the ‘skyscrapers’ of Manehatten. ‘Some came close, too close, to killing us. And with the monsters only becoming stronger, we hatched a plan. A plan most of our peers looked down upon for the longest of times.’

‘We did the unthinkable, we bound our souls together and gifted them to a mortal. The first mortal to ever wield the power of the gods themselves. It took us a long time, but we did find a mortal worthy of our power, he was one not of this world, one who was brought here by powers above even our own.’ Andril continued, the silhouette of a… oddly proportioned minotaur filled with four orbs of colour. The colours being the light blue of Star, the wild green of Andril, the fiery rage of Hunter, and a new one… A black beyond black, a black made of the darkest void… ‘He was nothing before us. He had not the shapeshifting power of Jekyll, the solar might of your Goddess, nor the reality-bending power of Discord. He was plain, a blank slate if you will. With iron will, and a steady hand, the mortal would be powerful if he had our power, and we knew it. So with the gift, this mortal of man crafted a home of his own, deep within the earth. A temple made in his vision, for his dream of a civilisation of his own.’

“And this history lesson relates to telepathy… how?” Arcane grunted, his hooves returning to their slow, dragging steps.

‘I’m getting there. Be patient.’ Andril snapped back before continuing, ‘Anyway, before long, we ruled the wilds. We were on top, and the other immortals began to lose power over their worshipers. Though, none as much as the self-proclaimed Avatar of Chaos.’

“So… Discord?”

‘No. During this time, Discord was merely a servant of this being. Barely even a lesser demon. This Avatar, in its prime, it was truly a force to be reckoned with… if it would shut up.’ An image of an immense blue, bipedal bird clad in silk robes and wielding a book that bled a mystic magical fog flashed before the stallion’s eyes. With the image, a slight shiver trailed down his spine at the thought. ‘Though, in his weakened state, it was unable to attack us directly, it slowly turned the other immortals against us. The Mother and Father of the Alicorns, the Greater Spirit of the Wilds, the Forgefather of the West, and many more flocked to the Avatar’s banner. Then, began the war of the heavens.’

‘The skies rained fire and brimstone as the immortals called forth the mortals sworn to them. We were outnumbered a hundred to one, and before long, we were pushed back to our seat of power. The place where we were our strongest. Our followers fought valiantly, making our foes pay for every step they gained. Our powers called forth great storms of magical energy that tore apart all that stood before them, and our host culled the heretics by the bushel.’ What enthusiasm the wolf once had died out with his heavy sigh that followed. And yet, he continued telling the story, like a surviving guard telling the tales of his fallen comrades. ‘The Avatar, along with the entity would become the elements of harmony, weaved a powerful curse. They bound us to our host even more than we already were, then cast him, and his fortress across the planes of reality. With our host gone, our mind was torn apart. Part of it went with him, and some were claimed by the Avatar. With what was left, we culled the weakened immortals and began stalking the halls of the living. Murdering all who our shattered mind deemed worthy.’

“Wait… You killed the immortals? Aren’t they… immortal?” Arcane asked aloud, bringing a hoof up to stroke his chin. “And you still haven't said anything about the telepathy!”

‘They are as close to immortal as one can get, with power emanating from those who worship them and immunity from the ravages of disease or time. But, they still could be killed. Just with great difficulty.’ Andril explained, his voice taking a strictly neutral tone. ‘As for the telepathy, it is from the curse. Once we have been around a mortal and helped them enough, we begin to become one. If only slightly. It starts with a mental link, then we could share our vision, and before long, our power in its purest form.’

“Ah…” The blue unicorn muttered, before perking up. “Looks like we’ve stumbled upon a town… here’s hoping they have a hotel or something…”

Author's Notes:

AN:
I live! Again!
Sorry about the delay, the laziness from Christmas has hard to shake off this year, and life just loves to make me a liar.
Here's hoping I can make more sooner. :P

Weapons' EN: That is a boldfaced lie, we had to mail Militia to Australia just to pull some necromantic shit and bring Eric back to life.
Getting him sent back by customs three times is what took so blasted long.

AN (Again): Hey!

Dapper's EN: The only reason I got sent back only three times and not more is because I grew impatient, charmed one of the agents, and changed some documents and recent memories.