The Outsider

Dr. Lindsley's Report 29th entry. 04/05/1056 A.N. 08:00 PM I was right all along, the statue was the epicenter of the enchantment. However, looking back now I understand that simply calling it an enchantment is an understatement. It is far more than that, older and perhaps at least as powerful as Celestia herself. We arrived yesterday's afternoon. As we explored, the environment around the graveyard seemed to remain stable, no change in temperature nor humidity in the air. Then, it was presumed by us that this entire area has been locked away in a bubble where time wouldn't pass, guarded by the paranormal phenomena that extended travel time greatly were one to try and approach. This hypothesis was backed up by the fact that our biological needs have "paused" whilst in here. However, what that hypothesis did not explain was the fact that we still felt thirst for water, and that not only did we feel rested, but reinvigorated. I've spoken with the others, and apparently I wasn't the only one to've been freed from my back pains. Most notable was Sergeant Willow, one of the Guards who've accompanied us in this journey, who has completely lost the scar that ran right across his chest. He always proudly presented that scar as a proof of service during the Changeling Raid of Canterlot. Needless to say, he wasn't very happy to lose it. As the hours passed, we completed the survey of the area and started clearing the moss from the tombstones. Thankfully, each tombstone has the name of whoever it was that was entombed beneath, but not only that, the dates in which they were born and also the date of their death. What's surprising about this find is that we realized that all of the graves on the outer edges of the circle have been quite recent, the newest we've found so far being only a couple of days old. Closer to the center of the graveyard, the tombstones are much older, some of them listing dates before the Nightmare Moon. If we conduct a deeper search, it wouldn't surprise me to find at least a few dating back to The Age of Chaos. Dr Quill was visibly in bliss as we cleared the stones from the moss that covered them, undoubtedly an archeologist's dream to hopefully have access to so many possibly historical remains. As the others spread out onto their many tasks, most of them uncovering the tombstones while some checked around the perimeter for other passages or trails that led into the graveyard, I put myself into work with decyphering the machinations behind the area's enchantment. As stated in my previous entry, I heavily suspected that the statue was its focal point, and so would spend several hours carefully syphoning tiny strands from the power that emanated from it. I've worked with relics of the past before. Syphoning from their power to transcribe their enchantments into paper and usable spells is my specialty. Certain relics, such as the Crystal Heart from the Crystal Empire, nearly lost me with their complexity. So carefully woven, they were, that their very nature was artistic. So, in artistic terms, I would describe the enchantments flowing from the statue as a sea of ink and paint, constantly twirling and mixing within itself and creating hundreds of new colors never before seen and never again remade. It's gone The statue's gone I was just staring at it, and it's no longer t

Dr. Lindsley's Report 28th entry. 02/05/1056 A.N. 04:35 PM We have walked for three days without pause. I haven't had anything to eat in two days. And yet, I don't feel tired nor hungry, neither do the others. In fact, it feels as though our biological needs have ceased to exist, everything aside from the need to drink remains as though we only just departed on this last leg of the journey. This is an entirely new phenomena, none of the expeditionary groups before us have documented something alike. Something didn't want them to find that which sits in the middle of this forest, but now it wanted to be found. Well, not exactly sure if that is indeed the case, but it certainly feels like it. During our march, the feeling that we were being watched spread to all the remaining members of the expedition. Only then did I understand why Dr. Quill did not answer our question, for there is no single entity watching us: It's the forest, every tree, bush and blade of grass. I felt their gaze following our every step. Speaking of Dr. Quill, her demeanor changed drastically as our journey reached its conclusion. Throughout the first couple of weeks she remained a skeptic, swearing on those High Above that these enchanted grounds probably hold nothing of importance and that it's most likely the result of some mage's experiment gone wrong. Now... She's the most enthusiastic of us all, specially with what we've found here in the anomaly's epicenter. It's a graveyard. Hundreds of rows of tombstones covered in moss, perfectly lined up in a circle, all of them facing a tree. The Tree. This enormous oak has to be at least two hundred meters tall, and its canopy shrouds the entirety of the area. Its roots spread outwards and seem to connect to the rest of the forest. We've reached the heart. The road continues through the graveyard and goes directly through the tree, where a large passage has been carved. This passage leads all the way to the other side, where the road continues back into the woods. In the middle of this passage is a statue about three meters tall, the statue of a stallion sat on a stone pedestal. He is slumped to the side and has his eyes closed, appears to be either asleep or peacefully dead, considering the surrounding graveyard. I suspect it might be the focal point for this forest's enchantment. We have set up camp just outside the graveyard. We still don't feel tired nor hungry, but we'll need a base of operations to start identifying the graves. I'll be working on decyphering the enchantments used here, if there are any within the realm of the normal rather than the paranormal.

Dr. Lindsley's Report 26th entry. 26/04/1056 A.N. 05:22 AM It was on the third week of our long journey that we finally came across the phenomena. According to the map, we should've left the Whispering Woods by the third day, however, the forest yet remains around us. As expected, attempting to cross these enchanted lands directly only pushes you ever deeper into its confines, had this expedition not come fully prepared we would've been forced to withdraw or face the dangers of a diminishing food supply. Previous expeditions have not managed to go further than we have, but thanks to recent events in the Far North, the Guard have seen fit to better fund the exploration of areas deemed supernatural. By what I've heard before we left, some of my old colleagues have been directly drafted to aid in the exploration of the darker areas of the Everfree. Compared to the Everfree, the Whispering Wood's supernatural phenomena is considerably tamer. A single dirt trail runs directly through its middle and can be seen via aerial surveilance with relative ease. However, upon entering the forest by hoof, travelers will find themselves walking endlessly in an attempt to cross it; Anyone who decides to turn around and come back the way they came will find themselves breaking out of the treeline within 20 minutes, no matter how long they were previously walking for. The previous expeditions I've mentioned have found, just as we have yesterday evening, that by the end of the 25th day following the road, the forest's canopy grows taller and thicker. The trees themselves appear much older, and so far, no tool we have brought have managed to do as much as a dent on their bark. It's thus nearly impossible to tell exactly how old they are, neither is it possible to harvest firewood. It is also here that some of our most magic sensitive companions begin to feel a sort of unease that borders paranoia. One of the unicorns of our group, an archeologist by the name of Sliver Quill, has mentioned several times that she feels like she's being watched by an unseen force. When we asked if it feels like a singular entity or multiple, she eyes the forest but doesn't respond. Today we all woke up exactly at 5AM, at least two hours earlier than the usual. I feel surprisingly well rested and ready to tackle today's journey, didn't even need to drink the sorry excuse for coffee that our cook makes. In fact, I don't feel the need to eat either, and my back pain's completely gone.

Alone, the Chloromancer roamed the dark sea. Were those seconds, or were they entire eons passing right before his eyes? Waves crashed upon the cold hull of the steerless metallic ship, yet no matter how much it rocked, the ship would never sink. No matter how often he tried, he could not jump into the dark waters below. With his book of memories held close against his chest, Zerathur hummed songs of old, and another voice joined his chorus. Sat upon the taffrail, The Traveler examined the old man. In return, he simply stared at her ghostly visage. She'd come to make an offer, for he succeeded in his task. He handed her his book, and the pact was sealed with blood. Above and below, the darkness ceased to be. The Traveler was gone, and so was the ship. - Sun bathes his grey coat, his feet sink into the damp golden sands of Old Antioch's shores. Soft rhythms from a loud boombox fill his ears, and the delicious smell of grilled cheeses and vegetables enters his system. Warm smiles welcome and congratulate him. They are here. Erian raises a glass of water in greeting to her older brother; Mel shoves him to the side in the usual aggressive affection she'd show her best friend; Spore, his daughter, hasn't even realized that he has arrived, too busy arguing with her mother about something inconsequential; 'What took you so long?' Are the words plastering Astria's eyes as they lock in a warm embrace. With his old and trusty longboard in hand, Zerathur throws himself into the clear blue waters of the Southern Seas, joining Salazar and his friends in the waves. Drenched in saltwater and under a swift sunset, the old Chloromancer lays upon his surfboard. He smiles and closes his eyes. He's home.

It is done. Their memories were compiled and adequately rewritten to further fact from fiction. Did it take him long to revise his work, or did it take no moment at all? Zerathur closes his book and carefully cradles it in his arms. Every lover, every friend, every acquaintance, forever with him. None of them shall ever be forgotten. The breeze died millennia ago; The endless forest was illuminated solely by the illusionary phantoms that moved back and forth in their unending routine. All of their names, their ambitions, and their emotions now rest between his arms. He saved them. All of them. The sky above remains dark and empty. It's been too long since the last surviving spacefarers came upon his domain. Or was that just yesterday? He still sees them begging for help and shivering cold; He still hears their joy and laughter, even as their phantoms stumble across the graves he dug for them. Zerathur couldn't save his kind. He couldn't save the Equestrians. He couldn't save those that came after, not from death. He saved them from being forgotten. The Chloromancer stands at the very End, just outside the gate of his old wooden house. Here, he casts the last spell he'd ever weave. As the Universe becomes undone, a slit opens in the fabric of reality. He steps into the unknown...

Eadil is a Necromancer. It is common in his kind's folklore for healers and medics to arrive too late to save the heroes who've fallen in the great battles of old, those born with the natural affinity of healing often mocked as 'healers of the dead': A pejorative term turned official with the consolidation of the Velgraviran Empire. As he stares at the skulls piled upon his desk, he curses the irony. He wasn't here to help those who needed it when they were hurt, much like the 'Necromancers' of the past. The difference is that these were not heroes. Carefully examining the skull he held in hand, passing his fingers softly around the cracks and structure, he'd focus every strand of loose thought within his mind to remember who this used to be. This one... She was called Violet Case. She had worked with him before. An Equestrian who washed up on the shores of Old Antioch, recovered by a group of teenage surfers. Re-educated into the ways of their isolationist Empire, she made for a fine archivist while alive. Nothing but an empty white smile in death. Ever since he returned to the ruins of his homeland, he took it upon himself to remember, catalog, and bury every lost soul. That was his job. The other survivors said nothing against it, for they were too busy with their own projects to pay attention to the others. It's a miracle that they even came together to vote for an Executor. Even more surprising that the one with the highest votes was a Grey-coat... His mind is wandering. He's been sitting there for at least an hour, whistling wind from the Frozen South waking him up from torpor. He quickly writes Violet C. on the skull he still held, then finally sets it aside. If only he had been there to save them. The last rays of sunlight shine through the broken window just a few meters away from his desk. Carefully, he gets up and sneaks his way around the rubble of the broken spire to better see the sun making its final descent. He's always felt great joy in watching the sunset on the bay here in his office. Even now, with all around him reduced to ruins, it was still a peaceful view. A heavy gust of wind made the floors creak and the structure whine. Quickly turning on the spot, Eadil flings his hand into the air in the direction of the voice; From his fingertips, lights pulverized the shadowy silhouette. There was no one there, only Doubt's Shadow. That's the name he gave it, at least. Do the others have to deal with something similar? Doubt has been naught but a pain ever since his return to the ruined office, ever bothering him with taunts and mischievous actions. An anomaly caused by the enormous quantities of psionic energy left in the air, the worst he has ever had to meet in his life so far. Doubt's whisper freezes the man in position, his hand still held high. The skulls of his colleagues, which had been previously gathered and piled upon his desk, were now set in a semi-circle around him, floating at eye level. - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - Orbs of light flicker into existence over the golden streets of Nova Antioch, and the horrible sound of metal bending and tearing breaks the silence on an otherwise calm dusk. The ground trembles as one of the smaller spires of the Eastern Sector folds into itself, debris and rubble scattering over the road and the pavement. Due to the way Velgravirans engineer their buildings, the structure collapsed into itself, not damaging any of the other nearby spires. Yet it caused so much of a ruckus that the entire city was alerted. So happened to be that Spore was near the tower as it fell. The lunch's leftovers, which she was bringing to Eadil, fell to the ground as she stood in shock and watched her best friend's workplace tumbling to the ground. The two Praetor Hive Guards quickly took position in front of her to protect the shorter and more delicate figure of their Queen, but were unable to stop her from bolting forward. She ran as fast as her feet could take her, the under-developed insectoid wings flapping on her back as though they were trying to boost her forth even further. At the top of her lungs, she repeated her friend's name as she climbed onto the collapsed building. She tore into broken glass and ruined metal with her bare chitinous hands, digging away desperately.

Waves crash upon the golden sands of the Southern Shores. Seagulls fly above, silent fireworks explode in the distance. His shoes sink into the damp sand, and the maritime breeze of the early evening fills his lungs. "Zera?" A feminine voice calls out, prompting him to turn his head to look over to its source. Even though she was heavier than him, the changeling mare skips next to him with unparalleled grace, not leaving a single mark where she stepped. Her purple mane flows along the wind as freely as her loose white dress, a large smile dawning from one side of her delicate chitinous face to the other. "We're together now!" Her words sounded innocent, even as she skidded into place in front of him and pointed at his face. Zerathur couldn't help but laugh, gently batting her hand to the side with his own. Her purple eyes look back at his with joyful defiance, the stubborn changeling princess stepping from side to side every time he tried to go around her. Eventually, the grey-coat sighs and burrows his hands into his pockets. "Wait, what? What in the name of Khas all of this about now, friend?" "Drop that word!" The chloromancer steps to the side just in time to dodge the punch she aimed at his chest. She misses wildly, spinning in place and nearly tripping over herself, giving the stallion just enough time to hasten the pace and continue his walk along the shore. Once she finally regained composure, she ran back up to him and strutted around by his side, whistling with the hands behind her back. "So! Your sibling told me you cry your eyes out when I leave for the mainland---" "Sibling, you mean Four Eyes!? That lying lardhead!" "--- And that you! Have difficulty deciding stuff, so I've decided for you! Don't worry, I'll be making all of your choices from here on out. O k a y ?" Her grin somehow grows even further as she stares at his dumb surprised/betrayed expression. She wastes no time, taking ahold of his wrist and dragging his hand out of the pocket in which it hid, just so she could hold it. "Just because a set of stubs have grown at the top of your head doesn't mean you're a queen yet, you've no right to command me like that!" "That's not a no!" She runs ahead, her hand slipping away from his as she laughs loudly and proudly. Zerathur chuckles and follows for a few steps, but his smile diminishes as her details fade. Just ten feet away, all that could be seen was her white silhouette running over the sand. The smile on his face, whilst weak, remains still even as he raises his hand and snaps his fingers, the illusionary phantom of his lover fully dissolving.

Ever since they moved to the proximity of the Whispering Woods, Frost Tear's parents warned her of the dangers of the forest. Never explicitly so, keep in mind, for legends and myths are perhaps one of the best ways to elicit a child's imagination. Tales of trees that walk on their own, that snatch up lost children, and poof, they are gone. On her eighth autumn, she found that trees were the least of her worries. Instead, it was they who shielded her from Fletcher's eyes. Her father took her mother's life, and if little Frost did not run and hide, hers too would be jeopardized. She could hear the trees whispering with the softest breezes as day turned into night. Her feet were numb with the pain of wandering, and her eyes burned as though they were still trying to cry. Exhausted as she was and kilometers into the forest, she mused the idea that she'd never be found as she fell and lay still on the ground. Midnight rose, and so did the girl. Her nightmares were ever-present, and in her mind, she could feel she was being watched; eyes in shadows, darkness seething in hunger. Silvery moonlight cascaded in areas not covered by the trees, and through them, she trudged until the clouds darkened the sky. Frost stood in despair as darkness crept in. She could not move a muscle nor think as her body locked up and her vision began to fade. She was all but lost when, out of a sudden, a guiding light flickered into existence just beyond her reach. It was no torch, it was no candle, it was the glow of an unnatural flame. Soft blue hues guided her steps, cold yet welcoming, eerie yet friendly. She found herself in a clearing, gravestones covered in moss and small blue flowers dotted the area between the trees. Orbs of blue light idly floated in the air, and amidst them was a statue. The statue of a stallion standing on watch over the graves. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Spoke the statue, raising one of its hands and plucking one of the scattered orbs from its path. The orb grew dimmer, and puff! It fluttered away from the statue's reach, the light now in the shape of a butterfly. Frost was stunned by the lights and the statue that moved and talked. She felt her body moving on its own as she stepped forward and drew closer. It knelt down to face her, and it was then that she realized that the white clothes it wore were natural. This was no construct. She felt the warmth of its touch as it laid a hand on her shoulder. This was someone. Something. "I am the Evergrowing, and you have wandered into one of my sanctums." His words sounded soft and gentle, possibly trying to assure the young lass that he would cause her no harm. Yet, she could barely move. "I.. Frost." Her voice was frail and barely audible even for herself, but a frown overtook the grey stallion's face. He stood up, his dull blue eyes focused on something beyond her. It took a few moments, but he lowered his gaze to her once more and offered his hand. Together, they walked back into the woods, the trees moving aside to make passage as they made their way through. He led her to the edge of the forest, and when she looked back, he was gone. A local huntsman found her in the morning and brought her back to the village. Pieces of Fletcher, her father, were found scattered and covered in vines near the cabin where he killed his wife.