“Having good trigger discipline leads to less wasted ammo and less wasted money.”
-Wasteland Survival Guide, Gryphon Wisdom

The rain was comforting with its constant tempo. The rain was nice because it helped obscure the abandoned buildings of my hometown. The rain was nice for hiding small noises when you were trying to be quiet. And finally, the rain was nice for hiding the sound of a suppressed weapon. The constant drip and dampness engulfed our world, as we sat scouting for the nest of rats. The constant dripping had kept us company for the past half hour, nothing had stayed dry though even with being in cover. I checked and rechecked our weapons.

We were out here dealing with mole-rats, the overgrown bastards had a tendency to burrow right through the beached hull of Saint Clover. For once I wasn’t with my patrol squad and instead was out here with my dad. It had been a few years since we had gone out and done some bonding, for a long time he had been busy with my younger brother. It didn’t help that my brother followed in the hoofsteps of my parents with merchant work and now accounting. I didn’t mind too much, I still saw the three of them when I was between jobs. Guard duty, restoring and running the library, as well as working under Patches as I learned the medical trade. Mom and Dad kept busy with running their bit of merchant work during the trade season. With winter in a few months though they’d be looking for something to keep the cabin fever in check. Thankfully Silver Shores had gotten a marefriend not too long ago and had become the town accountant. Which kept him busy, and my parents bugged him about grandfoals for the past few years instead of me. So I wouldn’t need to worry about their cabin fever much.

“Hey, Moonlit-” Dad started then bit his tongue. He remembered that by tradition I had been allowed to rename myself. “Moonlight. I think I spotted the nest.” His heartland accent cut through the evening rain.

The slip up didn’t bother me. It was effectively the same name, just conjugated differently. Plus it was more of why I was being called a name not what the name was. When I had gotten my cutiemark of a book, I had dropped Shores from my name in place for Grimoire. It seemed fitting as the book reminded me of a spellbook, then I changed Moonlit to Moonlight so it flowed a bit better to my ears. I still didn't know how Dad found a mare with the same second half of his name in the first place. He wasn’t even from this region originally, which ruled out the obvious. The name change didn't stop my nickname of Moony working which was nice.

I gave Dad a nod, I didn’t acknowledge his mistake. It had been over a decade since I changed names, far too long to give a shit about it. I trotted after him down the broken pavement. We were outside the recovered blocks around the ship and dock, these streets of Seamane were left to the wild. Feral. I lifted a hoof to stop Dad as I heard the scratching noises of mole-rat claws.

“Building to our left.” I said to him in a hushed voice. I clicked the safety off of the pistol as I held it in my magic. The green glow bathed the street around us as he stood up on his hind legs with his old rifle. I didn’t know why he loved fighting without magic. To me he just gave a much larger profile using that gryphon rifle. He let out a shot and I heard the screech of an injured rat.

I got low and listened, Mole-rats burst out of the sandy ground around us. They avoided the old brick sidewalks and chunks of pavement. I let loose with the pistol counting the shots. Six, five, four, three, two, one, reload. Thankfully around here nothing had thick enough hide to need more than a thirty eight round with a low load. I let out a cry of frustration and pain as a mole-rat came out of the ground below me and got my left foreleg below my barding. Before I could shoot it Dad put a round through it. I pried its mouth off of my leg and quickly wrapped it in bandages. I held my pistol in my mouth. I disliked mouth firing but sometimes it was what needed doing. Not that I hadn’t been raised to fight without my magic.

We had dropped most of the family when the queen rat waddled out. The thing was disgustingly swollen, the smell of it made me gag as I held the revolver in my mouth. I watched as rat-pups scurried over and under it. I turned and cantered back putting distance between the glowing rat queen and myself. Dad scrambled up onto the roof of a building where he would be safe from her jaws. Though given the swarm around her...

I pulled out the firebomb I had grabbed from the armory for disposing of the nest. Since the nest was this abomination it seemed proper. The fire would deal with the swarm even if we couldn’t kill the queen bitch and only drove her off, without any mates and no pups the job would be effectively done. I reared up as I held the alcoholic mixture in my hoof and lit the rag with my horn.

“Fire in the hole!” I called out around the pistol grip in my mouth.

I threw the not-safe-for-consumption mixed drink. There was a flash of light as the bottle broke and the fire stuck to the pups and the queen. The flash made me squint against the dark. Even in the rain the mixture was enough to burn merrily as the screams of the rodent queen and its children filled the air. I popped out the cylinder of the revolver and slotted in new rounds before emptying them into the queen. Anything to finish this faster. Those screams aren’t pleasant to listen to. I could hear Dad firing his old reliable rifle into them as well.

When it was done Dad called down to me. “I think we can call it well done.” Dad said. I gave him a glare as he leaned on his rifle. I could see half of his face from the light of the fire under his wide brimmed hat. He had a smile on his muzzle. Of course he did.

I let out a sigh as I sat on my haunches and looked at my injured leg. This is going to make tomorrow a bitch.

-=O=-

Trait Selected: Good Natured! You are ill suited to the life of frontline combat, taking lives, and destruction. Instead you excel in the fields of communication, healing flesh and machine, as well as the art of the deal.

Trait Selected: Trigger Discipline! Years of instruction have left you relying on muscle memory. This means when it comes to a fight you don’t waste ammo. You win the war with well placed shots. Why waste ammo with three bad shots when one good shot will do. You find a unique calmness in the discipline from the hours of your father’s teaching of trigger discipline and pliniking at the range.

S.P.E.C.I.A.L. Assigned S 6, P 6, E 5, C 6, I 7, A 6, L 4. Are you certain you want this to be your character? Y/N

Understood. Welcome to the wasteland, try not to die too soon!

Author's Note

Note this is the prologue, as the title denotes, chapters will be longer than this. However, this is roughly the style to expect. I hope you enjoy.