"The HORROR! The HORROR!"

"Th—th—th—THE H-h-h-h-hugs! The unspeakable hugs!"

Ponies scatter like flocks of headless chickens. An unfortunate metaphor, given the current situation.

Barreling down Ponyville's normally sleepy Mane Street is a living, galloping catastrophe. It has no mask, no malice, no face to speak of, really. But what it lacks in cranial features, it makes up for in pure, unrestrained bliss.

And trailing along—not exactly in sync—is Amber Gloom's head.

"EMBERRRR! NOOOOOOO!" Amber's indignant shriek pierces through the screams of panicked ponies. But alas, dangling from her body's back like a particularly vocal pumpkin at harvest, her cries for "reason," "dignity," or quite frankly "NOTHING THAT GETS US BANISHED IMMEDIATELY," all go unheard. Or worse, ignored.

Ember, carrying Amber's protesting noggin via a cringe-inducing contraption of vines and haphazard knots, is completely oblivious to the terror she inspires. She has zero intention of causing harm. Her only goal? HUGS.

Sweet, unspeakably tight hugs.

With hooves thundering across cobblestones, bouncing with the carefree abandon of someone who has never had to worry about whiplash, she chases down anything warm or animate. Flower carts? Tipped. An entire gazebo? Not important. Ponies? PRIME CUDDLE TARGETS.

Of course, Ember can't see them. She doesn’t rely on sight like others do. Instead, she feels the world in rhythm and pulse—the rumbling vibrations of hooves pounding in frantic flight, the quickening of breath, the hurried rush of bodies trying to escape (But why?).

"My BRILLIANCE! My COUNTLESS years studying the arcane arts, and THIS… THIS IS HOW WE RETURN TO THE WORLD?!" Amber seethes, trying to ignite the vine sling with desperate sparks of magic. "First chance out of that rotten, damp crypt and you're USING IT TO CHASE CUDDLES FROM TURNIP TENDERS!"

It falls on deaf non-ears. Ember presses onward, undeterred. To her, the streets are alive with signals of warmth. Heartbeats fading around corners, the delicate brush of life slipping into shadows: out of reach but never completely lost. The chase is ON.

"EMBER!" Amber barks. "Why, oh for the love of—STOP SNIFFING WITH YOUR NECK!"

Boing Boing Boing

Amber’s teeth clench hard enough to crack stone. Each bounce sends rage rippling through her… well… skull. These days she is mostly jaw and spite.

"Ember!" she hisses. Low. Dangerous. That damned body—her once-proud body—bounces the glowing orb with the restraint of a sugar-rushed foal.

The priceless relic flickers with faint enchantment, now reduced to party trick status in the hooves of a beheaded imbecile.

"By Tartarus’ seventh circle… Bounce that once more, and I swear—"

Boing.

"You. Did. NOT."

###BOING.

It stops. By Luna’s mercy, it finally stops. The echoes hang in silence so sweet it brushes forgiveness.

Her idiot body tilts, headless yet somehow brimming with confusion like a dog that has peed on the carpet and can't figure out why the mood has shifted.

Amber deflates. A long exhale she doesn’t even need. "Finally."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"What did I just—"

Wait! That isn’t the ball. And it isn’t Ember.

Steps. Deliberate. Slow. Real.

Her nonexistent spine coils. Impossible. No one has set hoof in this crypt in centuries.

"Ember," she barks, sharp and hurried. "Noise! Now!"

Oblivious to any urgency, Ember plops down into a dramatic pout. Crossed forelegs, hips wiggling. Adorable. Useless. Adorably useless.

No noise. Too many noises earlier. Now no-noise is the better choice. Isn’t it?

"Not now! Not now!! This isn’t a negotiation! JUST STOMP. DO. SOMETHING. YOU BRAINLESS SACK OF FUZZ!"

Grumbling through her pouts, Ember concedes with a thundering stomp. More. More. Heavy. Heavier.

##THUMP THUMP. SLAP SLAP. BOOM.

The stonework quakes.

Still… Steps. Louder now. Nearer. Nearer than they’ve been in hundreds of years.

With the last tattered shred of her dignity trampled under panic, Amber’s mouth drops open in desperation.

"HELP!" she screams, high-pitched and frantic, a headful of regal wit reduced to pathetic shrieking. "DOWN HERE! IMPRISONED—GENIUS—ENDANGERED!"

She takes a split-second to regroup. Tone, Amber. Make it regal again. Commanding.

"AHEM. RELEASE ME, MORTAL! I AM A GREAT NECRO—ER, ENCHANTRESS! RELEASE ME AND RICHES SHALL BE YOURS!"

The crypt should've stayed sealed forever.

Amber hasn't accounted for decay—rocks erode, hinges rust. So when the sound of crumbling stones rasps across centuries of silence, it takes every ounce of her pride to stifle a scream of manic hope.

Her head (so her whole, really) buzzes with plans immediately: escape! Supplies! Minions! Maybe an army if they still honor old pacts!

Except one problem.

She can't leave.

The "ingeniously" self-sustaining necromantic wards she crafted centuries ago include a binding circle, locking her head and consciousness into this rotting tomb. No soul-boosters, no body. No one-way trip outside for Amber.

Ember? Blissfully free… well, physically at least.

"Ember!" Her shout rattles the dimly lit chamber. With no legs to pace or hooves to stomp, she hovers inches above the shelf, just as far as the necromantic tethers allow. "Ember, listen carefully. Our prison has a crack. The very first one. This might be our chance! You—yes, YOU sweet oblivious husk—need to go find somepony and bring them back. Got it?"

For a minute, only the echo of her own haughty tone bounces back at her.

Then, at last, Ember bounds into view. Headless as ever, her plush black body prances toward her with the same oblivious joy Amber has grown to dread.

Is that a skip? Faust help her.

Without warning, Ember spins in a happy circle and then… nuzzle!

Amber's squashed head presses into the crook where her own throat once was. JOY!

"NO! Focus! Gah!" She's going to lose her sanity at this rate. "Look, you need to leave—yes, through the crack in the door—and find ponies! Ones with real bodies and functioning heads. For Faust's sake, FIND HELP! They'll… they'll work it out! They have to."

Ember hesitates. Then she skips to the door like this is another game. A bounce of joy—Amber doesn't bother calling back; she needs Ember to want it, or this is sunk already.

Two days later:

Emotions impossible to temper surge each time she feels Ember through their link. Instead of salvation?

Nibbles.

Bites.

Scratches and burns.

Apparently, Ember tries befriending local wildlife. Dumb enough to hug strays, durable enough to survive them.

"Oh for Luna's sake… she probably tried snuggling timberwolves…" Why her? Is playing with death and eternal life that bad a sin to warrant such torture? "COME ON! Just find a pony with half a functioning neuron! ANYPONY!"

"The HORROR! The HORROR!"

"Th—th—th—THE H-h-h-hugs! The unspeakable hugs!"

Ponies scatter like flocks of headless chickens. An unfortunate metaphor, given the current situation.

Barreling down Ponyville's normally sleepy Mane Street is a living, galloping catastrophe. It has no mask, no malice, no face to speak of, really. But what it lacks in cranial features, it makes up for in pure, unrestrained bliss.

With hooves thundering across cobblestones, bouncing with the carefree abandon of someone who's never had to worry about whiplash, Ember chases down anything warm or animate. Flower carts? Tipped. An entire gazebo? Not important. Ponies? PRIME CUDDLE TARGETS.