Fallout Equestria: Eldest Odyssey

Long ago, the leaders of Equestria failed to prevent the end of the world as they knew it. Balefire rained from the sky despite their efforts, nearly wiping out all of ponykind. The generations of ponies that followed inherited a sick, twisted land full of deadly radiation, irradiated abominations, and sub-pony raiders.

If you are reading this, you already know that times are changing here in the Eldest Wasteland. Monsters of all kinds are being tamed or exterminated, the enemies of ponykind and lesser beings that do nothing but hinder our ascension are being expelled from our lands, and a new age of pony civilization is on the rise.

This is the story of the stallion to whom we owe our newfound prosperity.

The cold wind from the east was calm today. Sometimes it stays still for days at a time. Sometimes it roars past my head, tossing blades of grass and kicking up small clouds of dirt around me, making my eyes water. But today it was calm, consistent, and pleasant.

Ahead of me lay a seemingly endless expanse of hilly plains, mostly brown with large splotches of hardy, brownish-green grass that waved at me as the wind blew. A little further away, I could see the hills of grass and dirt give way to hills of snow. The horizon was dominated by a range of much larger hills that looked purple from the distance. Or maybe they were small mountains. I never really figured that out, despite having stared at the same landscape nearly every day since I was seven years old. I’ve heard that a vast ocean exists beyond them, where salty, irradiated waves crash against unyielding crags. I sometimes like to pretend that I can hear the waves hit the mountains in the wind, despite not knowing what waves sound like.

Behind me was the village of Oyorra. It’s a silly name, I know, but it was home. My post was at the eastern edge of the village. My job was to watch the eastern horizon for any possible threats. This was the duty entrusted to me eleven years ago, back when I was a little colt that could barely hold a spear without telekinesis.

Oyorra is the easternmost settlement anypony knows about. The further east, or north, you go, the colder the climate gets. Even if the cold itself doesn’t kill you, the irradiated snow will.

That is probably why, in all my eleven years of serving as Oyorra’s only line of defense against any eastern threat, I never saw a single pony. Not even a lonely radroach. But I didn’t mind. My job was very important. If anything bad came from the east, it would fall to me to defend the village. The village elders said so. It was my purpose in life, all I ever wanted to do, and all I needed to be satisfied with living. I’d have gladly stared at that unchanging landscape my entire life.

However, my eighteenth year was fast approaching. Life changing events, under the guise of a rite of passage, would soon befall me.

I am Bulwark, son of Oyorra, and this is my story.

Footnotes: Welcome to level 1: Simple Tribal

Bulwark:

S  P  E  C  I  A  L                        Tagged skills

7  6   8  7  3  5  4                        Melee, unarmed, speech