Ebony ran. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him. His lungs burned for air, every muscle in his body felt like it would burst into flame. His ruined, featherless wings beat frantically against the air; they were no longer strong enough to lift him off the ground, but they gave his run the little bit of extra speed he needed. Still he ran across the barren countryside with no goal, no shelter in sight. All he could do was keep running. A sheet of simple, concentrated darkness chased him across the land. Other ponies might think it was just the coming of nightfall, but Ebony knew better. He was hunted by the Eye of the Grave.

The only sound for miles around was the slamming of hooves against earth, and Ebony's labored breathing. If not for the distinctive chill of his approaching doom, he would never know it was coming until it was too late. He could feel that chill now; it seeped into his bones, slowing him down. If he didn't find somewhere to take cover soon, it would be the end of him - him, and a great deal of other things.

As if to answer his unspoken prayers, a familiar-looking stone tower began to appear far on the horizon. It was better than nothing, at least - granted he could even make it that far. They always thought it was funny to build outposts dozens of miles apart, didn't they? he thought. Despite his body's protests, he managed to pick up the pace. The tower was still far off in the distance, though, and he couldn't keep this up for long. Damnit, I didn't come this far just to get caught on their doorstep.

His bones were freezing. His muscles burned. Time slowed to a crawl; a few seconds became an eternity, and each step took him no closer to the safe haven in the distance. I need a miracle. Ebony closed his eyes, hoping against hope. He began to feel the chill of the grave leave him - somehow or another, he was pulling ahead. He opened his eyes just in time: suddenly he was only a few steps from the tower's iron door. With no time to divert his momentum, all he could do was get his head out of the way for a shoulder barge. With a kick and a mighty flap of his ruined wings, he lifted off the ground and threw all of his weight at the door.

The door crashed open, spilling him onto the floor inside the tower. He struggled to gather his wits after the impact - it was still after him, and it was not far behind. He scrambled onto his four hooves, jumped up and kicked the door shut; now he was sealed inside in relative safety, and that particular brand of darkness was stuck out there.

Just as he sighed in relief, his voice mixed with a number of hungry groans. Ebony let out a groan of his own - out of the fire, straight back into the frying pan. He turned to face the source of the voices: half a dozen walking corpses, the dead of the long-extinct Drilam race. They must have been some nasty folk, for even their dead could not rest.

The Drilamic form was the stuff of nightmares. They stood up on two legs instead of four, towering over most ponies. Where hooves should have been, they had a number of small wiggling appendages at the end of each limb. Their faces were short and flat, lacking any significant definition.

Fortunately, they were not half as dangerous as they appeared. Their forms were fragile and slow, and they would often simply fall to pieces after a strong kick. Their only real advantage was numbers - for some reason, the Drilam had thought it was a good idea to procreate with wild abandon; as a result, every one of these old ruins was filled to the brim with walking corpses. It was no wonder they had fought among themselves until they drove themselves to extinction; Ebony couldn't imagine there being enough resources to go around.

Focusing his attention back on the situation at hoof, he sighed in exasperation. Half a dozen was hardly a fight, but it was still an annoyance - and it meant there would be many more in the catacombs beneath. He bent his neck back around and, grasping the handle between his teeth, drew his sword. The same sword that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He didn't even remember, now, why he had grabbed it off of that altar so many centuries ago. He did have to admit, though, that it was a fine blade. It had lasted him more than sixteen hundred years, after all.

Talking around the handle of his sword, Ebony spoke to the corpses; his voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Let's dance."

Sliding the accursed blade home into its scabbard, Ebony decided it was a good time to take a break. He had been running all night and day, and just when he had reached a relatively safe place he had stumbled straight into a group of angry dead men. He sat down on his haunches in the middle of the floor, and thought.

Immortality. He had heard a voice in his head, centuries before. Everything else will wither and die with time, but you alone can withstand it all. Or... can you?

Ebony shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It had been too long, now. He could not remember the rest of what the voice had said, could not look back to find a solution. All he knew now was that he had been doing this for hundreds of years - avoiding the gaze of the Eye, seeking shelter in these old ruins, fighting for his life, collecting trinkets and baubles to turn enough bits for food, and running.

Running. Running from a tireless enemy, one who would never stop until it caught him. And when it caught him... what then? He had forgotten... or perhaps the memories were repressed.

He took a carrot out of his saddlebags and began munching while he tried to remember why, exactly, he ran from the Eye of the Grave. Was he not, after all, on a quest to find his death? Would the Eye not give him what he wished for? In his heart he knew the answer - he sought death for the peace it would bring; the Eye would give him his death, indeed, but it would bring his soul no peace. So he ran. One day, he hoped, he would find a way to rid himself of this curse. And then he might finally know peace.

Ebony bit off another chunk of carrot, lost in deep thought. He almost didn't hear the sound over that of himself chewing. He stopped, knowing he had heard something in the distance. The second time the sound came, he caught it loud and clear - and spat chunks of carrot at a nearby wall in surprise. It was a voice. A voice not unlike the one he had heard that day, so many centuries ago. It was so far away, but he understood it well enough - it called to him by the same name it had called him, all those years before.

"Forsaken one... come to us..."

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