Esquestria: The House of the Sun - A pony cultist experience

[Sk1lz3r]

I think the Mother is pretty clearly the Mother of Ants.

Click to shrink...

I… what? Are you talking about her new mother? Because her name is the DAUGHTER of AXES.

Let me repeat that.

DAUGHTER of AXES.

Wasn't there a knock-hour that is a literal axe?

Or am I missing something really obvious here about the question and making a fool of myself?

 

[ses]

I… what? Are you talking about her new mother? Because her name is the DAUGHTER of AXES.

Let me repeat that.

DAUGHTER of AXES.

Wasn't there a knock-hour that is a literal axe?

Or am I missing something really obvious here about the question and making a fool of myself?

Click to shrink...

Axe was "the daughter of another, before she did what she did". She was a daughter of the Mother of Ants and then changed allegiances (and presumably changed her name) to the Horned Axe after some kerfluffle eras ago that we don't know the specifics of.

 

[Sveta08]

Gods-fron-Stone

Not chaos but subversion...

My goodness, if I am right!
Well, working on a writing. Only in part related to this thought, but, well, yes.
Thinking on stuff.

 

[Sveta08]

The Door outside the Manus

---

You are dead.
Or perhaps it is better to say you are not alive. To die one must have lived. And much as you did, you did not. But even that obscures it.
You are not alive as you never have been, though you are made of things that once were.

You are The Door.
You are The Threshold.
You are the First all will cross.

And you do not think.
But you do remember.
It is all you can do.
The entirety of your birth.



Have you ever wondered about a home? The walls, the windows, the floors, the doors, the ceiling. All of them, separation. Sundering a space from the Outside. It is Creation. It is Division. There once Was, and now there is Inside and Outside. Like a scab upon the world, space itself was sundered and a growth in its place, given distinction where once was none.

Some with eyes may call such a thing a creation of Forge. It is to build to reshape, to reform, to create. And while that remains true that Forge was the creation of the house, Knock was the creation of the division. Some wonder if Knock then is subservient. Forge in creation of walls then creates Division, just as Edge is creation of wounds that then are openings. And some scholars wonder such things.
But you do not.
Knock is at the center. It is as much as it is not.



The thing that would one day become you was once great.
Grand and Powerful in the way not just of that of the era, but by her nature. Serpents are royalty by the virtue of their venom, by their form, and by their motion itself. By finding the path, finding the way of something. Not exactly finding truth. But finding the path, the design, the choice. Decision.
Division of what could be to what will be. To modernity, it is called an Opportunity Cost. The capacity of such a thing is written in their blood, their venom, their bone.

It's why you are made of her.

She was the greatest. Perhaps the first. Perhaps the last. The seventh. The third. It matters not which she was for the fact was, she was. She was the greatest of her Era and perhaps all Eras.

And she watched as creation fell.
And she watched as the Manus shattered.
And she watched as Glory was locked away.

But she did not die.
Not then.
Not there.


Hers was Knock in the same way that the sky is a birds. Hers was the breadth and depth of it's grasp to know the truth and the falsehoods of its birth. Hers was an understanding born of blood and understanding and time past time.
So when she looked upon the lock and declared that No power in this world could shatter it, there was despair. For as Knock thick as her words there was truth in them. And there was still yet truth in them. Ever and always.
For no power in this world could shatter that lock. And all else saw that truth and knew they could never shatter it. No bodies, no power, no might and no muster would ever be enough. It was judgement and damnation and hopelessness.
But the truth of her words was still there. No power in this world.
Hers was absolute on this fact.

They tried all the same.

It was the might of Glory, the belief of Understanding, the calling to Power.
Acolytes rose to try and break this lock. Believing in a new and true understanding. Believing in their own capabilities. Bodies to pile high, powers to be wielded, dominion to be exerted and prove mettle and worth. To claim Glory when it could not be touched. Ever would there be seekers. Ever would their be those too hungry. Ever would they climb and fly to the fire.



Was it for them that she did it?
Was it because she was a mother once?
Was this simply her cutting off at root rather than branch?
Or was it simply because she knew this was the only path?
Those parts of her are gone, so you can only wonder.

Here was a world that would devour itself. A fox caught in a trap to gnaw it's leg off, only to bleed to death. Here was a world that could not be saved and could not itself grow. Blood and salt in the fields, there was no place for a solution to grow.
Glory held an appeal, but she was not Gloryblind. Or perhaps she was, and this was the way to be closer. Just not lost in the way others might be.


It is said that the poison of a serpent can erode the soul. Cut away the parts of you to shape you into something else. Something greater and yet lesser. And she would prove that true.


One drop of venom she dropped on the ground. But not the ground, the air. And not the air, but the space. The world. A piece of the world cut free and cut loose, that part shaped into a key. A hole. An empty spot through which others might one day venture. A flaw she created, sinking and seeping and drowning there. A keyhole to this world.

And then she rose. Serpent long enough to stretch from horizon to horizon, she rose herself to swallow the sun. She wrapped herself around the heavens. Body coiling tighter and tighter and tighter until the world itself bent. The corners of the map, the untold possibilities of what could be severed and sundered as the world was bent in on itself by her weight and burnt away by her venom. Till the world bent and met itself and there were no more unknown edges to the maps.
There was nowhere more to search in this world for the power to break the one true lock. Further dud she swallow, swallowing herself as she pinched off Glory from the sky. Tighter and smaller as she bit and consumed herself. Drowning in her own venom.

For a price must be paid on the creation of a door. And if she was to shape herself into a passage, then she must violate everything. Her body, her flesh, her heart, her soul, her memory. Everything that she was. Everything she could have been.
Made into a door, so the light of Glory could only be seen from a keyhole.
From her.



You are The Door outside the Manus. Invisible and unseen, eroded till nothing remains but your purpose.
For you were created from the body of a serpent.