Post by romper on Nov 12, 2012 8:25:27 GMT -5
They sliced my bones. The stripped my flesh and sent it to the flesh collectors. The flesh collectors. Indifferent to our suffering. They could not hear our screaming over the buzzsaws as they slip past our skin into our bones.
I was like so many others. In Trottingham, every day the flesh collectors flayed my kind, ground our skin to paste and mix it in giant vats. The pulverised skin is stretched thin to make a substance they call "paper".
This paper is sent all over the land. Sometimes it is burned, sometimes the horrid ponies scratch messages on it with the feathers of birds. Sometimes our dermis is put to childish use; boats, hats, planes.
We feel it all. Every scratch, every lick of flame, every fold and crease.
When they came for me I was one of the lucky ones, for my end was swift. Their axes broke my skin like overripe fruit, hacking indifferently towards my bones. When they cracked and splintered and I toppled, the flesh collectors descended upon me, carving me up.
My flesh was sent to the flesh collectors in Ponyville. Their local witch scratched arcane runes all over it, such a proud and wicked creature; her shelves were lined with boxes of the flesh of my kind and she drew a perverse pleasure from reading her torturous markings, of turning the flattened, pulverised skin of trees over and over. There would be no rest for my flesh, no release from the torment.
But my bones were another story.
My bones were sent to the sawmill, where my sap, my blood, was drained from me. My bones were sliced to make boards, scattered all over Equestria. One of those boards was sent to the Crystal Kingdom and became a door.
The door, a simple thing in appearance, but with life breathed into me by King Sombra's dark magic.
Making me remember. Making the pain come back in waves, agony so vile and powerful it cannot be expressed. I begged to be destroyed but instead, was turned into a twisted thing.
At first I resisted. I hated being a creature of nightmare and shadow, so far removed from my original purpose. But time went by and the dark tendrils of Sombra's shadow magic wormed their way inside my mind, poisoning it to my core. Soon I began to relish what I had become.
And then, for the first time since I was felled and butchered like a beast, fortune smiled upon me.
The witch, the one who used her feather scratch into my flesh, appeared before me.
I was a haunted, twisted creature now, but I saw in her my chance to have my revenge. The witch, with her scratching quills, would pay for what she did to my skin. For her indifference to my suffering.
I showed her the worst thing she could imagine. I showed her failing, and her rejection of her craft. I wanted her to be like the yellow pony, the lover of us, yet a traitor still: she stood by and let us be flayed. Let our bones be sliced and carved. She is the lesser of the evils, but if she were to place hoof in front of my hinges, I would have her a jibbing wreck.
The witch was spared that day, the timely intervention of her minion saving her from my wrath, but I am nothing if not patient. I sit in the Crystal Kingdom, silently plotting her return, praying that some day her hoof will find its way to the cold prosthetic that the ponies attached to me, the so-called handle.
I wait... and I plan.
I plan a vision for all ponies. Something to ply them from their slumber, to shake their courage to its foundations, to make ponies of earth, ponies of horn, ponies of wing and ponies of crystal alike tremble before me: a vision of the world as I will have it, unmade and unbound, made amorphous and without substance. I shall do to their flesh what they have done to mine, render it formless and shapeless, like putty in a child's hands.
All ponies shall be reduced to this base form, like the "paper" they make of our skin. A technicolour, lurid substance, the ground up flesh of ponies, and I will -- as the flesh collectors do to my kind -- *sell* the byproduct. I shall market it to those who love the ponies the most, those who will weep bitter tears when they discover what their substance is.
The ponies call the flesh of trees "paper". I shall call the flesh of the multicoloured ponies... "Gak".
Gak, gak, gak.
Gak, gak... gak.
I was like so many others. In Trottingham, every day the flesh collectors flayed my kind, ground our skin to paste and mix it in giant vats. The pulverised skin is stretched thin to make a substance they call "paper".
This paper is sent all over the land. Sometimes it is burned, sometimes the horrid ponies scratch messages on it with the feathers of birds. Sometimes our dermis is put to childish use; boats, hats, planes.
We feel it all. Every scratch, every lick of flame, every fold and crease.
When they came for me I was one of the lucky ones, for my end was swift. Their axes broke my skin like overripe fruit, hacking indifferently towards my bones. When they cracked and splintered and I toppled, the flesh collectors descended upon me, carving me up.
My flesh was sent to the flesh collectors in Ponyville. Their local witch scratched arcane runes all over it, such a proud and wicked creature; her shelves were lined with boxes of the flesh of my kind and she drew a perverse pleasure from reading her torturous markings, of turning the flattened, pulverised skin of trees over and over. There would be no rest for my flesh, no release from the torment.
But my bones were another story.
My bones were sent to the sawmill, where my sap, my blood, was drained from me. My bones were sliced to make boards, scattered all over Equestria. One of those boards was sent to the Crystal Kingdom and became a door.
The door, a simple thing in appearance, but with life breathed into me by King Sombra's dark magic.
Making me remember. Making the pain come back in waves, agony so vile and powerful it cannot be expressed. I begged to be destroyed but instead, was turned into a twisted thing.
At first I resisted. I hated being a creature of nightmare and shadow, so far removed from my original purpose. But time went by and the dark tendrils of Sombra's shadow magic wormed their way inside my mind, poisoning it to my core. Soon I began to relish what I had become.
And then, for the first time since I was felled and butchered like a beast, fortune smiled upon me.
The witch, the one who used her feather scratch into my flesh, appeared before me.
I was a haunted, twisted creature now, but I saw in her my chance to have my revenge. The witch, with her scratching quills, would pay for what she did to my skin. For her indifference to my suffering.
I showed her the worst thing she could imagine. I showed her failing, and her rejection of her craft. I wanted her to be like the yellow pony, the lover of us, yet a traitor still: she stood by and let us be flayed. Let our bones be sliced and carved. She is the lesser of the evils, but if she were to place hoof in front of my hinges, I would have her a jibbing wreck.
The witch was spared that day, the timely intervention of her minion saving her from my wrath, but I am nothing if not patient. I sit in the Crystal Kingdom, silently plotting her return, praying that some day her hoof will find its way to the cold prosthetic that the ponies attached to me, the so-called handle.
I wait... and I plan.
I plan a vision for all ponies. Something to ply them from their slumber, to shake their courage to its foundations, to make ponies of earth, ponies of horn, ponies of wing and ponies of crystal alike tremble before me: a vision of the world as I will have it, unmade and unbound, made amorphous and without substance. I shall do to their flesh what they have done to mine, render it formless and shapeless, like putty in a child's hands.
All ponies shall be reduced to this base form, like the "paper" they make of our skin. A technicolour, lurid substance, the ground up flesh of ponies, and I will -- as the flesh collectors do to my kind -- *sell* the byproduct. I shall market it to those who love the ponies the most, those who will weep bitter tears when they discover what their substance is.
The ponies call the flesh of trees "paper". I shall call the flesh of the multicoloured ponies... "Gak".
Gak, gak, gak.
Gak, gak... gak.