EldritchOne
Member
Nephren-Ka Was Here Bruh.
- Last Seen: 6 yrs ago
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 474 (0.11 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- EldritchOne 12 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
I whip my feathered serpent back and forth.
Most Recent Posts
Lets make some corpses.
Monochromatic Rainbow said
Dis gun Your post was nice as well- scottish alicorns!
Pretty sure its a pirate accent.
Creepy ponies are creeping. :P
Trottingham
To call the doctor’s residence a hospital would be a flagrant lie in the honest opinion of Punch-Clock Joke, Pegasus and Cultist for the Laughing mare. He had seen all manner of things in his service of the Cult of Laughter, macabre dolls made of traitors, demons from otherworldly locations, pillars of faces, even some of the cult’s grotesque mockeries of leaders, but never managing reach to this level of clinical emotionless horror. No, this place would be better described as an abattoir, stinking of iron and rot whilst jugs of daffodils and chemicals perfumed the air, in turn only making it more putrescent. Unless specifically guaranteed safety by cult authorities, the doctor had a tendency of making his patients… disappear, what he did with them even made the upper echelons of the cult cringe at the thought.
Unfortunately for them, he was one of the rare medical practitioners who were available for their more clandestine requirements. Most others had been drafted by the various governments of splintered Equestria, although Earthborn had gotten the worse end of that due to their dehorning policy. Still, no matter his actions, he was a required talent in the cult’s activities and thus his fouler experiments were either ignored or hushed up. There were even rumours of deals being made with the good doctor to ensure that such disappearances of his Cult affiliated patients ceased, in return for a supply of … other subjects.
As Punch-Clock walked through a long hallway of hospital beds filled with patients bearing the most gruesome of injuries, he was surprised and disturbed by the quiet that ruled over the place. Usually a hospital was filled with the bustle of nurses, the coughing and choking of patients or even muted moans of pain. This place however, was entirely silent asides from his muted breathing and the clipping of his hooves on sterile white flagstones.
Looking around he passed the more aware patients of the good doctor and shuddered at their emotional responses to even the movement of hooves. Many huddled into tight balls of white linen blankets, covered in bandages and staring out in utter terror as he made his way through them. For a moment he was struck by an image of a stoat in a warren, its hypnotic gaze set upon a huddle of baby rabbits as they stared in paralytic fear, waiting for the animal to move in for the kill.
It seemed to take hours before he neared the end, a small stairway made of the same white ceramic stone as the floor arched up suddenly to a browned, rusted iron door. He paused and looked to his left where he saw something curious. A small unicorn foal was working tirelessly on a strange mechanical puzzle box, her horn aglow with flickering bronze magical energy as she attempted to push and probe the device. She looked perfectly healthy to Punch-Clock, a pale white coat with bronze hair and blue-green eyes and it took him a while to realise why she was here.
Below her waist she had no legs.
On further inspection he noticed a two wheeled device which must have aided her in moving about, but what was most noticeable was the presence of a large arched chip near the base of her horn.
An attempted dehorning.
From what he had heard of the Earthborn’s practice it sounded like utter agony, the horn of a unicorn -even more so than any other horned creature- was a sensitive part of the body and several arteries ran beneath the bone amongst the soft tissues. In the early years it had been almost a miracle if the unicorns didn’t bleed to death or die of shock from their dehorning, although Earthborn had been steadily developing their brutal craft since the introduction of the policy.
Not that they had much interest in keeping crippled ponies alive anyway…
He was surprised when she looked up from the device and raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, almost accusatory for his transgression. He looked away, blushing at his poor manners.
For a moment there was silence before she spoke up in a clipped Canterlot accent.
“Tell dearest uncle that I am nearly finished with this one and for him to send me something more challenging” she said, returning her gaze to the puzzle box as part of it slid away. Asides from the slight clicking of the changing form of the box, the world became silent once more.
Confused, Punch-Clock nodded slowly towards the foal, and turned back towards the door. Walking up the steps he paused and took a deep breath of the sickly air before mustering his courage and tapping on the door.
The metal clang of the door was uncomfortably loud in the silence of the hospital and he stood there waiting as sounds of clinking metal and shuffling hoofsteps made their way steadily towards the door. With a small creak the door opened and two brooding eyes caught him in their icy gaze.
For a moment they simply looked at each other before a refined voice broke the silence and a grey hoof motioned to him.
“Come in.”
Dr Charred opened the door more fully, and the light of the hospitals windows showed that which darkness had hidden. He was covered in a surgical apron and a rolled up shirt, everything seemed to be coated in blood and viscera and he smelt of iron and cinnamon. A surgical mask hung loose around his neck and a thin smile cut jagged across the doctor’s cold features.
Punch-Clock paused as the doctor turned and strode back into the near darkness of the tunnel, disappearing into the gloom like a wraith. He shuddered in fear and entered; surprised by the sudden drop in temperature as he did so. Looking around he found the cause of this in the form of magical devices made of sapphire gems, artificial refrigeration devices.
Trotting along into silence he eventually spotted flickering blue lighting ahead and the dark silhouette of the doctor standing before the door, beckoning with one hoof. The image was disturbingly surreal and for a moment Punch-Clock’s mind switched towards that of flight. It was almost too suggestive of horrible outcomes, but still he pulled through and made his way past the shadow of the doctor and into the surgery room.
The room much like the rest of the hospital in design, large arched windows covered the far side, showing the stars and moon bright in the midnight sky. White tiling covered the walls halfway up and the room was illuminated by pale electric Tesla lamps which produced a continuous glow of contained purple-blue lightning. Large cabinets sported an array of medical devices and large esoteric machinery covered the better part of the room, emitting a droning noise like the sounds of thousands of flies. Dark substances bubbled and frothed in an alchemical lab to the right side of the surgery and a nearby desk was littered with the same type of puzzle boxes seen in the hooves of the foal before he entered.
Whilst he had been staring the doctor had moved to the centre of the room and began working on the operating table, Punch-Clock couldn’t quite see what he was working on, but it looked like an Earthpony of considerable size, perhaps even a Juggernaut. Whatever it was it was obviously dead, the flayed skin and bodily organs lay in a bucket, and Punch-Clock felt an overwhelming feeling of nausea spread as he heard the wet slice of knife upon flesh.
“I assume your masters sent you here for a reason.”
The disinterested tones of the doctor echoed around the chamber, startling him out of his observations.
“The Cult always wants something… I assume some battle or terrorist attack they are attempting tonight or in the future? Some pointless dribble no doubt.”
“Yes Dr Charred.”
The doctor turned his head and gave him a withering look.
“We then, get to it.”
“The cult recently suffered an ambush by Moon and Star inquisitors; we have injured that need tending to for an upcoming retaliatory attack. Our leader offers the usually payment and …” he paused, the words foul in his mouth “test subjects for your experiments”.
“How many injured?”
“20”
“How many Filth ponies?”
Punch-Clock bit back a retort and breathed through his nose angrily “… ten”.
The doctor was silent for a while, the only sound in the room that of floating blades and machines on bone and muscle. Then he spoke.
“I will require an increase in test subjects in exchange for this, preferably Juggernauts… the last batch they gave me is almost depleted… then I will consider helping your… comrades.”
“The cult will not stand for a change in our established deal!” Punch-Clock seethed.
The doctor only eyed him again, and his skin crawled at the look of patronising pity on his face.
“The Cult is not in a position to made threats, I am one of the only surgeons willing to deal with your injured in this city, and I know enough of your activities to do some considerable damage to your operations. An increase in test subjects, take it or have your companions die from unsanitary conditions and infections in your hideouts, tell your master that.”
“Your niece…”
The doctor’s face visibly darkened, a barely restrained expression of fury being clouded by his traditional Canterlot pose.
“You touch her, and you and your masters will quickly find yourselves flayed alive, it has not been the first time I practiced that technique, and it won’t be the last.”
“… we will consider your request.”
“Good, now go, I tire of your prattling... but before you do, take this to my niece.”
The Doctor levitated a similar puzzle box into the outstretched hooves and motioned for him to leave. As he left through the darkened corridor he privately raged, he knew the cult would have to give into the doctor’s request, as he had said they didn’t have much choice.
Still, it was degrading.
A loud noise startled him from his thoughts, for a moment he didn’t realised what it was until he heard Dr Charred’s voice echo down the tunnel.
“So… you are awake again are you? Excellent, the stars are beautiful tonight, and look! A meteor shower, maybe you'd like to wish upon a star? After all, feeble hope is the only thing you have left.”
Punch-Clock didn’t waste any time in voiding his dinner over the floor of the tunnel, before fleeing in horror towards the exit… and away from the moaning of a pony he had thought was dead.
To call the doctor’s residence a hospital would be a flagrant lie in the honest opinion of Punch-Clock Joke, Pegasus and Cultist for the Laughing mare. He had seen all manner of things in his service of the Cult of Laughter, macabre dolls made of traitors, demons from otherworldly locations, pillars of faces, even some of the cult’s grotesque mockeries of leaders, but never managing reach to this level of clinical emotionless horror. No, this place would be better described as an abattoir, stinking of iron and rot whilst jugs of daffodils and chemicals perfumed the air, in turn only making it more putrescent. Unless specifically guaranteed safety by cult authorities, the doctor had a tendency of making his patients… disappear, what he did with them even made the upper echelons of the cult cringe at the thought.
Unfortunately for them, he was one of the rare medical practitioners who were available for their more clandestine requirements. Most others had been drafted by the various governments of splintered Equestria, although Earthborn had gotten the worse end of that due to their dehorning policy. Still, no matter his actions, he was a required talent in the cult’s activities and thus his fouler experiments were either ignored or hushed up. There were even rumours of deals being made with the good doctor to ensure that such disappearances of his Cult affiliated patients ceased, in return for a supply of … other subjects.
As Punch-Clock walked through a long hallway of hospital beds filled with patients bearing the most gruesome of injuries, he was surprised and disturbed by the quiet that ruled over the place. Usually a hospital was filled with the bustle of nurses, the coughing and choking of patients or even muted moans of pain. This place however, was entirely silent asides from his muted breathing and the clipping of his hooves on sterile white flagstones.
Looking around he passed the more aware patients of the good doctor and shuddered at their emotional responses to even the movement of hooves. Many huddled into tight balls of white linen blankets, covered in bandages and staring out in utter terror as he made his way through them. For a moment he was struck by an image of a stoat in a warren, its hypnotic gaze set upon a huddle of baby rabbits as they stared in paralytic fear, waiting for the animal to move in for the kill.
It seemed to take hours before he neared the end, a small stairway made of the same white ceramic stone as the floor arched up suddenly to a browned, rusted iron door. He paused and looked to his left where he saw something curious. A small unicorn foal was working tirelessly on a strange mechanical puzzle box, her horn aglow with flickering bronze magical energy as she attempted to push and probe the device. She looked perfectly healthy to Punch-Clock, a pale white coat with bronze hair and blue-green eyes and it took him a while to realise why she was here.
Below her waist she had no legs.
On further inspection he noticed a two wheeled device which must have aided her in moving about, but what was most noticeable was the presence of a large arched chip near the base of her horn.
An attempted dehorning.
From what he had heard of the Earthborn’s practice it sounded like utter agony, the horn of a unicorn -even more so than any other horned creature- was a sensitive part of the body and several arteries ran beneath the bone amongst the soft tissues. In the early years it had been almost a miracle if the unicorns didn’t bleed to death or die of shock from their dehorning, although Earthborn had been steadily developing their brutal craft since the introduction of the policy.
Not that they had much interest in keeping crippled ponies alive anyway…
He was surprised when she looked up from the device and raised a quizzical eyebrow at him, almost accusatory for his transgression. He looked away, blushing at his poor manners.
For a moment there was silence before she spoke up in a clipped Canterlot accent.
“Tell dearest uncle that I am nearly finished with this one and for him to send me something more challenging” she said, returning her gaze to the puzzle box as part of it slid away. Asides from the slight clicking of the changing form of the box, the world became silent once more.
Confused, Punch-Clock nodded slowly towards the foal, and turned back towards the door. Walking up the steps he paused and took a deep breath of the sickly air before mustering his courage and tapping on the door.
The metal clang of the door was uncomfortably loud in the silence of the hospital and he stood there waiting as sounds of clinking metal and shuffling hoofsteps made their way steadily towards the door. With a small creak the door opened and two brooding eyes caught him in their icy gaze.
For a moment they simply looked at each other before a refined voice broke the silence and a grey hoof motioned to him.
“Come in.”
Dr Charred opened the door more fully, and the light of the hospitals windows showed that which darkness had hidden. He was covered in a surgical apron and a rolled up shirt, everything seemed to be coated in blood and viscera and he smelt of iron and cinnamon. A surgical mask hung loose around his neck and a thin smile cut jagged across the doctor’s cold features.
Punch-Clock paused as the doctor turned and strode back into the near darkness of the tunnel, disappearing into the gloom like a wraith. He shuddered in fear and entered; surprised by the sudden drop in temperature as he did so. Looking around he found the cause of this in the form of magical devices made of sapphire gems, artificial refrigeration devices.
Trotting along into silence he eventually spotted flickering blue lighting ahead and the dark silhouette of the doctor standing before the door, beckoning with one hoof. The image was disturbingly surreal and for a moment Punch-Clock’s mind switched towards that of flight. It was almost too suggestive of horrible outcomes, but still he pulled through and made his way past the shadow of the doctor and into the surgery room.
The room much like the rest of the hospital in design, large arched windows covered the far side, showing the stars and moon bright in the midnight sky. White tiling covered the walls halfway up and the room was illuminated by pale electric Tesla lamps which produced a continuous glow of contained purple-blue lightning. Large cabinets sported an array of medical devices and large esoteric machinery covered the better part of the room, emitting a droning noise like the sounds of thousands of flies. Dark substances bubbled and frothed in an alchemical lab to the right side of the surgery and a nearby desk was littered with the same type of puzzle boxes seen in the hooves of the foal before he entered.
Whilst he had been staring the doctor had moved to the centre of the room and began working on the operating table, Punch-Clock couldn’t quite see what he was working on, but it looked like an Earthpony of considerable size, perhaps even a Juggernaut. Whatever it was it was obviously dead, the flayed skin and bodily organs lay in a bucket, and Punch-Clock felt an overwhelming feeling of nausea spread as he heard the wet slice of knife upon flesh.
“I assume your masters sent you here for a reason.”
The disinterested tones of the doctor echoed around the chamber, startling him out of his observations.
“The Cult always wants something… I assume some battle or terrorist attack they are attempting tonight or in the future? Some pointless dribble no doubt.”
“Yes Dr Charred.”
The doctor turned his head and gave him a withering look.
“We then, get to it.”
“The cult recently suffered an ambush by Moon and Star inquisitors; we have injured that need tending to for an upcoming retaliatory attack. Our leader offers the usually payment and …” he paused, the words foul in his mouth “test subjects for your experiments”.
“How many injured?”
“20”
“How many Filth ponies?”
Punch-Clock bit back a retort and breathed through his nose angrily “… ten”.
The doctor was silent for a while, the only sound in the room that of floating blades and machines on bone and muscle. Then he spoke.
“I will require an increase in test subjects in exchange for this, preferably Juggernauts… the last batch they gave me is almost depleted… then I will consider helping your… comrades.”
“The cult will not stand for a change in our established deal!” Punch-Clock seethed.
The doctor only eyed him again, and his skin crawled at the look of patronising pity on his face.
“The Cult is not in a position to made threats, I am one of the only surgeons willing to deal with your injured in this city, and I know enough of your activities to do some considerable damage to your operations. An increase in test subjects, take it or have your companions die from unsanitary conditions and infections in your hideouts, tell your master that.”
“Your niece…”
The doctor’s face visibly darkened, a barely restrained expression of fury being clouded by his traditional Canterlot pose.
“You touch her, and you and your masters will quickly find yourselves flayed alive, it has not been the first time I practiced that technique, and it won’t be the last.”
“… we will consider your request.”
“Good, now go, I tire of your prattling... but before you do, take this to my niece.”
The Doctor levitated a similar puzzle box into the outstretched hooves and motioned for him to leave. As he left through the darkened corridor he privately raged, he knew the cult would have to give into the doctor’s request, as he had said they didn’t have much choice.
Still, it was degrading.
A loud noise startled him from his thoughts, for a moment he didn’t realised what it was until he heard Dr Charred’s voice echo down the tunnel.
“So… you are awake again are you? Excellent, the stars are beautiful tonight, and look! A meteor shower, maybe you'd like to wish upon a star? After all, feeble hope is the only thing you have left.”
Punch-Clock didn’t waste any time in voiding his dinner over the floor of the tunnel, before fleeing in horror towards the exit… and away from the moaning of a pony he had thought was dead.
Name: Silver Scalpel
Species: Unicorn
Gender: Male
Coat/Eyes/Mane/Cutie Mark: Silver Scalpel’s coat consists of a dull industrial grey with his mane colour consisting of burnished copper with strands of muddy gold. His eyes are a deep watery blue, with flecks of sea green, and he has sharp, refined aristocratic features due to his Canterlot upbringing and family ties. He dresses well, but his clothing of a red and gold paisley pattern waistcoat, silk shirt and formal black tie, and long styled coachpony’s coat show the wear and tear of the road. He wears a cracked Nazar amulet from Saddle Arabia, and carries with him a worn doctor’s satchel made of crocodile skin. His Cutie Mark consists of a book, scalpel and singular teardrop of blood.
Special Talent: Silver Scalpel’s special talent lies mostly in the fields of surgery, anatomy and haematology; thus he has a talent for intensive work on the most mangled and damaged of creatures and thus has an expansive magical talent for healing. However, a more abstract interpretation is his own studies into changing the body from one state to another, or metamorphosis through physical transmogrification upon the bodily form, represented in his darkest experiments into forbidden, and “blasphemous” learning.
Occupation: Medical practitioner/Occultist
Affiliation: Silver Scalpel’s loyalty is only to himself, he uses the other houses where he is welcomed as a means to an end for his own immoral experiments and for access to esoteric information. He has extensive connections in Moon and Star territory through his family who have benefited from Twilight’s dictatorship as well as minor connections with the Cult of Laughter (although not a member), Stormwing and Everfree. With war ravaging Equestria, doctors are in short supply and an asset amongst all factions after all, no matter their unsavory history.
Personality: With his upbringing in Canterlot, Silver Scalpel inherited the aloof and cold personality of the Canterlot nobility, as well as their growing prejudices against many non-unicorn ponies. He has a barbed tongue and asides from disapproval or disinterest rarely shows any positive side to him. In his work he is clinical and emotionless, occasionally muttering macabre observations whilst working but mostly acting in a semi mechanical fashion. The only time he becomes animated is during his studies in which he will pace and speak emphatically on obscure pieces of information, or occultic passions. Silver Scalpel also expresses grave distaste of Earth ponies, almost to the point of bigotry due to the Earthborn’s dehorning and execution of many of his family members, as well as the actions of desperate ponies in the Moon and Star slave domes.
He is ambivalent about Pegasi and dragons, but is disparaging of Griffons, viewing them as bestial savages. He does however, not let prejudice cloud his judgement in terms of work, so long as you pay him he will at least be civil, if not friendly with other species of pony and griffon. With the elitist personality also comes a tendency towards secrecy and paranoia, much of his work is in a secret code of his own making and designed to be obscure and vague. Silver Scalpel cannot stand being stared at by ponies directly, or long durations in tightly packed crowds due to certain unpleasant memories of his work for Moon and Star early in his career. Silver Scalpel also expresses a complete lack of moral codes in regards to his research, if you provide to know something he wants, he will not cease in his efforts to gain it. Due to his secrecy, he frequently goes by pseudonyms and has frequently dyed his coat during his long history to maintain anonymity. As it is, those who know of him only know him by many different names, and so no definite description of him has ever been created by certain authorities that might wish him dead.
Back-Story: born in Canterlot six years before Celestia’s disappearance, Silver Scalpel was raised with all the expectations a noble family of his standing was deemed to abide by in societies standards. He was however, a sickly, frail foal but with studious edge and great aptitude in both magic and biology, so was sent to Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. Despite his intellect, he had very poor relations with his close family, specifically his father, who viewed him as a disappointment for not fitting to the militaristic standards he expected of his first born colt and was extremely abusive. Silver Scalpel kept himself chained to the library for most of his period of study in the School and rarely made many friends, instead focusing on learning and improving his magical abilities. His social impairment lead to frequent bullying, and he grew to hate crowds and children equally from this period of time.
With the disappearance of Celestia and the chaos that followed, Silver Scalpel’s education was disrupted before being taken over by Moon and Star ministrations, which propagated a distinctively racial edge to his studies. With his early graduation ten years later and a further three in university and another two at medical school due to his skill, he became a practicing surgeon in the Moon and Star slave domes and thus gained an outlet for far less moral work in the study of biological magic and unorthodox research. He became infamous for his work in altering the base magical properties of his subject’s flesh, the altering and adapting their forms, and the macabre study of death, frequently working in brutal conditions without aesthetic. Due to this he quickly earned the name amongst the Slaves as “the Red Death”. Knowing of the possibility of the failure of Moon and Star before entering his duties, Silver Scalpel requested the government classify his name and work, and dyed his coat and changed his name before entering the domes. As it is, few knew his real name, and retribution would be hard to enact by opposing parties interested in assassinating him if he happened to go into hiding.
However, this semi loyalty work for Moon and Star was to change following an especially traumatic experience during a slave rebellion. Following this Silver Scalpel increasing cane to distrust and resent the government, who used his studies to further their own means and disallowed him access to his own private research notes despite his involvement. Silver Scalpel in the following month overheard whispering from the slave pens about another revolt in a few days and decided to use it to his advantage. The night before the rebellion he stole his research notes from the government safes and enacted one last experiment. This experiment however proved to be an extremely important discovery in his research field and he struggled to get down even half his observations before the riots ensued. Forced to leave his surgery as the riots overwhelmed the guards, Scalpel fled through hidden tunnels out of the slave dome and onwards to freedom. The Moon and Star administration declared him legally dead and hailed him as a martyr for the Unicorn cause in the newspapers, using his pseudonym instead of his real name. Through official channels he was relieved to find that his researches theft had been put down to Earthborn treachery.
Following this he practiced as a freelance surgeon across the war torn nation, collecting information to further his goals, but always seeking another chance to recreate the conditions he found on the day of the riots. Known as a butcher, and monster and a manipulative creature, he has gained a reputation under dozens of names as nightmare itself, as his massive web deceptions begin to crack and collapse, and tales of a dark doctor spread. With the arrival of the Alicorn’s, he sees a prime chance to further his own immoral bloody research, who knows… perhaps he shall finally know the blood and flesh of a god under his scalpels and thus complete his research...
Species: Unicorn
Gender: Male
Coat/Eyes/Mane/Cutie Mark: Silver Scalpel’s coat consists of a dull industrial grey with his mane colour consisting of burnished copper with strands of muddy gold. His eyes are a deep watery blue, with flecks of sea green, and he has sharp, refined aristocratic features due to his Canterlot upbringing and family ties. He dresses well, but his clothing of a red and gold paisley pattern waistcoat, silk shirt and formal black tie, and long styled coachpony’s coat show the wear and tear of the road. He wears a cracked Nazar amulet from Saddle Arabia, and carries with him a worn doctor’s satchel made of crocodile skin. His Cutie Mark consists of a book, scalpel and singular teardrop of blood.
Special Talent: Silver Scalpel’s special talent lies mostly in the fields of surgery, anatomy and haematology; thus he has a talent for intensive work on the most mangled and damaged of creatures and thus has an expansive magical talent for healing. However, a more abstract interpretation is his own studies into changing the body from one state to another, or metamorphosis through physical transmogrification upon the bodily form, represented in his darkest experiments into forbidden, and “blasphemous” learning.
Occupation: Medical practitioner/Occultist
Affiliation: Silver Scalpel’s loyalty is only to himself, he uses the other houses where he is welcomed as a means to an end for his own immoral experiments and for access to esoteric information. He has extensive connections in Moon and Star territory through his family who have benefited from Twilight’s dictatorship as well as minor connections with the Cult of Laughter (although not a member), Stormwing and Everfree. With war ravaging Equestria, doctors are in short supply and an asset amongst all factions after all, no matter their unsavory history.
Personality: With his upbringing in Canterlot, Silver Scalpel inherited the aloof and cold personality of the Canterlot nobility, as well as their growing prejudices against many non-unicorn ponies. He has a barbed tongue and asides from disapproval or disinterest rarely shows any positive side to him. In his work he is clinical and emotionless, occasionally muttering macabre observations whilst working but mostly acting in a semi mechanical fashion. The only time he becomes animated is during his studies in which he will pace and speak emphatically on obscure pieces of information, or occultic passions. Silver Scalpel also expresses grave distaste of Earth ponies, almost to the point of bigotry due to the Earthborn’s dehorning and execution of many of his family members, as well as the actions of desperate ponies in the Moon and Star slave domes.
He is ambivalent about Pegasi and dragons, but is disparaging of Griffons, viewing them as bestial savages. He does however, not let prejudice cloud his judgement in terms of work, so long as you pay him he will at least be civil, if not friendly with other species of pony and griffon. With the elitist personality also comes a tendency towards secrecy and paranoia, much of his work is in a secret code of his own making and designed to be obscure and vague. Silver Scalpel cannot stand being stared at by ponies directly, or long durations in tightly packed crowds due to certain unpleasant memories of his work for Moon and Star early in his career. Silver Scalpel also expresses a complete lack of moral codes in regards to his research, if you provide to know something he wants, he will not cease in his efforts to gain it. Due to his secrecy, he frequently goes by pseudonyms and has frequently dyed his coat during his long history to maintain anonymity. As it is, those who know of him only know him by many different names, and so no definite description of him has ever been created by certain authorities that might wish him dead.
Back-Story: born in Canterlot six years before Celestia’s disappearance, Silver Scalpel was raised with all the expectations a noble family of his standing was deemed to abide by in societies standards. He was however, a sickly, frail foal but with studious edge and great aptitude in both magic and biology, so was sent to Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. Despite his intellect, he had very poor relations with his close family, specifically his father, who viewed him as a disappointment for not fitting to the militaristic standards he expected of his first born colt and was extremely abusive. Silver Scalpel kept himself chained to the library for most of his period of study in the School and rarely made many friends, instead focusing on learning and improving his magical abilities. His social impairment lead to frequent bullying, and he grew to hate crowds and children equally from this period of time.
With the disappearance of Celestia and the chaos that followed, Silver Scalpel’s education was disrupted before being taken over by Moon and Star ministrations, which propagated a distinctively racial edge to his studies. With his early graduation ten years later and a further three in university and another two at medical school due to his skill, he became a practicing surgeon in the Moon and Star slave domes and thus gained an outlet for far less moral work in the study of biological magic and unorthodox research. He became infamous for his work in altering the base magical properties of his subject’s flesh, the altering and adapting their forms, and the macabre study of death, frequently working in brutal conditions without aesthetic. Due to this he quickly earned the name amongst the Slaves as “the Red Death”. Knowing of the possibility of the failure of Moon and Star before entering his duties, Silver Scalpel requested the government classify his name and work, and dyed his coat and changed his name before entering the domes. As it is, few knew his real name, and retribution would be hard to enact by opposing parties interested in assassinating him if he happened to go into hiding.
However, this semi loyalty work for Moon and Star was to change following an especially traumatic experience during a slave rebellion. Following this Silver Scalpel increasing cane to distrust and resent the government, who used his studies to further their own means and disallowed him access to his own private research notes despite his involvement. Silver Scalpel in the following month overheard whispering from the slave pens about another revolt in a few days and decided to use it to his advantage. The night before the rebellion he stole his research notes from the government safes and enacted one last experiment. This experiment however proved to be an extremely important discovery in his research field and he struggled to get down even half his observations before the riots ensued. Forced to leave his surgery as the riots overwhelmed the guards, Scalpel fled through hidden tunnels out of the slave dome and onwards to freedom. The Moon and Star administration declared him legally dead and hailed him as a martyr for the Unicorn cause in the newspapers, using his pseudonym instead of his real name. Through official channels he was relieved to find that his researches theft had been put down to Earthborn treachery.
Following this he practiced as a freelance surgeon across the war torn nation, collecting information to further his goals, but always seeking another chance to recreate the conditions he found on the day of the riots. Known as a butcher, and monster and a manipulative creature, he has gained a reputation under dozens of names as nightmare itself, as his massive web deceptions begin to crack and collapse, and tales of a dark doctor spread. With the arrival of the Alicorn’s, he sees a prime chance to further his own immoral bloody research, who knows… perhaps he shall finally know the blood and flesh of a god under his scalpels and thus complete his research...
© 2007-2026