The Outcasts

It was a warm afternoon and the sun was still sitting directly above Earth's Haven. Business was at its peak for a pub called The Cider Barrel located against the wall in the eastern corner of the city. Inside, a mare with a plum coat and raspberry colored mane was feverishly cleaning the counter. She always thought a thoroughly cleaned counter would bring about more customers if the building itself didn't. Once she was satisfied with the glossy shine of the smooth wood, the mare returned to serving tall mugs of only the finest cider, the kind that she figured only ponies who had a discerning taste could truly enjoy.

The soft ring of the bell above the double doors caught her attention, and she instantly recognized the stallion walking into the bar. He was a regular customer here who told enough hunting stories to fill a book or two. Deadeye was his name, not because of his now defunct right eye, but the fact that he used to be a crack shot whenever he went hunting, and to this day holds the record for the highest number of mutants exterminated. Now he's just an experienced hunter with a keen nose that serves in the guard force for the city.

"The regular draft Mister Deadeye?" asked the mare as the ex-hunter sat down at the end of the counter. He nodded. The bartender tossed a mug into the air, deftly catching it and spinning about on one hoof like a ballerina as she poured cider into it. She set the pitcher back on the shelf behind her and proceeded to slide the mug down to Deadeye as she was juggling three cherries with her opposite hoof. With one swift, fluid motion, she tossed the cherries towards the still sliding mug before picking up a wooden skewer mid-spin and throwing it like a tiny javelin, impaling all three of the tiny fruit, the whole assortment landing straight in the mug with a small splash before it was stopped by the intended recipient.

The stallion chuckled. Berry Punch, the only pony skilled in the art of flashy cider service. She sauntered over to Deadeye, and leaned on the counter with a gleam in her eyes. "Soooo... what's the word today Mister D?" The guard raised an eyebrow, and stopped drinking from his mug. He looked around to see a crowd had built up around him, all with expectant grins on their faces. They wanted to hear one of his tales of his hunting days. Deadeye took a sizeable swig from his cider and breathed a defeated sigh.

"Alright then. You want a story? I'll give ya one then." he said. He rubbed his forehead for a second. "Ah! I've got one..."

Snowcap Plains, 19 years ago

"Hey Deadeye! I'll bet ye can't shoot this wee little can off ma head without scalpin' me!" Trott shouted. He was a great distance away from the hunting group, and had a discarded tin can mounted on top of his head.

"Hey, get a load o' Trotty all the way over there." said a light tan pony with an Irish accent as he gently elbowed his companion. Deadeye looked up from his map and followed the direction of the tan pony's hoof to find Trott jumping up and down waving one of his forelegs in the air.

"Alright, what's the Scot on about this time?" he asked impatiently.

"From what I'm hearin', I'm s'posin' he wants ya to shoot somethin' offa his head."

"You can't be serious..." the marksman said.

"Oh come on, he's doin' it to have a little bit o' fun. We been marching for hours, and we ain't found a single mutant sulkin' 'round these parts. All we seen is white, white, an' more white. Just humor the poor bastard, will ya?" Deadeye huffed, blowing a small cloud of steam from his nostrils.

"Fine." He folded up the map and reached for his rifle.

Three seconds to set up.

Deadeye dropped to the ground after pulling his rifle from the sling on his back. He brought the bolt back and inserted the magazine into its slot with a soft click before shoving the bolt forward and down, then brought the scope to his eye. Through it, he could see Trott's idiotic grin whenever he stopped spouting nonsense for a moment.

Two seconds to line up the shot.

The crosshairs were fixed on a small cylindrical object on top of the Scotspony's head. A simple little tin can. Mere child's play for the marksman.

One to pull the trigger.

The object flew off of Trott's head, and he almost fell backwards in a panic. He found his footing again before looking back behind him, then back towards the group with a dumbfounded look on his face. Deadeye chuckled. He hadn't seen the Scot this surprised since the time he woke up wearing makeup after a night of hard partying at the bar.

"Alright Trott! You got me to shoot a can off your head, now get your flank back over here, we got mutants to hunt!" Deadeye shouted to the Scot as he was trotting towards the group. The Snowcap Forest was coming up in the distance, where mutants were said to have been hiding for the past several weeks now. That was the destination of interest for the group, though it would have to wait. Nightfall was coming fast, and they all needed to set up camp and rest anyway.

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A half-ring of tents sat around a slowly dying fire, having been set up just an hour before night fell over the land. The Irish pony leaned forward from his seat and poked some of the logs in the fire with a rod, moving them slightly to keep the fire, the group's only source of light and heat, burning. His coat looked almost golden in the glow of the flames. Trott sauntered out of his tent, his forehooves in the pockets of his jacket.

"How's the fire treatin' ya Irish?" The pony tending the fire just shrugged. He had his coat wrapped around himself like a blanket as he sat on a rock. The Scottish pony settled onto one of the stools that stood near the fire pit, and the two just sat there in silence a few moments before Trott finally spoke. "You've been awful quiet since we set up camp. Somethin' in your side lad?" Irish didn't respond. Trott brought his gaze back to the fire.

"Timber wolves." Irish finally said softly.

"What?"

"Timber wolves, Trott. I can smell 'em from here, and that means we're gettin' a little too close to their territ'ry."

"Oh quit worryin' lad. We got oil and a few lighters. When we're done with 'em, they'll be called 'cinder wolves'!" Trott bust out laughing at his own little joke.

"This isn't a joke Trott! Them timber wolves'll catch wind o' us before long, and when they do, I'm doing the smart thing and runnin' for me life!" Irish spat. Deadeye peeked out of his tent.

"Hey what's all the noise over?" he asked.

"Ah ol' Irish here's yammerin' about us being close to timberwolf territory. I say he's gettin' jumpy." explained Trott.

"This nose hasn't lied to me yet, and I know the stink of timberwolf when I smells it!" Irish snapped again. Deadeye looked west, towards the Snowcap Forest. The forest wasn't too far off, and he knew cold weather didn't affect timber wolves. He looked back towards his bickering companions who were practically at each others' throats at this point. Deadeye rushed out between the two, pushing them apart with his forehooves.

"Now hang on a second!" he said. No use, the two were already on the verge of violence.

"You're just yella! Ya don't have the guts to hunt down a mutant, Irish!" Trott snapped.

"Guys, will you-"

"So says the Scotsman who jumps whenever he shoots his own damn gun! I says I'm right and we turn tail now while we still got 'em!" Irish spat back.

"Guys-"

"And I say we keep goin' the way we're goin' so we can drill a round through-"

"SHUT UP, BOTH OF YOU!!" Deadeye shouted angrily. The arguing stopped instantly. "Look, we're not going to flip our lids over a bunch of living twigs with bad breath. If push comes to shove, we can go with Trott's suggestion and burn them, but other than that, we focus on turning a mutant's head into swiss cheese and picking off whatever's valuable." The marksman gave both of his companions a pat on the shoulder and headed back to his tent. Trott and Irish scowled at each other before following suit.

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"...And I says ta him, 'sure ya can talk tough, but are ya tough?' I tell ya that stallion never came at me cross again." Irish finished a tale he was telling.

"So that's how you lost yer tooth? Ya got in a bar fight?" Trott asked.

"Yup. But I can't say I swung first." Irish said slyly.

"Oh? And why's that Irish?"

"Cause I didn't! Me hoof did!" Trott started laughing before starting up a tale of his own as the group trekked through the forest. Deadeye pulled out the creased map of Snowcap Forest and scanned over it. His eyes stopped on the thick red circle that marked where ponies said they saw mutants the most, then on one of the landmarks next to it. Seawash Ring. The marksman turned to look behind himself. Sure enough, the ring of stone wasn't too far off, and that meant they were getting close.

"Irish, Trott, stow it. Just up ahead is where mutants should be hiding, so if we want one dead, we need to keep quiet." Deadeye said flatly.

"Gotcha." Trott quipped. No answer from Irish.

"Irish?" The marksman was about to turn around when he saw a flash of tan streaking through the bushes. Irish was already on the prowl. Above the shrubbery, a proud horn lightly bounced up and down as its owner pranced about, unaware it was being hunted. Neither Deadeye nor Trott could see the tan coat of their Irish cohort anymore, save for subtle hints as to where he was by rustling leaves, so they followed the bouncing horn instead.

"YAAAAHH!!"

In a flash, Irish flung himself down onto the unfortunate creature beneath him and began furiously stabbing away at his victim. The other hunters just watched as the horn swung back and forth erratically before it finally fell out of view and the sound of steel plunging in and out of flesh ceased.

"Irish?" Deadeye called worriedly. No answer. "Irish?!" Again, no answer.

"What happened to keepin' quiet, sharpshot?" Irish asked calmly.

"AAAH!"

"EYAA! Sweet fires o' Tartaurus Irish, how long've ya been standin' there?!" Trott asked, still scared out of his wits.

"Oh, I dunno... A second?" He snickered a little at his friends' reactions. "Oh, that reminds me! I got ya both a present from me travels! No returns, yeah?" Irish said as he hoisted a corpse up next to him. Its head lolled about with each jerk and shove.

"Damn... And I thought Trott was the violent one!" the marksman quipped.

"Oh yeah, I'm nasty, but I never cracked a bastard's neck when I get in a fight." Trott said, visibly scared of his tan-colored cohort now. "But, that aside, we-... I mean Irish bagged a mutant for our troubles, so we best start shavin' it."

Present day

"Whoa whoa whoa. What do you mean by 'shave' the mutant, cyclops?" one of the bar goers piped up in the middle of the story. The guard brought a hoof to his forehead.

"When a mutant hunter says they're gonna 'shave' their kill, it means they cut off whatever's worth a pretty penny here in the city. Now zip it if you want to hear the rest." Deadeye explained.

Earth's Haven border forest, 19 years ago

Irish was smiling the whole way to the city, carrying saddlebags full of the valuable parts they cut off of their kill. He was counting the bits in his head as he trotted ahead of his companions.

"So Irish, what exactly do ya think we'll be gettin' when we sell the shavings?" Trott asked.

"Let's see... Th' horn goes for a hundred, the feathers are a bit a pound, and, if I'm recallin' right, the hide goes for seventy-two. We got three pounds o' feathers, so three bits there. We're gonna have a hundred and seventy-five bits from this 'un." Irish announced proudly. The three of them began contemplating what they'd do with their cut of the profits. Trott had his sights set on heading to one of the most revered pubs in Earth's Haven and having a few rounds of cider there, whereas Irish was intent on getting a personalized knife for future hunts. Deadeye was considering getting a barrel mod or a new scope for his rifle. Suddenly Irish stopped dead in his tracks.

"What's wrong Irish? You just realize that's more money than what you get at that dead-end job of yours?" Deadeye joked.

"Deadeye, we been followed home..." Irish's voice dripped with great concern.

"Pff, yeah. By Trott." the marksman joked again.

"Can't ya smell 'em?!"

"Irish, what in-" Deadeye cut himself short. He could smell something rancid, and it smelled close. "Timberwolves."

"What's gotten inta you two? First we're talkin' about cash, now we're-"

"Trott, we can discuss that later. Right now, run!" the marksman ordered.

"But-"

"SHUT UP AND RUN!!" Deadeye yelled, just as a pack of wooden creatures burst forth from the bushes that flanked the sides of the trail. The trio bolted towards the city gates as fast as they could muster, hoping that they'd get close enough for the guards to take notice and help stave off the beasts.

"RAAAWR!"

One of the timberwolves pounced on the marksman, pinning him to the ground beneath its splintery front paws.

"Deadeye!" Irish yelled.

"KEEP RUNNING! I'm dog chow anyway!"

"Not on my watch, ya aren't!" Trott and Irish rushed the beast that had their friend pinned, but were quickly surrounded by the remaining wolves. "Okay, I guess ya are... We'll get help, I can promise ya that lad!" Trott assured Deadeye before he and Irish ran for the gates. Deadeye watched as his friends ran to safety, then brought his gaze back up to the glowing green dots on his assailant's muzzle.

"I'm not going that easy you overgrown twig!" he said before spitting in the wolf's eye. It began furiously swiping at his face as he held the beast at a distance with his back hooves. This tactic seemed to be working, but as he looked around, Deadeye could see his time was growing shorter every second as the other timberwolves were slowly closing in on him. If he survived, this'd make one hell of a story. Just as he turned to look at his initial attacker, he felt its claws slash across his right eye. Deadeye kicked the wolf off of him as he was screaming in agony, rolling onto his side and covering his still-bleeding wound with his forehooves.

"This is it. The part where I die..." Tears welled up in his good eye as he braced for the killing blow from his attackers.

KAPOW!

The sound of a rifle rang out, and one of the wooden wolves suddenly had a gaping hole in its head as the beast fell to the ground in pieces. A second shot rang out, and another wolf fell in half. The rest of the timberwolves saw they were getting picked off and fled with their stick tails between their stick legs.

Present day

The crowd still sat around the aged pony with stares of admiration so intense, it was almost like they were trying to see if they could talk him into telling another tale, though that wasn't likely to happen. Deadeye downed his fifth mug of cider and looked about.

"And that's how I got this fancy scar." he said before finishing off his fifth mug of cider. He looked about for a moment. "I assume you're all still staring at me because you want to hear another one of my trips down memory lane, correct?" The other bar goers nodded. "Well too bad." he got up and sauntered towards the door. A reporter just happened to walk through the door and stopped Deadeye in his tracks.

"Uh, pardon me thir! I'm a reporter for the Gathelle, the local paper, and I'd like to interview you. Em, what'th your name?" The reporter spoke with a lisp, and wore square-rimmed glasses that had a bent paperclip in place of one of the screws accompanied with a fedora that had several holes in it, not from bullets of course.

"It's Deadeye. Now what do you want?" Deadeye asked, slightly annoyed.

"Ah! Mithter Deadeye! I've got theveral quethtionth I wanna athk you thir!" The disgruntled guard facehooved.

"Pick ONE, and only one! I'm not planning on staying here longer than I want to."

"Okay." The reporter put a hoof to his chin for a moment. "I wanna know how you can pick out a pegathuth jutht by thmell. How do you do that? I'd like to know how to thniff out one of 'em if they get inthide the thity!"

Deadeye grabbed the colt by his polka-dot bowtie and pulled him close.

"They. Smell. Like. SPICES." he said each word through clenched teeth before shoving the colt aside and briskly trotting through the door.