War, war never changes. Since the dawn of pony kind when our ancestors first discovered the killing power of rock and magic, blood has been spilled in the name of everything from princess's to justice to simple psychotic rage. In the year 3077 after a century of cold war the destructive potential of ponies could sustain itself no longer. The world was plunged into an abyss of magical fire and mutation. But it was not, as some predicted, the end of the world. Instead the apocalypse was simply the prologue to new and bloody chapter of pony history. For ponies had succeeded in destroying the world, but war. War never changes. In the early days thousands were spared the horrors of the holocaust by taking refuge in enormous underground shelters known as Vaults. But when they emerged they had only the living tartarus of the wastes to greet them. But some outside the vault had survived the onslaught, some unfortunate souls burdened with survival in an uncaring and cruel new world. And for these ponies the war was just beginning. War comes in many forms, and for one group of survivors this war started long before the first of the mega spells hit.
Seated in a small fire-lit camp are two such survivors, one of griffon of a lean, lithe stature, the other a pony, smaller than average, a bit stockier otherwise. They were both hunched over wearily and slowly eating a hastily prepared meal of found canned food. Set up behind the pony is a single, small tent, inhabited solely by a pair of packs and a medium-sized sleeping bag. Other than this the only adornments to this camp are the sides of the alcove in which the pair have decided to make camp.
The griffon is long and slender with feathers a deep brown, as if made of chocolate. His chest and head, however, are an egg-white colour, tinged on the edges with a pale blue in his long, slicked-back head-feathers. The griffon is lounged across a slung log, his once-majestic feathers matted with grime, dirt, and other less appealing things.
The other figure, which is much smaller in size, is a pony. She is in a more seated position on a what is left of a stump. With her white also-matted coat attempting to glisten in the warm light, and only barely managing. To one side of her head resides a long, pointed mane, black with dirty white streaks, and her tail similarly coloured, yet short. In this world you need to be practical. Stamped on either side of her flank are identical images of an eight-toothed cog, a symbol of a talent long unpracticed.
The griffon and pony were both involved with designing and overseeing creation of the Equestrian vaults. Antikythera Cogturn and Glenfiddich had been contracted by the royal sisters to create something that could defend against this new threat, which spies had gotten a hold of years before, and experimented on already.
Eyes shining with anticipation they both readily accepted, and the duo set to work. After only a short pair of years, had completed the designs. They were imperfect, untested, but time was short. The cold war was going hot so construction of many in each city began immediately, testing and remodeling as they went. However before they could finish their work the enemy struck, and many ponies fled to these vaults seeking refuge. Soon, the empty, echoing air of abandoned cities is filled with the cacophony of massive doors, shutting and locking, and the occasional wail of sadness from those unlucky enough to not make it inside.
For the first few years the vaults worked as anticipated, blocking out much of the mutagens, and mostly eliminating shock from the blast. Initially much of the population survived. Faced with the fallout from the mutagens that soon followed, those ponies left to the wastes became another race entirely. Losing most of their coats, and their skin cracking and mutilating itself, they became Ghouls. Those who weren't driven mad were exiled from their Vaults, but not all managed to maintain their minds. Some turned into mindless Ghouls, mad and burning with one goal, to kill and eat anything they catch. Other less fortunate souls were turned to super mutants; Large, green-furred aggressors, most of which actively attack anything and everything on sight. Many of these super mutants now life in tribes, in settlements they'd devastated, striking out occasionally to wreak havoc wherever they can.
Twenty-five years later the Vaults opened and ponies from all over Equestria cast their eyes for the first time upon the destruction. Entire cities had been leveled, but there was still something salvageable, and that's what they did: salvaged and eked out a miserable existence.
For five years this pair traveled across Equestria, searching for other survivors, telling them where things will be reborn. Trottingham, a beacon of hope, even if it's not standing. The plan is to have it rebuilt, and once Trottingham is rebuilt the rest of Equestria will follow. Though first, they have one last and very difficult stop to make, Canterlot. They are hoping that the princesses survived, or anypony there for that matter.
Both of them beaten and bruised, hoping to find somepony who doesn't want them dead at their next destination. Travel-weary and exhausted from scavenging they're looking for an out, an escape from this torn country they once called home. Hopefully they find some transportation that had survived the apocalypse. Between the pair of them they should be able to fix up any carriage or airship they come across. But before they even began to search for transportation they needed to survive the night.
The two close friends finish their slipshod meal, and turn in for a long, fretful sleep, much like those they've had previously. Though this time, there's a city on the horizon, their sad destination, Canterlot. And it could contain something to aid their cause, or something wanting to kill them.
