...

A grand structure of cobblestones and marble of endless acres; a magnificent building of the past, built of sweat and blood. Stone upon stone, assembled for architectural beauty, and adorned with riches from all corners of the world. A testament of high class, the hoofprint of a bloodline that will be remembered for generations upon generations; stained glass painted with the colours of history, shimmering and beaming with riches; towers of power looming over the land, ever watching the life around it. The ocean lulls it to sleep, curving over the precipice of stone and earth hosting the castle.

Long gone were the days of glory, torn asunder in ages past. Greed and jealousy; blood and gore; misery and pain; all intertwined in the fate of the grand family. A time when even the harmonious continent of Equestria suffered the consequences of chaos. Ponies against ponies, all for the sake of a greater destiny — and a better fate than that of poverty. An age of selfish feuds between those of noble and prestigious descent; to spread the riches; to divide the fame; and to obtain power above all ponies of the region. Sacrifices were made, dripping of blood and tears, and of violence the likes Equestria had never witnessed.

Such were the testimonies of the ponies who had witnessed it; those who had witnessed the fall of the powerful social class. A feud that ran so deep within these ponies' veins, that history itself spared no details; countless reports of killing and vile deeds against their own race for the sake of material gains.

Only the story of one family retains name to this day, in the present era of peace and harmony. Under the sun and the moon did they swear, that may their bloodline forever hold hoof on the living earth; forever shall their identity remain untouched and owned by no other than the cursed souls of the forsaken family, forever linked by their conglomerated heart. A family whom cursed their own flesh and blood in exchange for that of material possessions, and the protection of their family name.

Whereas the archives aim to blur the lines between truth and fiction; reality awakens even those of the most hardened souls by mercilessly forcing them into an unbreakable spell of slumber.

A much desired castle of value; broken glass windows of desaturated colours; structure covered with jewelry of plants; and unimaginable work necessary to refurbish the deserted castle, and many a pony advised against it. Rumours of grotesque consequences, of defiling the dead, and of unimaginable endings; rumours founded purely on hearsay from those who had witnessed the horror from afar.

A welcoming castle, certainly cold from its open windows and the cracks between the stone walls; working lights and active lodging, products of timeless magic, surely. Despite the claims of many, of ponies who all turned down the golden opportunity of selling the accursed property, many were the hooves that dared step inside. The temptation of a richer life; the desire for more; the wish for public recognition and the establishment of an identity. All those whom came and whom challenged history itself.

Those whom denied reality for the blissful belief of fiction.

Those nonbelievers, their blessings were picked clean. Earth ponies deprived of their strength, muscles and limbs ripped and hacked away to pieces; pegasi bearing no wings, feathers plucked one by one, until they left but awkward and gross stubs behind them; and unicorns of no magic, horn cracked and ripped from their brain. Unimaginable horrors of torture, pitted in a blood-soaked floor that became home to but only one forsaken soul; a soul tainted with greed and free of all remorse. It was freed of everything; limbs taken apart; blood drained from its pores; eyes ripped from their sockets; body dismembered and disfigured in the ways of Tartarus. All the while, their fate was a play of emotions for those who watched; those ancient ponies etched into the paintings of walls that suddenly bore smiles of inexplicable satisfaction.

Only the screams remained. Only the soul-splitting screams were kept intact, echoing miserably against the cobblestone walls to create a dissonance of pitiful wails and blood-curdling cries. A soothing melody of joy, a marvellous song of redemption; one stuck on repeat and forever etched into the walls of the cursed castle for the disturbing paintings to hear.

Skinned and maimed to unrecognizable lengths and defiled even in death. Those of dark souls thrown out of the castle, displayed in a grotesque and heinous offering of entrails and blood, any resemblance of pony features long gone.

A single bird of black and white picked the remaining bones clean, grateful to the castle's offering. A mysterious question as to why the creature remained, flying by the haunted walls of stone.

But a single hoof reached out; hesitantly; gently; then retracted, terrified. Curious brown of eyes of longing, echoing their long-lost identity; and a stone-cold body of snow white, tainted with red sin and stitched with forbidden magic. Dead, yet alive; bleeding, yet undead; and the accursed destiny of a pony whose life had been decided by everypony but herself. A soul tainted with the memories and desires of countless generations, oozing out in twisted shades of red and black, hosted in an empty shell that no longer held a beating heart; only the pain of loss; the fear of the future; and the desire to punish those who longed to rip their remaining history from them.

The clink and clank of metal, of a heavy load; a tilt of the head from the solitary bird. Moments later, the feathers fluttered and the creature left; but the pony did not. It was free, unlike the chained pony; unlike the pony inside the castle whose destiny was to punish those consumed by greed, power, and jealousy; all to please the laughing and the giggling and the chuckling paintings hanged across the castle.

Screeching metal floating across a pool of blood; and with the blink of an eye, it was all gone. The breeze blew, guiding along more unsuspecting souls of their untimely demise, welcoming them to a magnificent home of carpet luxury and fine arts.

Rumours founded on a fine blur between that of reality and fiction; left unclear between that of life and death; and most importantly, cursed to repeat history until the redemption of those who refused to heed the warnings.

Those who forget their history are bound to repeat it — and those who ignore it are bound to be punished by those who once called this earth their home.