ALL GLORY TO THE OVERGOAT!!!

Chapters

Prologue: From The Collected Mutterings Of Shroom Eater The Strange
THE OVERGOAT RISES... Then Promptly Goes Back To Sleep
THE OVERGOAT SHALL FEAST... Upon Beer And Pancakes
THE OVERGOAT RULES YOU... But He's Not A Jerk About It.
THE OVERGOAT CAN DO ANYTHING... But He Can't Do Everything.
THE OVERGOAT KNOWS WHAT HE IS DOING... Mostly.
THE OVERGOAT REIGNS SURPREME... Just Ask Him.
THE OVERGOAT'S NEEDS NO FRIENDS... But New Allies Are Always Welcome.
THE OVERGOAT HAS RETURNED... For Those Of You Who Didn't Know Already.
THE OVERGOAT WILL OBSERVE YOUR TRIFLING TRADITIONS... So Long As Beer Is Involved.
THE OVERGOAT DOES NOT LIKE SURPRISES... Except When He Does.
Interlude Part One: The Legend Of The Hero
Interlude Part Two: Something Rises

Prologue: From The Collected Mutterings Of Shroom Eater The Strange

So, here's the story, man.

There's evil, there's super-evil, and then there's Grogar. Grogar was Evil with a capital E. One of the big prime Evils of the world. These days, Equestria is really peaceful, and there's a reason for that: The Evils were all killed. Not sealed, but flat out slain. Celestia and Luna saw to that. And there's a reason for that, man.

See, most 'evil' is only evil 'from a certain point of view'. Stallion steals bread, evil. But a poor stallion takes a loaf of bread from a fat and wealthy merchant to feed his starving family? Not evil. A lot of the things we see as evil are just a matter of perspective. A lack of context. When most guys do 'Evil', they don't consider it 'Evil', they have some sort of justification to it.

With guys like Grogar? The Evils? Completely different thing.

In The Beginning, when the Haz-Bo-Ro and the Faust wove the world together, there was a thing that was required. This thing was called Evil. The sum total of all Evil that was meant to be in this world was sealed away, so that only good could florish in the world of Equestria while the creators were at work. However, there was an argument between the Haz-Bo-Ro and the Faust, regarding things that our puny mortal minds cannot comprehend. In the end, The Faust and the Haz-Bo-Ro parted ways, and somehow, during this argument, the seal of Evil was accidentally broken, and darkness spread across the land.

At first, it was just one evil, an ultimate villain out to conquer the world, until a hero and his plucky band... yada yada, struck down the one true evil, you know this story, heard it a thousand times a thousand different ways, so I won't bore you with it. What mattered was the result. Evil was shattered into pieces. These pieces became their own distinct entities. They became... The Evils. And of all the evils, Grogar was the smallest and weakest.

So how did he become the most feared and the most terrible of all the Evils? Simple, man. Because he was the smallest and weakest, he had the greatest incentive to do something that the other Evils did not: Learn. The other Evils were massive and terrible things that could level mountains with ease. As such, they had no reason to learn anything new. Up until the rise of the alicorns, the Evils had nothing to fear, and by the time the Evils realized that the alicorns were capable of destroying them, it was far too late: Celestia and Luna went through the Evils the way a scythe goes through a field of wheat.

But Grogar, being weak, learned stealth and cunning. As such, he hid himself away in a small domain he created for himself, partly of this world, and partly hidden within the realm of shadows, that he named Tambelon. There he could gather power, while remaining undetected to the world at large. Grogar learned the value of having subordinates, and as such, he gathered the Trogs, misbegotten creatures that had no master, and made them his servants. He learned of treachery and deceit, and turned the court jester, Bray, against the princesses, making the donkey into his subordinate. He learned the value of theft, and stole the powers of the fallen Evils, and took them into himself. Grogar learned the value of patience, and spent decades gathering power. Grogar learned the value of wisdom, and spent that time learning all the spells of the world, and invented thousands of new ones as well. For nearly a century, Grogar prepared. And learned.

When Grogar finally appeared, he marched forth from Tambelon with an army of monsters at his back, and went unopposed for many weeks, as the princesses were ensorcelled into a death-like sleep from a vile enchantment that Grogar, working through his agent, Bray, placed upon the sisters. Had he not underestimated their strength, or the power of the Equestrian wizards that eventually broke the spell, then they might have been sleeping still. In the end, it very nearly did not matter: Grogar's army had conquered nearly half of Equestria before the princesses awoke, and had they slept even a week longer, then the final Evil would have won.

Instead, the princesses woke, filled with fury, and flew to engage the dreaded overlord, intent upon laying him low. You should have seen it, man. It was nuts. Fireballs, lightning bolts, the whole deal. The kind of battle that can't be described with words. In the opening moments of the battle, nine-tenths of Grogar's army was wiped away in an instant...

...But then Grogar took the field.

Grogar had spent decades gathering power, learning everything there was to know. So, by the time that he began his march of conquest, the weakest of all the Evils had become a force more powerful than The First Evil itself. The alicorn sisters found themselves completely outmatched. Every spell they cast was instantly countered. Every strategy they hatched was immediately recognized and thwarted. Every trick they tried to pull was shot down, almost before it could even be thought of. Grogar had their number, man, and it seemed that the two princesses would be completely destroyed.

But then they got lucky. The kind of incredible, impossible luck that comes about only once every thousand years.

You see, Grogar, being the weakest of the Evils, had a weak body. Well, weak for an Evil. He could contain power far greater than a mere mortal pony, but he'd barely be able to handle the level of power one might find in an alicorn. So, in order to be able to possess the power he did, he had to place it within an object. That object was a bell he wore around his neck.

In the final moments of the battle, just as Grogar was about to finish the princesses off, once and for all, Celestia fired off a last, desperate bolt of energy. This bolt was so weak that, even without all of his power, Grogar would have been able to shrug it off. However, the bolt just happened to hit the bell, and hit it in just the right place, with just the right amount of force, and...

The bell cracked. And then exploded. It was a massive blast, and had Luna not summoned a shield to protect herself and her sister, then the alicorns themselves would have been destroyed by it.

Grogar was slain by the power of the blast. Slain, but not destroyed. Bray, along with the remnants of Grogar's army, reclaimed their master's body, and took it back to Tambelon. The sisters, when they recovered, tried to enter the realm, and put an end to things once and for all, but found his domain impossible to approach. Grogar had placed enchantments upon his dread domain in order to protect it, and the spells placed at the height of Grogar's power were far beyond the power of the two sisters.

So instead, they used their magic to send the entire place away, fully into the realm of shadows. It broke their hearts to do so: Grogar's army had taken thousands of ponies as slaves, and by sealing them away, it meant that those slaves were beyond the reach of rescue, by the sisters and by anypony else. However, what choice did they have? Without that spell, we'd be at risk of invasion by the Trogs every hour of every day, and we'd have no way of stopping them, since they could just retreat to their domain whenever we sent an army after them. The princesses did what they could to keep Equestria safe, like they always do.

However, there is a fear that the princesses possess, a fear greater than any other: An Evil may be slain, but unless its body is completely destroyed, it may eventually come back. Worse, Grogar had many titles, and chief among them was Necromancer. Until and unless his body is completely destroyed, we will not see the end of him. Grogar, first and last, strongest and weakest, smallest and greatest, may one day return to wreak havoc untold upon the mortal world.

At least, that's what the shrooms tell me, man. But what do they know? They tell me stuff about pink elephants, and about ponies walking on the moon, and other wicked crazy stuff like that. You sure you don't want one? They will open your mind, man... that, or make you to go crazy. Or both. It's really hard to tell the difference.

THE OVERGOAT RISES... Then Promptly Goes Back To Sleep

A Thousand Years Ago...

Celestia and Luna were not having a good day.

Leaving aside the fact that the two of them had spent the last three moons locked in an enchanted slumber. An enchanted slumber filled with horrendous nightmares fit to give mortal ponies a heart attack. As dreadful as that had been, what they had woken up to had been far worse: The Evil known as Grogar had led an army across Equestria, and had been mere hours from complete victory when the princesses had finally been released from the spell. The two had flown immediately to confront the villain and his army, expecting it to be an easy battle. The fact that they had decimated Grogar's forces in the open seconds of the battle had reinforced that belief. If Grogar had been so cowardly that he would render the two princesses unconscious, rather than face them outright, surely that was a sign that he was weak, that he feared the princesses and could not stand against them.

And then, Grogar himself had taken the field, and the expectations of the two princesses had been shot down as violently as they were themselves. Grogar had not enchanted the princesses because he was afraid of them, he'd enchanted them because that was the easiest way to deal with them while he conquered Equestria. The truth was, Grogar was far stronger than the princesses had ever imagined possible.

No being, not even the other Evils, beings like Grogar, had been anywhere as powerful. He had swatted the two princesses from the sky as if they were flies. And before the two had hit the ground, the vile goat had unleashed a barrage of dark energy fit to wipe a city from face of the world... and continued to release salvos of increasing power, ferocity, and complexity as the two princesses struggled to fend off his relentless assault.

Any attempt to counter-attack, to retreat, to even seek a second's respite, were met with increased fury. He seemed able to predict every move that the princesses made, and responded accordingly. The two alicorns could barely move an inch from where they had landed. Even if there had been time to plan, to form a strategy, to think... it would have been meaningless. Bad enough that Grogar possessed such overwhelming power, but the fact that he was clearly as intelligent as the princesses, if not more so, made him all the more terrible to face.

The two princesses stood at the bottom of a blackened crater, as deep as their palace was tall and more than a mile wide, and blackened and smoking from the forces unleashed by Grogar's assault. The goat himself stood at the edge, looking down upon them as he directed his assault, his face expressionless, his eyes as soulless as a doll, like all of his kind.

Finally, after a seeming eternity, but in truth it was only eight hours of continuous assault, the Evil had stopped his vicious attacks. But now, his intense glare upon the two exhausted alicorns was somehow even worse than the assault that had preceded it. Those red eyes, with their black, rectangular pupils, would have been unnerving on any creature, but the soulless void that lurked behind them granted his glare a kind of gravity, one that almost felt like his eyes could suck a pony's soul right from its breast.

"You have been weighed," Grogar stated, with a voice like an open tomb, dusty, dark and foreboding. Spheres of dark energy formed above the two weary alicorns, first in ones and twos, then in dozens, scores. "You have been measured," the Evil added, as the number of spheres exceeded five hundred, and multiplied ever faster. "And you have been found... wanting," he finished, as thousands, tens of thousands... millions of spheres of dark energy blotted out the sky, each one capable of wiping out a city. "I've toyed with you enough. No more games. It is time to finish this."

Gazing up at the sky, Celestia felt a wave of crushing despair wash over her. If Grogar was capable of this, then there was nothing that could stop him. No force on the planet could match a power like this. In a last gesture of defiance, she fired the last bit of energy she had at the Evil, in a bolt so pitifully weak she almost felt ashamed of it...

It stuck Grogar, surprisingly. A bolt so weak that it could barely tickle an infant was hardly worth noticing, let alone blocking. It struck the small bell that that blue goat wore around his neck, causing it to ring, briefly.

And somewhere, where the Meta-Gods exist, the god of random numbers took notice of this final, desperate move, and pulled out from his celestial robes a D20. He gave it a roll, and then, after taking a moment to make certain that no one was watching, nudged it from a seven to a twenty. "If anyone asks," the deity said to himself (mostly), "that was definitely a natural twenty."

It wouldn't do for anyone to discover that sometimes, even the god of random chance plays favorites...

The smallest of cracks formed on the surface of the bell, and dark energy began to spill from it. As the spheres of energy in the air began to disappear, the Evil looked down upon the bell, a look of horror beginning to come across his face. "What have you done?" He asked, slowly looking towards the princesses. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?!"

And then, there was a terrible explosion...

Celestia sprang awake, breathing heavily. After a moment, she calmed herself, then took a moment to take in her surroundings. She looked to her left, and saw nothing out of place. She looked to her right...

"You didn't think this was over, did you?" Grogar asked, his face bare inches from Celestia's. "So long as my body exists, it will never be over."

Celestia sprang awake, for real this time, breathing heavily, her heart hammering in her chest. After making certain that this time, she was well and truly alone, and well and truly awake, she called upon her sister, and told Luna of the dream.

"Another vision?" Luna asked, as the two drank tea on the palace balcony. The last time Celestia had dreamed such a dream, it had heralded the return of Tirek, after all...

"I don't know," Celestia admitted, unhappily. "Most of it was simply memories of that terrible battle. Perhaps it is simply my fears catching up with me: Even with Cadance, Twilight Sparkle, and perhaps one day even little Flurry Heart added to our numbers, and Discord added in for good measure, we would be sorely outmatched, should Grogar ever return." After a moment, she added, "Or perhaps it is guilt I feel, at our inability to rescue those taken captive, and forced to serve as slaves in... that place." It was best not to name Tambelon aloud, or Grogar, its dark master. Evils, even dead ones, would know when their name has been spoken aloud, and the last thing anypony needed was for the mostly dead, but still slightly alive, Evil to be roused simply because somepony had mentioned him or his city in conversation.

"It has been a thousand years," Luna mentioned, her expression grim, "and things long sealed, long forgotten, or long since undone have had a habit of returning recently. Perhaps it might be a good idea to see if the barriers that protect that place have faded enough that we can put things to rest, once and for all."

"As much as I would like to do so," Celestia admitted, sadly, "we dare not risk it. Trying to break through his barriers may just succeed in rousing... him. And the last thing that anypony needs is for that villainous goat to return."

"FOR AGES UNTOLD, I HAVE SLUMBERED!!! WHO DARES TO AWAKEN ME!?!"

I count it a point of personal pride, that I have trained myself to be able to automatically say that, in my absolute best evil monster/villain/demon voice, whenever I am woken up by anything other than my alarm clock. I started doing that when I was six, and by the time I was eight, I could do it so well that when someone tried to break into the house, and startled me awake, the guy jumped out the window, ran all the way to the police, and turned himself in, confessing to all manner of crimes but insisting that someone call the Vatican, because he was absolutely certain that he'd stumbled upon the Anti-Christ.

Why would I train myself to do something like that? Well, let me ask you this: Why not? Why choose to be ordinary? Why choose to be normal? Why be bland, when you can be extraordinary? Who are you, not to be great? The only thing holding you back is you!

Besides, it's a lot more fun to pretend to be the bad guy, than it is pretending to be the good guy.

Anyway, the point is, something had disturbed my slumber, so, as per my own self-conditioned reflex, I responded in the manner I had long ago deemed appropriate. The only thing different was the response...

"B-B-Bray, oh great one," a voice replied, weakly.

My brain kicked into first gear, and I began reading off the script I had mentally prepared for whenever someone I didn't know woke me. "Well then, Bray, you will do as follows: Draw a bath for me, not too hot, and not too cold. Then, you will gather a score of virgins and have them form a throne for me with their bodies. Finally, you will then prepare me a breakfast of beer and pancakes!"

The voice asked, weakly, "Beer and pancakes, master?"

As my brain entered second gear, I shouted, "Yes, beer and pancakes, knave! For mine is a mighty hunger, and can only be sated by the blood of orphans, or beer and pancakes, and I have given up orphan's blood for Lent!" I don't actually celebrate Lent, but he didn't need to know that.

"At... at once, master," the voice answered, promptly.

"Good," I replied, as my brain started down-shifting. "Now don't disturb me until you are done."

Twenty minutes later, I felt a poke at my side. This time, my brain went to page two of the script.

"Motherfucker, what did I tell you?!" I declared, angrily. "I know you can't have finished all of that this quickly!"

The voice, after a brief pause, said, "The, ah, bath is drawn, master, and the virgins have been assembled and are contorting themselves to make a proper throne for you as we speak. I thought you might want to be roused in time, that you might finish your bath just as the pancakes came off the pan. I doubt that you'd want to eat them cold."

My brain immediately went all the way from Park to Overdrive, and I sat up straight. Even as I did so, my body felt... odd. As I opened up my eyes, I began to say, "You'd better not be fucking with... me..."

The reason my sentence ground to a halt was because I came face to face with a donkey. A donkey who was dressed, inexplicably, like a mix of medieval court jester and medieval knave. I looked down at my hands, and saw, to my shock, that they were now goatish hooves.

'What in the fuck? What in a billion, trillion fucks?'

That was when I decided that I wouldn't drop jager bombs before bed anymore. Three dreams like this one was more than enough.

Author's Note

THE OVERGOAT SHALL FEAST... Upon Beer And Pancakes

Wheaties may be the breakfast of champions, but beer and pancakes is the breakfast of the gods.

I may be getting a little far ahead of myself, sorry. Anyway, I kept my mouth shut about how unfamiliar I was with my current state, and simply asked to be led to the bath, so I could clean myself off. I felt dusty as hell, and my joints were stiff, like I hadn't moved in quite some time. Bray, upon hearing that, said he understood completely, given that I'd been dead a thousand years.

"A thousand years, huh?" I asked, as I stripped off a black garment that I'd discovered had been covering my body. While the moths had had a feast, it was still intact enough, surprisingly, to be identifiable as an ornate funeral shroud. Pretty nice one, all things considered.

"Yes, milord Grogar," Bray continued, bowing every other sentence. The guy was clearly terrified of me, and based just on body language, it was obvious that something was very wrong, and that he was afraid of how I'd react when he told me what it was.

The bathing chamber we were in was a pretty clear sign of what was probably wrong: It was dusty, practically abandoned. The water pumps apparently still worked, which was why the swimming pool-sized bathing area was filled with warm water, but it was clear that no one had done any cleaning in a long time. I got the impression that no one was expecting me to come back anymore.

As I dipped myself into the warm, somewhat dirty water, I asked, "So... what is the state of my domain, Bray?" Best to get that out of the way, first. If I was having a dream, it might be entertaining to see how bad a situation my mind had cooked up for me. I have a very active imagination, after all.

Bray hemmed and hawed, which I'd never actually seen someone do before, so it took me a moment to recognize it for what it was, and then began to say, "Well, there's really nothing worth bringing to your atten..."

I cut him off, right there. "Bray," I stated, bluntly, "you can either tell me the truth now, or you can try to lie, and when I discover the truth, whatever punishment you're afraid of receiving will seem like the sweetest bliss in comparison to what I will do to you."

As threats go, I feel that was a very effective one, especially in the perfectly calm, almost conversational, tone I delivered it in.

Bray went very pale, an impressive feat for a donkey, and then hung his head, sadly, and admitted, "It has been awful, master. After your defeat, we reclaimed your remains from the battlefield, and then retreated here, to Tambelon. At first, we expected you to revive immediately, so we all waited with baited breath for your return. We soon discovered we could no longer leave this realm, after Tambelon was banished to the realm of shadows by the alicorns, your sworn enemies. But as weeks became moons, and moons became years, and years became centuries, your subjects, the Trogs, decided you were not coming back. Oh, some of them send a pittance of food, coin, and slaves to keep the palace maintained, but what we have is barely enough to keep the throne room clean, and see to the needs of the staff..."

I held up a hoof to stop Bray from going further. I had a feeling that, if allowed to, he'd go on for hours. "Remind me, Bray," I began, my voice calm, almost soothing, "Who did I leave in charge, should anything happen to me? Did I actually place you in charge of anything?" I had a suspicion, given Bray's behavior, that this 'Grogar' he thought I was, was some kind of tyrant. And tyrants, on the whole, have a very particular way of doing things.

"No one, milord," Bray responded, promptly, springing to full attention. "And no, I hold no real rank in Tambelon."

Of course: Leaving a second in command means you have someone prepared to stab you in the back and take power at their first opportunity. Classic Tyrant thinking. I inquired further, "And what of infrastructure? Command structure? Did I leave any instructions for how to maintain my domain, should I be away?"

"None, master," Bray answered, instantly.

Typical. Let me explain something to you all, here and now: Tyranny never works in the long term. Tyrants, those who take control of a region and rule with an iron dick-tatorship, are selfish individuals who only care about three things: Their own power, their own pleasure, and removing any and all threats to their reign. They don't establish an effective chain of command that will survive their own death. In fact, the typical tyrant will take great pains to keep his underlings at each other's throats, to keep them for trying for his own. Tyrants don't build infrastructure, since the money that would be used to do so would be better used filling the treasury, buying liquor, throwing soirees, and building a new seraglio to house an unreasonably large harem. Tyrants don't invest in their own domain that much, and if you want to build a kingdom that will last through the ages, you have to do just that.

Tyrannies tend to end with the death of the tyrant, even if it from was natural causes, for those very reasons. Mind you, you have a few enlightened tyrants here and there, who use tyrrany as a means to an end, but as Vlad 'The Impaler' could testify, even if your tyrrany brings about a golden age to your struggling little kingdom that was unmatched by anything in the past, and would remain unmatched centuries later, it ultimately falls apart in the end.

And yet, petty tyrants rise and fall anyways.

But enough of that for now.

"Given that," I stated, bluntly, "I did not make any contingencies for the event of my death, I would say that, given the circumstances, the fact that I have a palace at all is nothing short of miraculous. The fact that you have done as well as you have is admirable. You are to be rewarded... just as soon as I decide what an appropriate reward should be." Bray actually seemed to perk up at that. "But for now," I continued, "I'll need a bucket of clean water to finish washing off with, and a mirror. Hop to it."

I didn't need to tell Bray twice. As he rushed off, I briefly pondered what Grogar had done to win the loyalty of that donkey. A loyalty so strong it had literally lasted for a thousand years...

It's official, I thought to myself as I examined my new body in the mirror, I'm a blue goat.

To be fair, I was an intimidating goat, with red eyes, pointy teeth, and horns typical of the Altai Mountain goat, which has some of the most impressively daunting horns of the species. Still, I was a goat, and by the sound of things, I was not just any goat, but Sauron in goat form.

I didn't mind dreaming that I was a goat, I hope you'll understand that. If there's one thing that Goat Simulator taught me, it's that goats are the shit. They rock, they rule, and they kick serious ass. They're also fucking metal: Name one real animal that appears on heavy metal album covers that is more awesome! Snakes? They're quadriplegic iguanas. Wolves? Seriously overrated, they're just wild dogs with an overinflated rep. Bats? Ozzy can bite the head off of one of those in one go. Goats would give him a much harder time. Besides, when you're rocking out, what are you throwing? The wolf? The snake? The bat? Hell no, you're throwing the goat. The prosecution rests, your honor. How do you find? On the charge of goats being metal as fuck, I find them guilty!

I'm going a little bit off the tracks, sorry. I do that, sometimes. Please forgive me.

It was simply a surprising transition, finding myself in a goat-body, instead of my human body. I normally don't dream I'm in an animal body. The last time I had, I'd dreamed I was a gorilla. Weird fucking dream, but let's not get side-tracked again. This was an abnormal dream, but to me, it wasn't quite that abnormal.

Still, as I looked myself over, I considered the possibility that I'd look even more hella-badass if I had a cape or something. Although, if I did have a wardrobe, it was almost certain to be in the same condition as that burial shroud I'd been wearing, if not worse. Still, I had the feeling that I'd be able to rock a three-piece suit so hard that it would rip a hole in the time-space continuum.

With a shrug, I turned from the mirror, and said, "Alright, so, I understand that there will be beer and pancakes."

"Of course, master," Bray said with a nod. "Right this way."

You know, when I had said that I'd wanted twenty virgins to form a throne for me to sit on, I'd said it in the expectation that they'd be sexy ladies, not mares. However, even if the mares making up my throne had been humans instead, these would not have been attractive: These would not be the kind of girls that most guys envision when they picture slave girls, that being women in incredibly revealing clothing and possessing supple, appealing curves. These mares were very clearly undernourished, terribly fatigued, and had very obvious scars that, if I had to make a guess, were the kind where someone had taken a whip to them, and most assuredly not in the fun and/or kinky way.

A whip can do a lot of damage, as a dominatrix can tell you: It takes a lot of training to be able to use a whip in such a way that it doesn't scar the victim. A whip, properly utilized, will break the sound barrier during its travels, which is the source of that infamous cracking sound. A strike like that can strip flesh, sever fingers, and take out an eye. It could even disembowel, in the wrong hands. Whoever had been whipping these mares was no dominatrix: The scarring clearly indicated that while they'd taken pains to avoid the legs, face, or underbelly, they'd considered everything else fair game, and had whipped these mares viciously and without mercy for an extended period.

The only reason I didn't suplex Bray right through the dining table seated in front of my "throne" was the fact that these were scars: There was not a single one of those injuries that could possibly have been delivered within the last six months. Still, I was going to command, as soon as I felt it would be appropriate, that Bray not whip any of the slaves in the palace. Seriously, those mares hurt just to look at.

Looking at the slightly trembling throne, I stated with absolute honesty, "That does not look anywhere near as comfortable as I had envisioned. Still, a solid A for effort, ladies. Disentangle yourselves, and then bring me a chair, while I decide what to have you do next."

As the mares did as ordered, I looked over at the dining table. Or maybe I should say banquet table: This massive, oaken affair was obviously intended to seat dozens, if not hundreds, and was covered, end to end, with plates of steaming pancakes. Now, I will admit, I can eat pancakes like a motherfucker when I'm hungry, but this was just ri-ding-dong-dang-diculous. I'd said I had a mighty hunger, and Bray, along with the cooking staff, had taken me at my word. How the fuck they'd managed this many pancakes in half an hour was a miracle of logistics and the culinary arts.

Then again, you never knew what you were capable of until you had a gun to your head, they say, and having 'Grogar' command something seemed to be the equivalent of having a twelve-pounder cannon pointed directly at your face... and/or your nuts.

I'd need to remember my orders would have that kind of effect in this dream. While I'm certain it would seem amusing to tell someone here to 'Go Fuck Yourself', it would be rather horrifying to see how someone might try to accomplish it, when that heavily motivated.

"In fact," I added, after a moment's thought, "go ahead and take a few plates off of the other end, and eat. I don't think I can eat quite this many pancakes in one sitting, and I'd rather not see this all go to waste."

The mares, after a moment's hesitation, nodded and began to do so. I looked over to Bray, and asked, "Are you hungry?"

Bray shook his head, and said, "No, master, thank you for asking. I ate earlier."

"Good," I said, then turned my attention towards my breakfast of beer and pancakes, and began searching for the most crucial component, the one that would make this breakfast perfect... and found it missing.

"Bray, where is the maple syrup?"

Saddened, the donkey admitted, "There has not been a bottle of the syrup of maples in your palace in over three centuries, not since someone put it away without placing the cap back on the bottle. Ants got into it, and... we have yet to locate another bottle, and maples are not to be found in Tambelon, so we cannot make more."

Fuck a duck, I hate it when someone does that. I was horribly tempted to make that an offense punishable by death, but I decided to put that off until later.

In perfect seriousness, I told Bray, "Pancakes without maple syrup. My realm has truly fallen upon dark days, for such a thing to come to pass."

"I could not possibly agree more, master," Bray agreed immediately.

THE OVERGOAT RULES YOU... But He's Not A Jerk About It.

Having a reputation as being the baddest mofo in the world can be a double-edged sword.

To be fair, there are plenty of awesome advantages, not least of which is the fact that most people know better than to fuck with you. It also means you get great service wherever you go, and even if the sign says 'No shirt, no shoes, no service', you could sit in a restaurant in the buff, and no one is going to say shit about it.

But the other edge is that everyone is afraid of you. Not just afraid, but absolutely terrified. Ever see Blade III? That scene where Blade tries to comfort a baby, and it starts crying in fear? That's the price of being the baddest of the bad: No one can see you as anything other than the kicker of ass and the wrecker of faces, and even if the ones you wreck are always the bad guys, it does not change the fact that almost everyone is going to see you as what you might do to them if you're angry, and not who you are or what you're really doing.

Case in point: It was halfway through my meal of beer and pancakes that one of the mares noticed that my mug needed topping off. I hadn't actually noticed her before, and she did stick out a little more than the others, since her hair was arranged in such a way that it hung over her face, so that you couldn't see it. Were she not butter-colored with honey-colored hair, she might have managed the stringy-haired ghost girl look, given how thin and waifish she was, but instead it just seemed a little off. She might have completely escaped my notice, though, were it not for one little fact: That hairstyle reduced her ability to see clearly, and instead of pouring the beer into my mug, she poured it on me. Complete and total accident, but the look on her face when she had realized what she had done was almost comical: It was as if she'd just accidentally kicked Godzilla in the nuts.

All I did was look in her direction, I swear. I didn't have an expression on my face that I knew of, and Bray later admitted that, in spite of the accident, my face had looked surprisingly cheerful at the time. Still, the next thing I knew, the mare had this deer in the headlights look as she had her back against a wall (and pushing against it, as if in hope she would suddenly gain the ability to phase through solid matter), with a wooden spoon in her hooves. The spoon is an important detail, as she was desperately trying to use it to slit her own throat, as impossible as that was with an implement with no real edges.

That, right there, is rep. That is the pinnacle of a nasty reputation, that someone would be so terrified of you that they'd prefer to try and saw off their own head with a dull spoon, rather than experience whatever you might do as punishment.

But seriously, that kind of a reaction over a little spilled beer? I'd call it ridiculous, but there was one detail I'd left out that sucked any funny right out of the moment.

It was the scar on her face.

I know what you're envisioning: Some cute little number, a white line on her face that marked an injury. Or maybe something broader, but pink, and still managing not to detract from the beauty of her face.

Get that image out of you hear, right fucking now. Scars don't always work that way, in spite of what anime and comic books might tell you. This was not a cute scar. This was worse than words could adequately express. Remember how I mentioned that a whip can do serious damage? This poor mare had taken a whip lash full on to her face... and then it had turned septic, and had festered for a long time before it finally had cleared. Her face was a ruin, and while she did have one good eye, a pretty blue one, the other had that cloudy whiteness that bespoke the infection having taken the sight from it. She had more scares than the other mares, almost more than all of them put together, and there were other scars that I could see now, on her chest and underbelly, that spoke of someone having whipped her viciously, without the concern of whether or not she'd still be able to work, or even still live, when they were done.

This was a mare who knew full well the wrath of evil men... well, evil individuals, it might be better to say. And if Grogar was the boogeyman that she'd heard tales of since she was small, and was a thousand times worse than her previous masters, then surely my wrath must make what she'd already lived through seem like nothing.

Like I said, a reputation like Grogar's is a double edged sword.

"Stop that," I said, after the initial shock of seeing her face wore off, "it won't work, and you're just embarrassing yourself."

Surprisingly, she dropped the spoon as if it had caught fire. "Better," I said, nodding. "Now, listen carefully." I turned to the other mares, who were all staring at me as if they were expecting me to flip out and start exploding heads, including Bray. "And you'd better pay attention too, Bray, because I'm setting a policy here." Bray nodded, but said nothing.

I continued, stating, "There are a number of things I'll punish someone for. Unforgivable rudeness, trying to inflict harm to myself or my servants, theft, and more than a few other things, but let's keep this brief. But an accident like spilling a drink? No. I'd like to think that I'm not that petty." I looked over at Bray, and with an eyebrow raised, I asked, "I'm not, am I? Be honest."

Bray blanched slightly, then said, "Well, I would never call you petty, master..."

Expression and body language told me that he would never add the words 'To your face' to that sentence, but it was implied louder than words.

So, apparently, Grogar wasn't just a typical tyrant cut in the mold of Skeletor and Cobra Commander, but he was also a petty fucker as well. Petty isn't me, though, and while I might pretend to be a lot of things in this dream, I wasn't going to be that.

"Good," I said with a nod, then turned back to the mares. "So please, don't... overreact like that if there's an accident. It makes both of us look foolish."

The mares gave very slight nods, although they were still clearly terrified of me. The scarred mare, though, had an unusual expression on her face. The best description I could give was if she'd been in a horror movie, and knew she was in a horror movie, and had expected Leatherface to burst into her room, chainsaw roaring, but instead had been met by Santa Claus, with a mug of cocoa in one hand, and her teddy bear in another. Certainly this situation was welcome over the alternative, but it just didn't mesh with how she'd expected the world to be.

"Now," I said to her, "come here. I want you to tell me how you got that scar on your face."

Trembling, she approached me, and began stammering at high speed, seeming to have difficulty in forming sentences as she did so. After a moment, I said, "Stop. Let's start with the basics. What is your name?"

She gulped, took a deep breath, and said, "They call me Number Thirteen, master."

Thirteen, as she was used to being called, had been born a slave. She was the child of two slaves, who had themselves been the children of other slaves. She was, in fact, probably a fiftieth generation slave, if not a higher number, but let's not split hairs here. The point is, slavery was so deeply ingrained into her being that she ought to have been born wearing manacles and a collar, and maybe a gimp mask for additional effect. She'd been born and raised on a farm, and for a while, it wasn't a completely terrible life for her: The Trogs running the farm weren't overly whip-happy, and only used their whips if a slave was disobedient, unusually slow, or lazy. The elder who had run the place hadn't seen the point of whipping ponies who were hardworking and industrious. It was counter-productive honestly.

Slavery is something that's been around for about as long as there have been people. I don't endorse it, and won't defend it, but historically, there's been all manner of levels of slavery. In terms of severity, I'd rate the elder's practices as four out of ten, maybe five. His slaves had no rights, no property, but at least he wasn't an asshole about it, and he didn't work anyone to death. I've heard and read about much, much worse.

But then the elder died of a bad case of 'mysterious circumstances', which is a very easy condition to catch when you're pretty wealthy and have at least one heir who is completely without morality. There must have been an epidemic that year, because the elder's eight children and sixteen grandchildren died of mysterious circumstances within the same week, leaving exactly one left, and boy howdy, was he a rotten little fucker.

His name was Trog-Gob (Most Trog names start with the word Trog, for some reason, don't ask me why), and if you looked up 'Sadist' in a dictionary, you'd see a picture of him "admiring" a picture of himself torturing a kitten. To him, the point of whipping ponies was the whipping. And he didn't stop there. The painting that Number Thirteen painted for me was like that of a medieval era serf farm being transformed into something equal parts pre-Civil War plantation, Mordor, and Dachau. The entire farm went from a four or a five on my previous scale to an eleven or higher. The mortality rate exploded, to maybe one or two a year, mostly from natural causes, to a dozen a week... on a slow week. Gobstopper had apparently set up some kind of a bulk discount deal with slave traders in the area, so plenty of new slaves came in to replace the dead ones.

Thirteen gained the scar on her face because, for an instant, Trog-Gob thought he saw a defiant look on her face. Just because, for a fraction of second, he had believed that she was thinking ill of him, he decided to make an example of her. He had her whipped... for an entire day. No breaks, no rest, he and a bunch of his cronies whipped her to within an inch of death, and Gobble-Gobble delivered the final lash himself, with a whip that he intentionally fouled, to ensure that the wound would become infected, and become every bit as horrific as it became. He wanted any pony who saw her face to know the price of looking, even for a second, that you might fight back was far too high.

He'd eventually gotten tired of admiring his own handiwork, though, and sent her as tribute, when Bray requested new slaves to clean the palace, six moons ago. Compared to where she was before, this place would be heaven... if she didn't elicit such looks of horror when anypony saw her face...

You ever want to kill someone so badly that you actually get wood from thinking about it? I haven't even met Mister Gobbles, and I wanted to kill him that badly. Seriously. I'd like to think that's a natural reaction to this kind of an asshole. Fuck that guy with a flaming cactus. In fact, I was seriously considering that as one possible method of dealing with him, once I found him.

First things first, though...

After hearing her story, I turned briefly to Bray, and asked, "Remind me, Bray, before my passing, how many wizards were there more powerful than myself?" Total shot in the dark, I know, but I was banking on the fact that, if I was this feared, then I had to be a wizard of some sort or another.

"None, master," Bray immediately replied without even an instant of hesitation or doubt, "Not even the princesses themselves could stand against you."

Turning back to Thirteen, I said, "I can hardly have someone else's handiwork showing on one of my servants," I stated, bluntly. "It would reflect poorly on me. The only scars that my servants should have are the ones that I give them." Which would be none, of course, but given I was playing the part of Grogar, I couldn't just say that, you know?

She got that deer in the headlights look again. Like I said, Grogar's reputation was a double edged sword.

I asked, sincerely, "How would you like me to remove that scar from your face?" Hell, why not? I've always liked working magic in video games, and it would be nice to get a feel for it, however it worked in this dream, before I went down to the farm and gave Trog-Gob a cloven-hooved enema.

Once again, she had that Santa in the place of Leatherface look. I had to admit, horrendous scar or not, it was adorable.

THE OVERGOAT CAN DO ANYTHING... But He Can't Do Everything.

Let me let you in on a little secret.

I know a lot of neat stuff, and one of those neat things is the fact that simple 'mind swaps' are biologically impossible. Or at least, very difficult to do. Why? Simple. When your memories form, they are stored, not as simple electrical impulses, but as a physical cluster of neurons, set to fire in a specific sequence, that being the sequence that created the original experience, in the same area that initiated it. In other words, your mind, and the memories that make you who you are, isn't some signal, ricocheting around in your head, but a solid object, a set of circuits that make up, collectively, the individual know as 'you'. That said, the only real way to transfer a human brain's contents into another person's body is to literally transfer the brain from point A to point B.

How do I know this, and how can I be so confident that it's true? Simple: I learned about it in high school, and while most of my fellow students just immediately forgot about it after the end of the course, I remembered it, and tried testing it. In college, I would eat pizza while I studied. Then, before a test, I'd eat a slice of pizza. It worked, at least for me: It would trigger the memories of what I'd studied, and I could pass the test easily. I gained twenty-five pounds before college was over, but I made the fucking Dean's List. As a bonus, I can call up any information from my time in college any time I want, as long as I can eat a slice of garbage pie. As super powers go, being able to recall all of the information in my college chemistry books by eating pizza is a pretty awesome ability, given how much you can find in the average college chemistry book.

Back to the topic at hand, though: If I was inhabiting Grogar's body, that included his brain, and while I might have had access to all of my memories, I should also be able to access Grogar's memories as well, provided I triggered the right mental sequence.

"Close your eyes," I told Number Thirteen, "and try to relax. This might start feeling a little strange, but I recommend not making any sudden movements, or you may end up with an ear growing out of your forehead."

The mare, her expression a little terrified from that last statement, gave the slightest of nods, and then closed her eyes. I did the same, so I could focus on what I was doing.

In spite of the fact that I behave as if I was, as my mother once said, 'Nuttier than a squirrel asylum,' I am fully capable of logical thought. I just don't do it very often, as it isn't very fun. This time, though, I brushed off the old Logic Box, plugged it up, and started thinking.

I needed memories from when Grogar had healed someone. Even Grogar himself would do. When was Grogar most likely to have healed himself? After he had been injured and was in pain. So, the sequence, ideally, that I needed should be one that was triggered by experiencing pain. I bit the inside of my mouth, which hurt like hell: Grogar's teeth were sharp and pointy, dammit!

But it had the desired effect: Almost immediately, I saw images and heard sounds running through my mind.

One thousand years ago, plus a bit.

Grogar huddled behind a large stone, doing his best to discretely watch the battle going on. While his every instinct screamed at him to run, he had to be here. Years of research were all riding on his being present, here and now, at the site of this epic battle.

For this was the final battle between the princesses Luna and Celestia, versus the last of the great Evils.

A bare mile away, upon an empty, blasted waste, the great Evil stood, a monstrous fiend so tall that he dwarfed mountains. Its body was nebulous and black, but when it wished to, it could manifest a solid limb, like an arm, claw, or tentacle, or a dozen other things much harder to give name to. However, as the other Evils had learned, all the strength they possessed was meaningless when faced with the powers of an alicorn.

It might seem strange that the Evils, beings of such great stature, could be defeated by creatures so small. It would be like watching a dragon being defeated by two sparrows. However, alicorns are much more than their size. To continue with the comparison made a moment ago, it was more like a dragon fighting two sparrows... who had the power to level cities with but a single peck of their beaks.

The other Evils were beings built to massive scale, and were adapted to creating massive, wholesale destruction... not precision attacks against a single small, highly mobile, target. They weren't able to fight against creatures so small and yet so mighty. At this point, the battle was more or less a foregone conclusion, but the great Evil was not going to go down quietly.

Grogar's observations were interrupted when a blast of energy missed the Evil, who had managed to contort its mass to evade the beam. The beam hit, not far from Grogar, and shattered another boulder, sending fragments everywhere. One of those fragments struck Grogar right in the flank.

It took all of his willpower to stifle the shout of pain that nearly erupted from his mouth, but he did so. Pain hurt, but as an Evil, he could not truly be slain by such a minor wound, and the injury would heal, over time. He turned his eyes back to the battle, and continued observing.

The great Evil was getting sluggish, the continuous assault taking its toll. Unlike Grogar, who had spent a great deal of time studying all manner of things, including strategies for magical combat, the gigantic Evil had never had need to learn anything, and up until not, had never even had a need to learn how to effectively dodge. While it had started learning at least that one critical skill, it was much too late: The princesses, with a mighty combined attack, struck the evil down, and its body began to dissipate... as did the dark energy within it.

Now was the time...

The bell around Grogar's neck began to activate, the thousands of subtle spells within it creating a connection between itself and the power now being unleashed by the great Evil's death. It would take years, decades even, for the energies to enter the bell, but it would be done in a way so slow and discrete that it would ensure that, to the Princesses who would be studying the dissipation of the dark energies for some time, it seemed only as if the energies were dispersing naturally into the background magical field of the world.

And not just the power of this evil, but also that of the dozens of evils that the princesses had already slain, as well. It might take a century, but Grogar had all the time in the world, and unlike his kin, he'd learned the value of both patience and subtlety.

...His kin.

Looking upon the remains of the last great Evil, Grogar felt a small twinge. It was a feeling that was hard to explain, especially for an entity like himself. Grogar was now the last Evil. There would never be another, now. While he had never gotten along with the others (Getting along being literally impossible for his kind), the defeat of all the other Evils meant that he would never know another like himself. Oh, he might have lackeys, subordinates, perhaps even a trusted lieutenant whose loyalty would be beyond question, but there would never be another being like himself that he could truly ever feel a connection with...

He was distracted from his thoughts by the pain in his flank. The injury would, it seemed, take hours to heal. As the princesses flew away, Grogar considered the possibility that his own natural healing abilities were not enough. It might be a good idea to look into a means of healing himself... and possibly others. The lesser Evil had looked into the possibilty of gaining subordinates, and for some reason, the saving of another's life, or of mending a long-standing injury, was a very quick means by which one can gain the trust and favor of another...

I felt a sensation, that of time passing quickly by, in libraries, in open fields testing spells, and other events, and then things snapped back into clarity.

Grogar stood in a chamber within the palace of the two princesses, looking upon a donkey who was barely recognizable as Bray.

It struck Grogar as ironic that, for all their wisdom and power, the two alicorns lacked the ability to see what was right in front of them.

Bray had, due to an accident in his youth, been cursed with a bone structure that was in no way correct. His limbs were badly deformed, as was his spine, and his face. With his body like this, he was unable to do work in any meaningful way. So, in order to make a living, he'd learned how to make others laugh. It turned out that he had a talent for it, and before long, he was going from town to town, performing in taverns and in market squares, earning a living. Before long, he caught the attention of the princesses, and soon became court jester.

And yet, in spite of being right in front of the princesses every day, his deformed body easy for them to see, not once had they ever brought up the subject of repairing his injured form... and Bray, still having pride in spite of his current state, could not bring himself to ask it of them. Worse, his condition was having a terrible effect on his health, and in a few years, or perhaps even a few moons, his bones would no longer be able to support his body, given their deformed state, and he'd not longer be able to walk without his spine breaking... and eventually, be unable to breathe without a rib puncturing a lung.

In a lot of ways, ponies (And donkeys and most other creatures, as well) were like machines: If you pulled the right levers, and pushed the right buttons, you could easily get the results that you wanted. Bray would normally never betray the princesses, as he was quite loyal. However, if he were offered the proper incentives...

Everyone, they say, has a price. It is just a question whether or not you have the means of paying it.

"If you will serve me," Grogar stated, putting on an expression of benevolence that he had spent weeks practicing for this moment, "I will mend your body back to the way it should be. Further, you will never need fear another injury, nor illness, nor age, nor even death. I shall make you eternal, unchanging. Will you serve me?"

Bray, his expression one of shock, could only stammer out, "Y-y-yes!"

Grogar worked the spell he had spent decades preparing. It was a spell of light magic, and one that many would assume was beyond an Evil like Grogar. However, just as darkness is not, in and of itself, an evil thing, neither is light, in and of itself, wholly a good thing. Ask the ants underneath the magnifying glass of a small, spiteful colt, to expound upon the virtues of the light, the same light roasting them alive, and you're certain not to get a kind answer. Well, if you could speak ant, that is.

Grogar did not have an affinity for light magic, or healing magic, but that was something he had overcome with constant, diligent practice...

Of course, this went beyond mere healing. It required restructuring the body back into the state that it was meant to be from the beginning. Scientific study had taught Grogar that, within every 'cell' (A word he had invented, as Equines would not reach his level of biological understanding for centuries yet) was a sort of blueprint for how the body was meant to be. Had Bray's state been one he was born with, it would be much more difficult to correct, but since it was the long-term results of a serious injury, it was something much easier to fix.

All Grogar had to do was remind Bray's body of the way it was meant to be, and give it the means of achieving that shape.

As the spell concluded, Bray stood up, and as a courtesy, Grogar used a small spell to bring up a mirror. The donkey that Bray had now become was not handsome, honestly, but attractiveness had not been the point. The point was, for the first time since a mine cart accident had ravaged the young donkey's body, Bray was whole.

Tears streaming down his face, Bray knelt, and in a gesture of ultimate fealty, kissed Grogar's cloven hoof. With but a single, powerful action, Grogar had won Bray's absolute and total loyalty. In just a few hours, Grogar would be able to begin his invasion of Equestria. He would destroy both alicorns, then he would raze every settlement to the ground, put every pony in the nation in chains, and then force them to sow the fields with salt, so that nothing would grow for ages to come. Then, as he conquered the world, in its entirety, he would strike Equestria's name from every book of history, and use his magic to wipe that wretched kingdom's memory from the mind of all creatures, great and small, and even from the minds of the Equestrians themselves. When he was done, none would remember that such a nation even existed. He will have killed Equestria, in its entirety, for all of time.

This, and nothing less, was the price for having destroyed all of the other Evils.

I later learned that all of this had transpired in seconds, much faster than I had expected.

As I opened my eyes, I saw a glow of light fading, seeming to have originated from where Grogar's horns were placed. As my eyesight cleared, I looked at Number Thirteen's face.

I let out a small sigh, and admitted, "Well, I'm not completely satisfied with the results. I may be a little rusty with the healing arts."

Number Thirteen's eyes snapped open, and seemed to look around, before finding a spoon that, unlike the wooden one she'd grabbed earlier, was metal, and reflective enough for her to see herself with. As she looked at her face, she gave a little 'Oh' of surprise.

As I said, I wasn't completely satisfied with the results: There was still a scar on Thirteen's face, but it was a thin little thing, that went from the upper left corner of her forehead to the lower right corner of her chin. It was no longer the horrific, grotesque thing that had had marked her before, but more a small, barely perceptible line. Even the eye, which even I had assumed was probably a lost cause, was now a pretty blue to match the other, and from the way that Number Thirteen was acting, seemed to be in full working order.

"I suppose I'll need to give it another attempt, after I've had a chance to get some more practice," I began, then noticed something. "Of course, since the spell wasn't concentrated on just your face..."

Number Thirteen had picked up on it as well, looking over her body with an expression that combined both shock and awe, and with good reason: The spell I'd apparently used while perusing Grogar's memories had not been a focused healing spell, but one designed to mend the body all over. Number Thirteen still had a scar on her face, but it was now the only scar on her body: The others, injuries that had marked a lifetime of servitude, as well as the horrific incident where she'd been whipped for an entire day... were gone.

Perhaps even more surprisingly, she was not quite as waifish as before: Oh, she was still thin, but it was no longer possible to count all of her ribs. Grogar's spell had apparently decided that the gauntness that had come from a lifetime of malnutrition, mistreatment, and hard labor had needed fixing as well, and had done something about it. I couldn't judge pony ages very well, for obvious reasons, but her previous condition had made her look much older than she was. Now, with that scar gone, and the damages done by a lifetime of slavery removed, she looked like she was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty, maybe a year or two younger or older.

I heard a lot of whispers from the other mares, whom apparently assumed I couldn't hear them. Things along the lines of 'Looks like he's got a new favorite,' or 'Well, we know who will be warming his bed for him,' and other things that I wouldn't want to repeat in polite company... and given that I tend to drop F-Bombs in even the most polite of company just for giggles, that should tell you a lot.

I stopped all the talk by saying, "I'd give all of you ladies that treatment, but I've got a few items still on the agenda today. Still, tomorrow is another day." That brought them all to silence, partly because it meant that all of them might, just might, be turned from famine victims into what might, to my inexperienced eyes, looked a lot more like an equine fashion model, depending on what I had to work with. In part, it also implied that Number Thirteen wasn't going to be the only 'Bed-Warmer' I'd have in the near future. Rulers tended to have big beds, after all, and besides, while the throne of virgins hadn't worked out, maybe a bed made of mares might be fun to try.

Number Thirteen was still examining her face, tears streaming down her eyes. Clearing my throat, I added, "But I do think I have time for one more thing before I get to business." She turned towards me, surprised. "You need a name. Number Thirteen is hardly fitting to a servant of The Great Overgoat Of Tambelon." I'd heard someone use the term Overgoat once, and it stuck with me, even if I couldn't remember it. It was an awesome title, though, so I was going to keep it. An eyebrow raised, I asked, "You... don't already have a name, do you?"

Thirteen shook her head. I would later learn that names were things that happened to other creatures: In Tambelon, all ponies had numbers.

I rubbed my chin a moment, taking her appearance in. She had a butter-colored coat, and honey-colored hair. The name seemed obvious. "Honey Butter," I announced, after a moment's consideration. I didn't know it at the time, but I had managed to somehow perfectly nail the average Equestrian naming scheme on my first try.

Thirteen, now Honey Butter, certainly seemed to like the sound of that, but I heard whispers behind me.

"What's Honey?"

"I dunno, but I heard a Trog mention it once, I think it's something sweet. What's Butter?"

"I think I heard a Trog use that term once. It's a word for your rump."

"So... he just decided to give her a name that says she had a sweet backside?"

"I guess. Well, she kinda does now... not that I'm into other mares, of course."

Never before in my life had I had such a hard time keeping a straight face. Of course, normally, I just laugh at everything I find funny because I don't give a fuck what others think, so it may just have been my lack of practice. To keep from bursting out laughing, I turned to Bray, and asked, "Would you mind finding out which farm you acquired Thir... Honey Butter from?"

Bowing, Bray said, "Of course, master. It will be the work of a few minutes. May I inquire why?"

Good question. How to spin it in a way that keeps me in character?

Hmmmm...

"All slaves in Tambelon are ultimately my property, and slaves are a valuable resource, Bray. More valuable than most other resources, in fact: Gold can't plow a field or harvest wheat, and silver cannot tend to the cleaning of my palace. This... Trog-Gob has been misusing valuable resources for his own amusement, and doing so in such a way that he reduces their total value, often to the point where they are almost totally without use. While I can use a corpse for a few things, a healthy, living pony is a trillion times more valuable. In short, while I doubt he sees it that way, he is stealing from Tambelon, and to steal from Tambelon is to steal from me... and no one steals from me."

Bray nodded at this explanation, and if he had any doubts, they didn't show. "Then," he inquired, curious, "what do you intend to do, if I might ask?

As a thousand horrific punishments came to mind, a grin came to my face as I said, "My subjects seem to have forgotten who rules this realm, Bray. I think it is time for a reminder of just why their ancestors obeyed me without question."

In short, I intended to 'remind' this place of who was in charge by lodged my back hooves so far into Trog-Gob's colon that I kicked his teeth out from the inside.

Author's Note

Regarding the battle with the last great Evil.

THE OVERGOAT KNOWS WHAT HE IS DOING... Mostly.

Something was bugging me, but I couldn't put a name to it.

It had started just after I had healed Honey Butter, and had began intensifying as Bray went to go research whatever records he kept for where Honey had been staying before being sent here. Whatever it was, it was pestering me like an annoying mosquito, but I didn't have a means of swatting it yet with the club of realization.

Meanwhile, the ladies were busy demolishing the pancakes on the dining table. They were going through it like... well, honestly, like a group of starving mares at an all you can eat buffet. There was nothing that I could compare it to, as nothing can properly describe the massacre of the cakes of pan that was unleashed before me. Words failed me, they should have sent a poet. I honestly wished that I had a camera to capture it with. I later heard that bits of pancake were found stuck to the ceiling.

Honey Butter seemed to be demonstrating a little more restraint than most, although that may have been because she was continuously looking back at her reflection in that metal spoon, almost as if she was afraid that it might change back if she didn't keep an eye on it. I could hardly blame her: If I'd been fucked up like that, and then suddenly changed, not just to normal, but into a hottie (At least, according to the other mares), I'd be wondering if I might wake up from whatever dream I was having as well.

...Wake up?

Wait, I'd bitten the inside of my mouth, and I had felt pain from it. I knew that the common belief is that it is impossible to feel pain in a dream, but that isn't one hundred percent accurate: It is possible to feel pain that originated in the real world while you were dreaming, without being woken up. Conceivably, I could have bitten the inside of my mouth hard enough in my sleep that it was felt in my dream, but I am not that heavy a sleeper: In order to be able to sleep peacefully, I typically need a quiet room, pitch blackness, and a soft mattress. Any sort of light, sound, or disturbance would wake me up instantly. Given what I tend to do when I am woken up by anything other than my alarm clock, that means I may give my 'WHO DARES TO AWAKEN ME!?' bit at odd hours. That has, of course, made things a little difficult for my past girlfriends. Can you imagine waking up next to that in the middle of the night? Sorry, getting off-topic again. The point was, I had a reason to believe that my dream may not be just a dream. But how could that be, when this entire situation was so bug-house nuts?

I was distracted from my thoughts when Honey did something surprising.

She stopped eating, and then, after a moment, closed her eyes, and gave a pleasant 'mmmmm' sound. And no, it wasn't a 'Mmmmm, this tastes good' sound. I'm sorry, but while I'm certain that your pancakes may be great, there is no possible way your pancakes can elicit that kind of noise from a female of any species (Barring using pancakes in a way that I am not going to discuss anywhere outside of my bedroom). I recognized that 'Mmmmm'. I've caused that 'Mmmmm'... and enough times to be fully justified in being proud of it. I have skillz. Let's leave it at that. If I say anymore, it'll sound like bragging.

The point is, that was not an 'mmmmm' that belonged at a dinner table... or at least not unless very specific actions were being taken at a dinner table that certainly weren't being done right now.

And the 'mmmmm' that followed that first one a moment later was even more inappropriate than the first.

"Geez," one of the mares whispered to the one beside her, "I didn't think the pancakes were that good. Which stack is she eating off of?"

The one beside the whisperer pointed at a stack. The whisperer asked, "Pass me a couple, will you?"

Honey moved on from simple 'mmmmm's' to the 'oh' stage. You know, 'oh oh oh oh oh'? And if the 'mmmmm's' were suggestive, the oh's, and the moans that quickly followed, were positively lurid. Honey had both forelegs on the table, her postier firmly seated on the ground. She was squirming, but otherwise, seemed to be alright. I'd have stood up and checked on her, but there were two very good reasons why I did not.

Reason Number One: I was too busy staring at her with my best 'What The Fuck' face on, and let me tell you, my 'What The Fuck' face is absolutely fantastic when I decide to wear it.

Reason Number Two: I don't care if those sounds were coming from a mare, they sounded human enough to have started giving a very important part of my anatomy a bad case of 'rigor mortis'. And, ah, given the fact that this place was clothing optional, standing up would have given twenty virgin mares a sight that I doubt that they were in any way prepared for.

Honey reached the 'Yes Yes YES!!!' stage, and was escalating quickly. Up until now, the mares had hardly paid her much mind, but at this point, Honey was the absolute center of attention... and the blushes that came to the faces of a couple of the 'virgins' implied that they were slightly more worldly than expected. Maybe they'd walked in on their parents or something. Finally, Honey reached what I will, delicately, refer to as the 'peak', arched her back, let out one long, loud, magnificent 'YEEEEEEESSSS!!!' sufficient to give everything male and possessing working gonads a case of serious stiffness, and then...

POP!!!

A horn popped out of her forehead.

Thankfully, it didn't shoot out any magic or anything: Just that one image of suddenly sprouting a horn was bad enough on its own. If it had started launching lightning bolts or fireballs at that moment... well, nevermind. Let's not be vulgar.

Honey Butter opened her eyes, blushing and panting in a 'oh certainly not suggestive at all' manner, and after a moment, seemed to notice that something was hanging over her eyes. With a look of horror, she looked at me, and asked, "Did... did an ear just sprout from my forehead?"

Shaking my head, I answered, "No. I am pretty sure that's a horn."

"Oh. Okay." She actually looked relieved for a minute. Then, after a moment to digest what I had just said, asked, "Why did I sprout a horn?"

I answered, with perfect honesty, "I have no id..."

"OH!!!" Honey suddenly moaned, closing her eyes again, and going into another... fit. The other mares sitting beside her got up and started backing away, possibly worried that she might explode or something.

'What the fuck?' I thought to myself. 'What, is she going to sprout wings next?'

Faster than before, and seemingly a great deal more intensely, she reached another... peak. And...

"YEEEEEEEEEESSSSS!!!!"

POP!!! POP!!!!

'DAMMIT I WAS JOKING!!!'

Wings. Motherfucking wings. A pair of them, sticking out of Honey's sides. Dafuq, man. What. The. Fuck.

I am not going to go into detail about how Honey looked after round two with The Happy Fairy. I will say that she was resting against the table, one cheek against the wooden surface, panting, and with a very satisfied look on her face. That's all. Paint your own damn picture, alright? She was in her happy place, for the first time in her life, and didn't give a fuck about decorum. Hell, given the life she'd lived, I doubt she even knew the definition of the word.

I did notice one thing at this point that I had not noticed before: The scar on her face was completely gone. There wasn't even a trace of it anymore. Her face was completely whole now. And she did look a little more filled out. Still thin, but not fashion-model caricature thin.

But why had the spell stopped before?

"What... what is an alicorn doing here?"

I turned to see Bray, standing to one side, an expression of horror on his face, so severe that it was almost comical.

Before I could ask him what an alicorn was, something rushed through my brain, possibly a piece of Grogar's memories.

'Alicorn. The only type of pony to naturally possess both wings and horn. Alicorns are known to be immortal, or perhaps just extremely long-lived, and are either ageless, or age at such a slow rate as to be impossible to measure. Known to be extremely resilient, both against physical harm and magical assault. Alicorns possess tremendous powers, and in most societies are either treated as royalty, worshiped as gods, or both. Extremely dangerous. Do not approach.'

So, wait, Honey just transformed into a god? How would that...?

Wait a sec. I remembered, from Grogar's memories, that when he healed Bray, the same spell had basically made the donkey immortal. As far as I could guess, there were no winged or horned donkeys in the world, so making Bray immortal had just created an immortal donkey. The spell I'd used may have been the exact same one that had healed Bray, but Honey was a pony, not a donkey. Give immortality to an ass, and it remains an ass. Give immortality to a pony?

I guess you get an alicorn.

As for the delay between the healing and this... sudden transformation? Logic, as far as it can be applied to bullshit twinkly magic stuff, states that, while magic can do a lot, it shouldn't be able to create something from absolutely nothing. The spell may have used Honey Butter's own natural reserves to restore herself, but given the mare's deplorable condition, it hit a point where trying to heal her further would end up doing more harm. But then she ate some more, and her body had more to work with, so the spell went to work with a will.

The spell probably had one hell of a pain-killing effect, given that, in Grogar's memories at least, Bray hadn't even whimpered while his skeletal structure was completely reshaped. So, when three new appendages were added (If you can count a horn as an appendage), complete with new nerves firing on all cylinders, instead of feeling outrageous amounts of pain, she just felt good. Really, really, good. Inappropriately good, to the point that a few mares had applauded after round two.

I'd need to figure out a new healing spell, one that wasn't going to spontaneously create god-kings and/or queens every time I used it. I had a feeling that there was probably some sort of cosmic scale that I had just tipped slightly, and there might be consequences for tipping things too far...

But back to the subject at hand, that being why there was now a deity at my breakfast table. How to play this off...

I shrugged, then said, "You know, I was thinking to myself, this palace is a terrible mess, it would be impossible to get it clean if this is all the staff we have." I paused, then asked, "It is, isn't it?"

Bray nodded, mutely.

"So, I thought to myself, why not put an alicorn on the staff?" I continued. "You know, someone with the ability to get at those hard to reach places on the ceiling, and has magic enough to clean entire rooms in an instant. Having that kind of power, I think we could have this place looking spotless in no time."

Bray's jaw dropped, hung open like that for a good minute and a half, and then closed with a click so hard he winced. "Master, begging your pardon, BUT ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!?!?"

I smiled, tilting my head to one side, my expression saying, louder than words, 'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, but only because your anger amuses me. Don't push it.' Bray blanched, then cleared his throat, and resumed in a more even tone.

"You've allowed an alicorn, one of the few beings that may constitute a threat to you," Bray continued, " to come into existence. A being that can demolish mountains at a whim? And you intend to use her as a maid?

I tapped a hoof against my chin, then said, "Hold that thought." I turned towards Honey Butter, and asked, "Honey?"

Honey Butter replied, "Yes, master?" Her tone was one that brought back my previous 'rigor mortis', but at two or three times the intensity.

'Two Legs Good, Four Legs Bad, dammit. Down boy, down!'

Struggling to keep all manner of emotions in check, I asked, "Do you mind being my maid? Cleaning the place, top to bottom? Following my orders, whatever they may be?"

"Anything you want, master," came her immediate reply, in a tone that, were everyone in this room human, or at least humanoid, would have had me screaming for everyone else in the room to leave while I began pulling my pants off. Ponies should not be allowed to sound that... arousing.

I turned back to Bray, and gave a smile, saying, "I fail to see the problem here, Bray." At his disbelieving look, I motioned for him to come closer. Once he did, I whispered in his ear, "Think of it like this, Bray: I'm going to have to deal with every petty warlord and wannabe royal who thinks that, just because I was dead, I'll be too weak to take back what is mine. When word gets around that not only can I turn a slave into a god at a whim, but that one such god exists solely to clean my palace, well, I think that those would-be overlords will think twice about challenging me, don't you? I suspect that, once the rumor spreads, many will fall right into line, especially with what I have planned at Honey's old stomping grounds."

Bray took a moment to digest that. After a moment, he said, "A dangerous gambit, master, but if you are confident that you can keep her under your control, I will not question your will."

"Capital," I said, smiling. "Now, I trust you have the information I requested?"

The donkey nodded, and said, "Yes master. I suspected where her origins were, just from the description she gave, but I wanted to be certain. Trog-Gob's farm isn't far from here, well within the range of teleportation. And if you plan on making an example of him for his actions, today would probably be the best day to do so."

Curious, I asked, "Why might that be?"

"Today," Bray announced, "is the day of The Festival." He then began to explain exactly what that was...

Of all the ideas Trog-Gob had ever had, he loved The Festival most of all.

As the latest of his victims, a middle-aged mare who was now recognizable as a pony only due to the overall shape of her bloody carcass, was hauled away, the Trog reflected on how perfect the idea had been.

Trog-Gob had appetites, ones that were not slated with wine, or food, or any of the multitudes of recreational substances available in Tambelon. No, he had a hunger for torture, an appetite for destruction, and a lust for despair. And he was not alone. Trog-Gob had, before rising to power, met more than a few Trogs like himself. Even amongst Trogs, who were willing to overlook many forms of decadence, he and his cohorts would be viewed with hatred and disgust, even though they were amongst the wealthiest and most powerful in the land. However, exactly because Trog-Gob were so wealthy aqnd powerful, he was able to create a means of slating their thirsts for torture discretely. Well, not discretely: It was something of an open secret, as many knew, but had no means of proving what happened on the farm, and attempting to do so could end up with unfortunate consequences... much like Trog-Gob's other family members had.

Poison was far too quick for Trog-Gob's tastes, but it got the job done discretely enough.

Trog-Gob wished he didn't have to be so... discrete, in spite of the power he wielded. His grandfather had insisted on treating slaves kindly, stating that the ones you walked over in life would drag you down to Hades when you died. Weak, gutless fool. Trog-Gob was of the opinion that the strong ruled, and the weak served... and that the weak were prey to the whims of the strong. Don't hate the player, hate the game, and hate the fact that the game put you in the role of 'bitch', rather than 'butcher'. This was Trog-Gob's view of the world, and The Festival was the ultimate celebration of it.

Last year, during the first official Festival, Trog-Gob had gathered like-minded nobility from across Tambelon, and they had engaged in... games. Games like 'Whip A Mare To Death In Front Of Her Family', or 'Strip The Flesh', followed immediately by an entertaining round of 'Salt the wound'. Always a party favorite.

Regrettably, during that last Festival, Trog-Gob had nearly run out of expendable slaves before the event had reached a half-way point, going though all one hundred in six hours, and having to make the last remaining slave's death a slow, lingering affair that took eight hours. Fun, but after a time, it was almost like beating a dead horse in more ways than one. This time, he had gathered a total of three hundred fresh slaves, and with noon approaching, they were already half-way through the supply... and he couldn't possibly be happier. His guests had paid good money for this entertainment, more than enough to recoup his losses a dozen times over. Enough that he might even go for five hundred slaves, next time.

As the latest victim was dragged into the room, Trog-Gob got to see his favorite sight. The stallion looked about the room, seeing the dozens of richly dressed Trogs seated about the chamber, looking on with interest. He saw the blood on the floor, walls and ceiling. He saw the implements of torture on the rack beside the table. He saw the manacles on the table. And finally, he saw Trog-Gob, stripped to the waist, and a long, cruel blade clutched in one hand, and the stallion knew, without a doubt, that not only was he going to die, but die by inches. Long, slow, miserable inches.

The stallion let out a long, despairing wail, one that set Trog-Gob's loins astirring, and the Trog began to laugh heartily as his guards began putting the pony into his place with the ease of long practice. Life was good, and he was certain that they would remain that way forever.

THE OVERGOAT REIGNS SURPREME... Just Ask Him.

"Sister, did you feel that?"

Celestia loved her sister dearly, but she honestly wondered if Luna forgot sometimes that both of them were alicorns, meaning that they both shared a nearly identical set of skills and abilities... including the ability to instantly sense certain magical phenomenon. In fact, Celestia's ability to sense those events was even stronger than Luna's.

Working on the scrying globe in front of her, seated in her personal study, Princess Celestia bit back a sarcastic answer, and instead began, gently, "Luna..."

Abruptly, two projections, one of Twilight Sparkle, and the other of Cadance, appeared in the room, both of them asking in excited tones, "Princess Celestia, did you feel that?"

"Of course I did," Celestia answered promptly. "I imagine that little Flurry Heart felt it herself." A distant foal's cry from Cadance's projection confirmed this assertion. "Right now, I'm trying to figure out where that alicorn awakening came from."

It was an incredibly rare thing, for an alicorn to spontaneously awaken. Technically, Twilight Sparkle didn't count, given that Celestia had spent years guiding and nurturing her towards that path. Cadance's was not quite spontaneous, but Celestia had not had anything to do with it, it had just happened. Such awakenings almost never occurred, given what it actually took for such an event to take place. This time, though, it was completely unexpected, and seemed to be outside of Equestria's borders, something even more unlikely. But where was this new alicorn? And what would her sphere of influence be?

"This is unbelievable," Twilight Sparkle began, becoming anxious. "Another alicorn? And so soon after Flurry Heart was born? It's unprecedented for three alicorns to appear, all within the same year!"

"Indeed," agreed Luna, nodding sagely. "Still, we must quickly find this alicorn, and determine if they intend their powers for good or ill."

"We'll have an answer shortly," Celestia stated, flatly. The last thing she wanted to consider was the possibility of an evil alicorn. Given that just one could potentially cause untold devastation before being defeated, it was right up there with Grogar's return in terms of nightmare scenarios.

Finally, the crystal globe in front of Celestia began to glow, and an image appeared before her...

"No. Impossible..."

"What?" asked the three other alicorns in unison.

"This new alicorn is in... a place I dare not name," Celestia answered, after a brief pause. Luna's horrified expression confirmed that she understood her sister's meaning, even if the other two were confused. Clearing her throat, Celestia stated, "Twilight Sparkle, Cadance, I need you both to come here as soon as possible. Twilight, bring your friends. Cadance, bring your husband. I have something that I will need to discuss with all of you, once you arrive."

"What?" the two younger princesses asked.

"How to best prepare for the potential return of the greatest threat that Equestria has ever known," Celestia answered bluntly. She hoped that she was wrong, and that Grogar had not awakened when he had sensed an alicorn awakening in his own kingdom, but she needed to prepare, both herself and her allies, in case that was exactly what had happened.

But how could an alicorn have awakened in Tambelon? Celestia and Luna were certain that there would hardly be any ponies remaining in that dreaded kingdom, given a thousand years of mistreatment by the Trogs. In fact, Celestia had suspected that there had not been a single pony remaining in Tambelon, but there must be at least one.

Still, there could not be too many, a couple hundred at most. A number easily reintroduced into Equestria society, should the combined forces of the alicorns be sufficient to stop Grogar.

"Eight hundred THOUSAND!?!"

You know, when I had heard that Trog-Gob was planning on torturing to death three hundred ponies, I had been surprised: I had suffered under the impression that there could not be that many ponies, if A-Holes like this guy were being that brutal to them. A few thousand, at most. But this?

"Tambelon once existed partly within Equestria, and partly within the realm of shadows. When Tambelon had been banished to the realm of shadows," Bray explained, now that we were alone in the throne room, the mares having taken Honey Butter out to get some air, "the princesses had locked us out of Equestria, preventing the Trogs from returning there. However, the realm of shadows is a nexus point, bordering thousands of worlds, and you had already used a spell to pull one such world fully into the realm of shadows, one without any intelligent, sapient, or sentient life upon it. You used that world as the anchor point for your domain's location within the realm of shadows.. An entire world with no one else to lay claim to it, with sufficient natural resources to fuel your ambitions of world domination. You had created an artificial sun and moon, and set seasons into motion, so that this world would be able to run without your constant supervision, and with this planet at our disposal, it granted us an endless supply of wood, metals, and food, along with sundry other materials. When you were defeated, and Tambelon was locked away, the Trogs simply decided to colonize the world they were now trapped on. But to build a civilization, they needed workers. So, the captured prisoners from Equestria, already numbering in the thousands, were... encouraged to multiply."

With a sick feeling in my stomach, I asked, "Breeding camps?" Two words that should never go together.

Bray nodded, the expression on his face indicating clearly that he had not agreed with the idea. He'd started out as a citizen of Equestria, after all. "Yes, master. As wretched as such places were, they succeeded in producing huge numbers of ponies, sufficient to begin building walls, roads, cities... civilization. Within three centuries, the camps were considered obsolete, and the last census that was performed at that time indicated that the number of ponies exceeded eight hundred thousand."

And in the seven hundred years since, it was almost certain to have grown larger, in spite of the way the ponies were being treated. The average pony likely had no idea of their origins, their history. After all, the purpose of a breeding camp is just to produce large numbers, not educate them. I suspected that most ponies didn't even know how to read...

"We're getting a bit far afield," I admitted. "Back to the original subject: This 'Festival' is going on right now?"

Bray nodded, "Yes, master. If you will follow me to the Long Jump chamber, we can begin making arrangements to depart immediately."

Whatever else you might say about the old goat, Grogar did tend to think ahead when it came to most things not involving his death. You have an entire world at your disposal, but you want to maintain dominion over that realm and feared that distant territories might one day rebel? Then you build teleportation chambers that will transport you, and an army, instantly from one point to another. Hence, the Long Jump (It also worked as a Long Pull, but Long Jump sounded cooler). Grogar had two chambers in his palace, one for small groups (Himself and his entourage), and one for massive armies. And when I say massive, I mean massive: An army one hundred thousand strong could fit inside of the chamber in the basement, according to Bray, and the fact that this chamber could teleport armies between locations had been one of the reasons why Grogar's invasion of Equestria had been so successful.

It made a certain amount of sense: Armies usually take a lot of time to move from place to place, and refugees fleeing from conquered cities could often outrun those armies, reach the nearest town, and warn the residents well before the army came within sight. With the Long Jump, it meant that an army could strike multiple locations within the same day, often many miles apart. If the army had been more concerned with completely wiping out Equestrians, rather than capturing them and taking them as slaves, then Grogar might have finished his domination of the country within a couple of days, before anyone had a clue as to what was happening.

Hell, my father had been a logistics officer in the army, and a student of military history besides, and he'd have told you that something like this would be the wet dream of every nation that had ever went to war: Armies need a lot of resources on the move, and Sun Tzu wrote in The Art Of War about how expensive that could be. Hell, he'd even written about how expensive they were when they were doing jack shit. Most of that cost was based on the amount of time that armies weren't fighting: As they marched, as they rested, things like that. Soldiers need to be fed, housed, and paid, even when they weren't in the field, but when they marched, it became even more expensive. To quote Napoleon: An Army Marches On Its Stomach. An army that can't be fed, can't be expected to fight, and they couldn't move much faster than their supply chain can. With this, the cost of maintaining an army was diminished drastically. Hell, you didn't even need a supply train: A chamber like this could summon freight (Food, wood, raw materials, etc), and then send it to another location as needed. No more vulnerable supply chains, no pay wagons that would make for an enticing target to enemy forces, hell, there were no marching armies that you could lay a trap for, ambush as they traveled through your territory. The existence of this chamber meant that Grogar's armies had no vulnerabilities: They could just appear, wreck your shit, then vanish, leaving only ruins to mark that they'd even been there.

For the first time, I felt a small amount of respect for Grogar: He might not have planned for his own death, but he'd definitely planned ahead when it came to conquest...

The chamber itself, the one that was intended for small scale teleportation, was not dusty at all, but instead was so clean that it practically gleamed. Bray had told me that this was because of an enchantment that I (Grogar) had put into place, keeping out any and all dust: A single dust particle being in the air at the wrong time could result in some rather unpleasant side effects... including brain damage. This room did see a lot of use, though: Bray had used it to keep tabs on what was going on all around Tambelon, and used it to collect what meager tribute was given to him/me.

There were complex runes lining the floor, walls, and ceiling, all of which were smooth, otherwise faultless stone. A massive crystal ball, easily twice my size, hung in the middle of the room, a scrying device that let me see where I'd be teleporting to: It was always a good idea to see where you might be teleporting to, otherwise you might end up teleporting yourself inside of a stone wall... or a monster's stomach.

Bray began working on the orb, and in a few seconds, he brought up an image of a mansion. It was... surprisingly pleasant looking, for a place that was presently a house of horrors. I was also surprised to find that it was quite bright and sunny today. A day like this should really have been overcast, dark and gloomy. Instead, it was almost sickeningly picturesque... or it would be, if not for the bloody sacks that someone had left on the walkway outside of the porch. A hoof stuck out of the top of one such sack, announcing clearly what was contained within...

"There we go, master," Bray said, pointing, "we can appear directly upon Trog-Gob's doorstep." He was prevented from saying more by the image showing a quartet of guards exiting.

You know, I had expected the Trogs to look like a combination of trolls, orcs, and/or goblins, and I was not disappointed. These four were stripped to the waist, wearing boots and pants of a material I could not immediately identify. They had skin of a grayish-green coloration, were fairly tall, with fat, bloated bellies, but also had thick, muscular legs, and arms to match. Their faces were brutish and ugly looking, but they didn't look stupid. I know that's a typical assumption with creatures like this, but they didn't walk around like brain dead troglodytes, but with purpose and direction implying at least average intelligence. The fact that they were putting ponies in sacks at least indicated that they were smart enough to know that it was easier carrying the dead in clusters, rather than one at a time. Each guard was carrying a dead pony... or what might be a dead pony, but was hard to tell, given how terrible their condition was. After depositing their burdens into sacks, one of them, looking to be the leader, said something to the others, who then gathered sacks, and began walking off.

"Follow them," I commanded Bray. I suspected I knew where they were going, and it gave me a few ideas.

It took a few minutes for them to reach their destination: A pit. To be more precise, a corpse pit. And the corpses within were far too great in number to be just the ones who died today. Trog-Gob didn't bury his dead, or cremate them: He just left them for the crows, far enough away that the stench didn't bother him.

"There," I stated, flatly. "Send us there, after the guards leave."

Bray looked over at me, and then at the corpse pile, then said, "Your will, master."

As the guards went about emptying their sacks into the pit, I looked into Grogar's memories again. I was seriously considering going zombie apocalypse on Trog-Gob's ass...

Zombies, Grogar decided, after examining the shambling thing that was moronically flailing against a simple barricade on the proving grounds, simply were not worth the effort.

Yes, they were terrifying to the uninitiated, but they were easily distracted, trapped, evaded, or destroyed. True, that was regarding the most basic of zombies, but creating zombies capable of more required more time, and more energy, than he was willing to commit to the invasion of Equestria.

With a year's time, and a supply of corpses, Grogar could create an army of extremely powerful, extremely capable undead soldiers. However, he didn't want to spend a year doing such a thing, when it was easier to train and outfit living soldiers, ones that would not require his constant supervision to do their jobs.

A pity that Equestria was so peaceful, he thought as he cut the zombie's unlife short with a simple spell. Grogar knew a dozen spells that could create far greater undead, ones capable of ravaging cities. However, they required very specific circumstances to create, and it would require Princesses Celestia and Luna to commit major atrocities against their own subjects for such an undead to be willing to work on Grogar's behalf, something he knew the princesses would never do on their own.

A sad thing, that. Grogar would have greatly enjoyed watching an Eidolon of the Grave in action...

Spell acquired, I thought to myself with a feral grin.

"Master, where are you going?"

I turned to see Honey Butter standing outside of the chamber, the other mares behind her, staring at the image in the crystal ball with wide eyes.

I said, simply, "I'm going to put an end to Trog-Gob. Want to watch?"

After a moment's hesitation, Honey nodded.

"Alright," I said, cheerfully. I turned to my assistant and asked, "Bray, would you mind setting this thing up to track us, once we get to our destination?"

"Of course, master," Bray replied promptly.

"Good," I said, then turned back to Honey Butter and the others. "Now, I'm only going to ask one thing of you ladies while we are away: I need a clean bed to sleep on tonight. I don't mind if it isn't in my official bedchambers, as I understand that my bedroom is likely as dusty as most of the castle. I just want a good, clean bed to sleep on, in a room with some privacy. If you will set that up for me, and then prepare a dinner, you'll be allowed the rest of the day to yourselves. Understand?"

The mares nodded, seeming to be a bit surprised at the idea of not being worked non-stop all day, but not willing to question it.

"Capital," I stated, then turned back to Bray. "Whenever you're ready."

You know, as methods for discovering that you're not in a dream go, being swamped by the funk given off by hundreds of rotting corpses is the absolute worst. I'm sorry to say it, but nothing you can imagine can match that horrific smell, combined with the awful buzzing of all those insects feeding at once. Suddenly dropping into that stench was like being punched in the face by the god of stank himself. I almost upchucked my pancakes.

But discovering this was real only hardened my resolve to do what I was about to do. I could worry about how's or why's later. Right now, I had business to take care of.

Grogar had senses that let him peer into the veil beyond death, and souls that die in agony tend to hang around their bodies for a good, long while. They floated in midair, expressions of horror on their faces, and mouths open, shrieking. The sound of all those tortured souls in one place was almost deafening, a ceaseless wailing of lamentation fit to wake the dead, were they not already. I stopped the sound with a single statement.

"Children of the grave."

Instantly, they all turned towards me, staring at me in surprise. I suppose they didn't expect for anyone flesh and blood to know they were there, let alone address them.

"Show of hooves," I began, a smile beginning to form on my face. "Who wants to see Trog-Gob and his cronies get what's coming to them?"

Without exception, they all raised a hoof, and many of them raised two.

"Capital," I said, with a grin that would put a shark to shame. "Let's get started..."

Trog-Gob finished with the stallion he'd been working on, and began cleaning his knives. He'd been quite thorough with the creature, and was certainly that he'd wrung every drop of blood from it...

So imagine in surprise when it sat up, ripping off the restraints that bound it, and stared at him.

"You will cry out in despair in pants filled with your own urine and feces before you die," the corpse proclaimed, in a voice that managed to convey both the coldness of the grave, yet also the fire of absolute fury. "That is a prophecy, one that I have been asked to relay to you. Death is coming, but it will be slower in reaching you than it was for me. I hope you enjoy it... you festering sack of maggot shite."

With that, the corpse suddenly burst into green flames, and with a sickening sound, two 'arms' burst from its back, tipped with scythe-like claws, and the flesh on its face peeled away, revealing a horrific skull-like visage. The creature turned to the audience, and shouted, "HAPPY FESTIVAL, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!" It then sprang upon the spectators, its new limbs mowing down Trogs like wheat before the scythe. Screaming, blood-filled wheat...

Trog-Gob ran, terrified, as the mansion suddenly began to fill with the sounds of screams. As he passed rooms, he saw Trogs being ripped apart by ponies. Some were... modified like the one that he'd just seen. Others were sickening, twisted things that broke Trog limbs and brutally beat them to death. Some seemed as spectral things, who would suddenly fly through their victims, and seem to emerge, dragging something out behind them. But all of them seemed to ignore the few intact ponies in the mansion, and were specifically targeting just the Trogs.

And for now, they seemed to be ignoring Trog-Gob.

Finally, after what was surely only a few minutes, but felt more like a thousand years, he reached the exit. Throwing the door open, he rushed out, stumbling and falling flat on his face. As he raised his head, he saw Bray, that idiotic ass who thought that, just because he'd served Grogar back when the former ruler was alive...

The thought stopped in its tracks as Trog-Gob saw the blue goat standing next to Bray. He'd seen depictions of him in history books, on murals, on tapestries, and at the time, had thought the appearance of the former lord of Tambelon to be underwhelming. But here, in the flesh... Trog-Gob understood why so many had feared Grogar.

"Ah, and you must be Trog-Gob," Grogar said, his voice distressingly cheerful. "We were just talking about you."

That was when a massive shadow fell over the mansion, and Trog-Gob looked up... and up... and up... to see a massive thing, formed of bones, darkness, and green witchfire.

"Trog-Gob," Grogar began, that damnably cheerful grin on his face, "meet the Eidolon of the Grave, aka every pony that you've killed since you took over. They'll be the ones seeing you off this mortal coil. Not too quickly, though." Turning towards the massive thing, the goat asked, "Tell me, one lash for each pony that he and his friends have killed, how many would that be?"

"ONE THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED, TWENTY-SEVEN," the massive thing replied, in a voice fit to shake the mountains.

"I think that should be enough," Grogar said with a nod. "Don't you?"

The Eidolon of the Grave held a massive hand up, and in it formed a black whip, long, wickedly barbed, bathed in green fire... and as thick around as a tree. "AGREED."

Turning back towards Trog-Gob, Grogar stated, "After you have felt the full extent of your punishment, all of your cronies and fellow monsters slain for their misdeeds, and the still-living ponies have had a chance to come see your tormented form, and have been given the opportunity to spit and/or piss on your face, then you will have my permission to die."

As Trog-Gob let out a wail of despair, Grogar smelled the air, and then proclaimed, triumphantly, "AND THE PROPHECY HATH BEEN FULFILLED!!!"

THE OVERGOAT'S NEEDS NO FRIENDS... But New Allies Are Always Welcome.

I wasn't joking when I said that Trog-Gob wouldn't die without my permission.

Grogar apparently knew a ton of spells that would prevent souls from departing from the physical plane, and some of them bound the soul directly to the body, to the point that even if someone were ground to meal, and then burned to ashes, and then burned again to a finer grade of ash, the poor sap would still be stuck in their physical body.

Of course, I didn't have to actually cast that spell myself. Fun fact about the Eidolon of the Grave: Once it finds the individual or individuals responsible for the deaths of those that make up its body, it won't let its victim die and/or pass on until its wrath has been fully visited upon their target. And when it strikes, it doesn't just hit the body...

...It strikes the soul itself. And you have not felt pain until you've had your soul whipped.

So, in spite of the fact that, by the third lash, most of Trog-Gob's body had been reduced to paste, he was still alive, awake, and screaming... a sound which was almost drowned out by the excited shouts and applause of the ponies watching. They say that the same crowd that cheers at a man's coronation will cheer at his execution, but I'd like to think that if the man in question was a complete asshole, the crowd would cheer a lot louder.

Meanwhile, what was I doing? The best thing I could do at the time: Stay Busy.

Yes, I was aware now that I really was in some kind of fantasy world, and in a body not my own, and if I stopped and thought about it for more than a second, I'd probably freak out, and probably not stop freaking out for several hours. However, that was not going to get me anywhere, and I was hardly someplace that would allow me the time to have a safe and proper freakout like I would have wanted. So, to keep myself from thinking about my current situation, I had to think about something, anything else.

Thus, I was reading over an interesting little black book that one of Trog-Gob's servants had given me. The servant in question had seen this book, and where it was hidden, which was why she had been one of the poor souls chosen to become a part of today's festival, in spite of her being illiterate. It turned out that my timing had been supremely fortuitous for her: A 'necro-pony' (No, I hadn't given the Eidolon of the Grave the idea, it turns out that necromorph type ponies are actually a standard type of undead here. Who knew?) had spawned just as she was getting trussed up for her turn in a 'fun' game of 'Guess Where The Red Hot Poker Will Go Next', basically a game of roulette combined with agonizing torture. And no, none of the places the poker will go are any fun at all for the pony. The Trogs who had been taking part got to find out how things went from the other side of the equation, though...

"I cannot possibly thank you enough for bringing this to me, Number Eighty-Seven," I said, as I went over the blackest little black book in history. "This will be absolutely indispensible in the days to come. Consider yourself on the palace staff: I could use a go-getter like yourself at the palace." I was honestly giving though to taking in every pony here: The palace definitely needed the staff, and given that the 'Festival' had been held only a day after the last of Trog-Gob's crops had been harvested, there really wasn't any reason to keep the ponies here. I could have all the feed and seed gathered up and moved to the palace within a couple of days, according to Bray, nevermind all the other loot. With Trog-Gob dead, there really wasn't anyone else to inherit the place, so I'd be free to... bestow it upon any Trog who managed to earn my favor.

The mare, a ginger-colored waif with a black mane, blushed deeply and bowed. "You honor me, master," she said as she raised her head. "I am unworthy."

"Then acquire worth with all the speed you can muster," I stated with a chuckle. "The times are changing, and if you work hard, you may be surprised where you find yourself this time next year..."

I was interrupted by the sound of hooves approaching at a gallop. A lot of them. I turned to the direction of the sound, and saw a massive cloud of dust in the horizon. I was no soldier, but it looked like an army was marching towards Trog-Gob's estate.

"Huh," Bray said, standing nearby, "maybe the Regency Council has decided to do something, after all..."

Looking over at the donkey, I asked, "The what now?"

"Ah, my apologies, master," Bray said, sheepishly, "things have been moving so quickly, I have barely had time to explain anything to you."

"Well," I said, watching the cloud of dust approach, "you can start now."

Credit where it is due, Grogar may not have planned for his own death, but he did plan for when someone might try to overthrow him, or try to defy him. Since Tambelon literally occupies a world seperate from Equestria, one would have to wonder what might happen if, while Grogar was off conquering Equestria, a few trogs decided that they'd rather be in charge, rather than the big blue goat. Since Grogar would be off-world at the time, what was to prevent someone from just closing off all the routes back to Tambelon, and just declaring themselves rulers of Tambelon?

Grogar found an answer for that.

Firstly, the number of methods available to move between Equestria and Tambelon were legion: Grogar seeded the entire continent with 'Short-Jump' chambers, basically a version of the Long Jump that only moves between Tambelon and Equestria. It would be the work of eons, without any magic and a detailed map of the Short Jump chambers, to disable them all, given that many of them are deep underground. This also prevented Equestrian invasion via the Short Jump, since many of these chambers were literally just an eight foot cube with no entrance or exit, so unless you could teleport over very long distances like Grogar could, an invader would end up trapped in a dark room with limited air, and since the Short Jump was one way only...

Well, let's just say that there may be a few short jump chambers occupied by skeletons and leave it at that.

The other issue, the issue of someone declaring themself king in Grogar's absence, was easier to solve: Grogar placed a curse on the entire planet. It kinda gives you an idea of just how powerful Grogar was in his heyday, that I can say that sentence with a straight face. Saying that he placed a curse on the entire planet is a lot like saying that that he decided to rearrange the positions of all of the continents in such a way that they were more aesthetically pleasing: The amount of sheer power inherent in both acts boggles the mind.

What was the nature of this curse? Simple: Anyone who claims the position of king, prince, emperor, ruler, grand poobah, and a thousand other titles, would die. By being struck instantly by lightning. No less than one hundred times. And if the individual doing so was male, they'd be struck in the nuts each and every time.

I don't know about you, but that would make me think twice about trying to declare myself the ruler of anything.

I honestly don't know if that means that Grogar has a sense of humor, or if he just decided that it would be best to make the curse as devastating as possible to make it clear that this was one subject that he was not willing to take any shit about. Regardless, the message was made clear: Grogar rules Tambelon. To try and take control of Tambelon results in severe groinal ruin for all parties involved. By the time it had happened on three separate occasions, all of them on a bright sunny days, and a fourth one so deep underground that you could smell brimstone, the Trogs got the idea, and quit trying to declare a singular ruler of Tambelon.

But how can you have a civilization without someone in charge, or at least with some measure of authority? The Regency Council figured out a loophole which allowed them to set themselves as, if not rulers, then at least the guys who oversaw, in a general sense, the running of Tambelon as a whole.

They announced that, so long as Grogar was absent, and in the absence of a leader chosen by Grogar himself, the Regency Council would oversee the growth, development, and legislation of the realm, and would promptly hand over the reigns of power back to Grogar as soon as he appeared and demanded it. It worked: Nary a rumble of thunder was heard that day.

To their credit, the Council did a bang-up job, when they took over seven hundred years ago: They closed the breeding camps, set up a form of currency, wrote out a code of law, and began overseeing the logistics of getting Tambelon moving along. Within a century, Tambelon occupied a region that was easily twice the size of Equestria, by all descriptions, and covered the entire continent, and now there was talk of seeing about moving on to the other continents of the world. Not due to population pressures, or because of resource issues, but just because they easily could do so.

I won't go into the details of how it all works, as a lot of that is the kind of bureaucratic bullshit that would make anyone listening bash their head against the wall within sixty seconds, but it boils down to this: Tambelon is divided into four quadrants, and the Regency council has twelve members, three from each quadrant. The three that oversee their particular quadrant more or less have absolute authority there, but they have to have a majority vote amongst themselves before they make any minor legislative changes, and then, for anything major, they have to get the motion to pass through the council as a whole, through another majority vote. In the event of a tie, they invite Bray over, and he casts the deciding vote. That has happened exactly three times in seven hundred years, and none of them were particularly important or world-shaking.

Trog-Gob was confident that he could do as he pleased because he had pulled a lot of strings to arrange for three of his cronies to get the seats in his quadrant. As such, no one could touch him... or so he assumed. Of course, if the three in charge get outvoted by the remaining nine...

Bray had assumed that the Regency Council would never vote to take direct action against Trog-Gob, simply because he had a fairly large following amongst the upper classes, but either something must have happened to change their minds, or some sort of power play was going on...

"So," I stated, flatly, "there's a group of Trogs who are essentially in charge, but only until my return."

"Yes, master," Bray responded promptly.

"I suppose that is fair," I admitted. "Well, I wonder what they'll think of the current situation."

We were about to find out.

"COMPANY, HALT!!!"

The sound of thundering hooves stopped with startling precision. As the dust cleared, I was treated to an impressive sight: An army, no, a cavalry of hundreds of mounted Trogs stood before me. And unlike the Trogs I had seen in the crystal ball earlier, and unlike the bloated piece of shit, Trog-Gob, these actually looked respectable: Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, their arms rippled with muscle. They wore armor that looked plain, but functional, and perhaps more importantly, was completely uniform, implying a professional army. The only individual who was dressed differently was the commander, who had been riding a chariot, and wore a tall, crested helmet that reminded me of something like a Roman legion commander's. Perhaps more importantly, the ones that were riding, were riding ponies.

Big, muscular, heavily armored ponies.

I really should have considered the possibility that there might be slaves in service to the military. After all, human history is filled to the brim of the same thing having happened. For example, there was the caste of Mamluks in medieval Egypt, who ended up being so badass that they decided to overthrow their rulers and take power for themselves. It didn't end all that well for the Mamluks, but the point was, they eventually wised up and decided that, hey, we've got swords, why should we do what these other guys tell us?

I briefly pondered just what the ratio was between Trogs and ponies. If there were, say, five ponies for every Trog, then sooner or later, someone was going to decide that maybe the majority should get a vote in how things went around here, and then, well...

Down with Trogs, up with ponies.

For now, though, I had to admit that it made for an imposing sight: All of the ponies wore heavy armor, enough that it would make a cavalry charge a devastating prospect for anyone caught on the receiving end. Meanwhile, the soldiers riding the ponies were equally well-armored, and carried swords and shields, along with a cavalry lance. While I was certain that I was more than powerful enough to deal with an army of this size, it was still a sobering prospect, having to face that kind of a force: If this was what they deployed just to deal with a group of unlikable nobles who had no means of defending themselves and were completely unaware that an attack was coming, it implied a spectacularly large army was at the Regency Council's disposal. They had wave after wave of steel-covered meat to hide behind, if they decided to go to war against me.

A second figure stood at the side of what I assumed to be commanding officer, one I had initially overlooked. The figure was richly dressed in a silk, and very definitely feminine. And no, I wasn't talking about the fact that she had a much more pleasant-looking face, or a little shorter and significantly thinner than the rest of the Trogs present. I'll just go ahead and say it: She had... curves. Very prominent ones. I hadn't really considered the possibility that Trog females might have breasts, but this one made it abundantly clear that this was so, given the size of her endowments and the almost scandalous amount of cleavage on display.

I was more concerned with what she was whispering to the commander, though. If the next words out of his mouth included the word 'Charge', I was almost certainly in for a difficult time...

After a moment, the commander nodded, and then, in the best parade ground voice I had ever heard, he shouted, "COMPANY!!! KNEEL!!!"

As one, the riders bowed their heads, as each pony bent a knee before me. The sound of armored legs hitting the ground in a sign of obedience was almost deafening, easily loud enough to drown out the almost juvenile 'squee!' that I let out in response.

Ah, allow me to explain something to you. I suppose that it is long overdue that I told you a little about myself. You see, from an early age, I have been in love with the idea of being a supervillain. Not the 'Dictator who rules with an iron dick' type. Not the cruel and oppressive tyrant. Not the James Bond style megalomaniac. Not some psycho who was evil for the sake of being evil. No.

Growing up, my favorite villain was Doctor Doom. Bombastic, brilliant, badass Doctor Doom. Forget the movies, the kids shows, I speak only of the comic books. One of the most iconic villains that Marvel Comics ever produced. I didn't love the character because of the fact that he was powerful, smarter than almost anyone else in the Marvel universe, or the fact that, in spite of having no powers of his own, he went head to head with GODS and came out on top on a regular basis. I loved the character because, unlike most villains who ruled their own country, his kingdom was nothing like Mordor, or any sort of oppressive tyranny.

It was a paradise. Von Doom's kingdom was one where his people were healthy, happy, and prosperous. And above all else, safe. Because no one wants to fuck with the country that has a mad scientist as its ruler, as said ruler will literally invent new ways of fucking you right back. If Von Doom could have just gotten over his grudge against Reed Richards, and gotten his megalomania under control, he'd more or less be the perfect leader.

Let my enemies fear me, let my allies respect me, and let my subjects love me. What more can any leader be asked to accomplish?

Perhaps it is silly to dream of something like that, but as I've already stated, I decided at a young age that I was not going to be normal. I was going to be fucking spectacular, and I did all I could do to become so. I once, in college, submitted for an assignment the design for an orbital weapon that could launch anvils from space that, once the targeting software was available, would strike with pinpoint accuracy, while allowing the anvil to remain intact even after impact. Overkill, given the kind of destruction that projectile, given its mass and velocity, would cause on impact, but I thought it was worth it. I also included a list of alterations that could be made that would allow it to also launch, among other things, iron statues of 'Buddy Jesus', a hand flipping the bird, Uncle Sam making the 'Deez Nutz' gesture, and, for those who have no flair for style whatsoever, a basic projectile, more or less a cannonball. I got an A+, and a month later, some guys from the government came and paid me a sizable sum for the rights to the design, provided I swore never to disclose the details of how this device might be possible. Sadly, it'll be sixty, seventy years before the software makes it possible to actually allow it to strike with anything like the accuracy I envisioned, but hey, sometimes, human imagination outpaces our current level of technology, and we just have to sprint to catch up.

Sorry, I'm getting off track again, and I apologize. The point is, all I ever needed to ever make my dream a reality was a doom fortress, sufficient funding, and an army. And here I had just been given all three in one day.

Hell yes.

Fuck yes.

Hell. Fucking. YES!!!

THE OVERGOAT HAS RETURNED... For Those Of You Who Didn't Know Already.

"So, who are these two?"

Bray looked over to me as I watched the cavalry begin to dismount. As expected, they went about their work quickly, quietly, and efficiently, the mark of a well-trained army. If I was any judge, these guys were a vanguard, and there were likely to be more on the way. Somehow, I doubted that they were here just for Trog-Gob and his pals: If this was a vanguard, the full army was likely a thousand strong at least, and Gobby, his pals, and whatever bodyguards he had numbered only around a hundred, all told. These Trogs were expecting something bigger...

...And I had a sneaking suspicion I knew what it was.

"I can't say for certain," Bray admitted, "at least not at this distance. I can't say I am familiar with every officer of the army. However, there's only one that I can think of who would ride at the head of a vanguard. I'm not sure why Trog-Hawk would be here, though: He's not the type to get himself involved in politics for any reason, so either he's been sent here under false pretenses, or there's something very big going down.."

The Trog in question dismounted from his chariot, and with a slight flourish, extended a hand to the female Trog that had been riding with him. She accepted it and stepped down, and just that small action sent various portions of her anatomy moving in all manner of directions, an action that drew no small amount of attention from the soldiers nearby.

"And Jiggles, over there?" I asked, utilizing a secret technique I had learned from a Buddhist monk to keep myself from staring at the show in progress. Yes, really. I'd just gotten out of a bad relationship with an extremely stacked girl, who had been able to wrap me around her little finger because I spent more time staring at her chest than paying attention to what she was actually doing. When we broke up, leaving me $50k poorer in the process, I paid that monk something like six grand to teach to me the secret of being immune to the power of the rack. Don't laugh, it works. I am immune to the power of boobies.

Bray looked at me oddly, and then, to my surprise, began laughing, going, "Hee-ha, hee-ha, hee-ha!" Well, he was a donkey, I suppose.

After a moment, he regained his composure, and then admitted, "That was a good one, master. I'll have to remember it, should I ever have a chance to do a flyte." He took a moment more and said, "While I cannot make out her face, those... curves are difficult to forget. She is Trog-Ella, a member of the Regency Council. She's a major power in the current governing body, and leader of a faction large enough to be able to challenge Trog-Gob's... at least, until you cut through his faction the way that a knife cuts through an apple. She's also an enchantress of significant power, as well as being a seer of things to come. She can be a powerful ally, or a dangerous foe."

Of course. Alright, let me lay it on the line for you, kids. There are four kinds of ladies, generally, that have figures like that (There are probably more, but this is just my own personal experience here). There's the dumb ones who don't really realize that a figure like that can open a lot of doors for them, so they don't really do much with it, and only focus on making themselves pretty for their own enjoyment, rather than using it to get the things they want. There's the shy ones who are embarrassed, ashamed, or just outright hate the figure that they have, and treat it like a burden, rather than trying to use it to get the things that they want. There's the ones who accept that they have this figure, and treat it more like an ordinary characteristic of their body, like having freckles, rather than as a tool to get ahead.

And then there's number four: The type with a figure like that, who aren't embarrassed about it, and who know exactly how much power it can give them, provided they are willing to use it. Like any power, this can be used for both good and evil, but the point is, as the song goes, 'They're Sexy And They Know It.' As Trog-Ella stretched, wearing a dress that did more to accentuate her curves than conceal them, and putting her assets even further on display than before, I noted the small smirk on her face. Yes, she knew exactly what she had, and she knew how to use it... and she had no problem with using it to her advantage.

Brains, beauty, and power, both political and magical. A dangerous combination. I may have been unexpected, but the look of calculation that she flashed as she looked at me was unmistakable, even on a Trog's face: She was already working out how she might make the best use of my presence here...

Dangerous curves ahead.

I looked over to the Eidolon of the Grave, and used the link I had to the entity to send a request. Within moments, a group of undead arrived, carrying a table large enough to seat a dozen, plus as many chairs. I considered requesting refreshments, but I didn't think I'd want to eat food carried or prepared by the undead. Sanitation issues and all that.

As the commander and the enchantress approached, I gestured towards the chairs, and said, "Have a seat, I am certain we have much to discuss."

Ironically, it was the Festival that had brought this army here.

"Trog-Gob was a fool, plain and simple," Trog-Ella explained in a voice so sultry that you could almost see the sex in it, "and sadly, so were his confederates." She took a moment to arrange her thoughts, and to subtly adjust herself, setting off a wave of ripples in her anatomy. However, I was utilizing still utilizing that technique I'd learned, which allowed me to continue looking her right in the eyes, allowing only peripheral vision to capture the show for later recollection. I think it upset her, somehow, that I was speaking to her face, not her chest. Regardless, I was not going to allow myself to be distracted by the jiggling, rippling, dancing flesh she had on display.

I'll try to keep my descriptions of her chesticular acrobatics to an absolute minimum, going forward, but I'd be leaving out most of the scene if I didn't give at least some idea of what was going on there. And just so you'll know, she did all of it while sitting, and without using her hands. It was the feminine version of a male bodybuilder making his pecs 'dance'.

"The biggest mistake the Trogs ever made," she continued, "was the breeding camps (Jiggle). With no regulating body to control them, each one focused on the 'production' of as many ponies as possible, with no consideration of the long-term consequences (Wobble). Within three centuries, there were over eight hundred thousand ponies, and those numbers continued to grow at a startling rate (Complex combination of jiggling and wobbling). However, after the twin princesses, may they rot in Hades for a thousand years, decimated our forces in the final battle, the number of Trogs were much lower (A series of bounces that would have made Studio Gainax proud). At the time of the last official census, the number of ponies was eight hundred thousand (A complex series of bounces so extreme that I swear that they switched places for a second there). The number of Trogs was only one hundred thousand (I swear, at this point, they were trying to detatch themselves from her body). Eight ponies for every Trog (How her dress didn't explode at this point, I will never know)."

Yikes. That meant that, if ever there was a widespread revolt by the ponies, the Trogs were going to have a bad time.

At this point, Bray was struggling, with minimal success, to keep from laughing out loud. Trog-Hawk had somehow gotten ahold of a tub of popcorn, and was just sitting there, enjoying the show. I'll admit, in a world without television, this was probably the most entertainment he'd gotten this month.

"For that reason," Trog-Ella went on, "we have tried to do what we can to keep the ponies seperated, working, and perhaps most importantly, happy (Her chest performed an action similar to two beanbags filled with chocolate pudding trying to mate). Well, happy might not be the right work, but we tried to keep them from getting so angry that they might turn against us (The same as above, but now the beanbags were trying to reinvent the Kama Sutra). Any Trog with a brain could see what might happen if the ponies got fed up with the lives they lived, so we tried to inspire those who worked with slaves on a regular basis to use the minimum necessary force to keep the ponies working (Her chest performed an action so spectacular that, by all rights, the gonads of every male creature on the planet should have detonated)."

"But then Trog-Gob came along," I inserted, "and started convincing others to start treating ponies... poorly. But it took you, what, two years to get around to doing something about it?"

The fact that I was able to keep up with her explanation, and was able to actually insert something relevant, seemed to stun her. It was probably the first time that had happened since she reached puberty. After a moment, she recovered, although her chest ceased its acrobatics for a bit. Trog-Ella nodded, and said, "Indeed. Admittedly, Trog-Gob's power bloc made it hard to take action against him, as the last thing we wanted was to risk a civil war. However, five nights ago, I had a vision of what may come to pass. I have had such visions before, but never one of such clarity, or of such terror. I foresaw the festival, and all the wicked works done there. Then, suddenly, I saw the Trogs and ponies changing places, with the Trogs there experiencing the fear and terror that the ponies had once felt. Were it to stop there, that would have been enough, but then, I saw a wave spread across Tambelon, and within it, I saw the breaking of chains. I saw ponies rising to claim power. I saw the end of the world as we knew it... and then a new one take its place."

So they'd marched an entire army here to stop the festival. The vision she'd had implied that it would be an event that would start the very thing that they'd spent seven centuries trying to prevent. Ghandi had once used non-violent methods to show the British that controlling India was impossible when the difference between the armed forces occupying the country, and the native population being subjugated, is too large. Had anyone other than Ghandi had lead the charge to get the Brits out, it would have been a bloody, brutal war. It had almost ended up that way regardless, but in the end, it had worked out. Likewise, Nelson Mandela did similar works in South Africa. The point is, history is filled with instances where a non-violent majority was able to overrule a powerful, domineering minority.

However, there are far more examples of violent revolutions than peaceful ones...

Somehow, I doubted that there was going to be a pony-Ghandi showing up at a time like this. Ponies all across Tambelon had been mistreated by Trog-Gob's faction, literally tortured to death for the entertainment of their so-called 'betters'. When you have a justification like that, no one would have a problem justifying murdering as many Trogs as possible, up to and including all of them. A slave revolt would have likely meant the extermination of the Trog race. The ponies might take casualties, but the result was going to be more or less one-sided, even if the Trogs did have magic users at their disposal. Mages are a squishy lot, for the most part.

The jiggling began again as Trog-Ella said, "But your arrival here has prevented that vision from coming true..."

I forestalled another round of what most males would consider the greatest show on Tambelon by saying, "I suspect your vision wasn't a prediction of a slave revolt. Rather, it was a prediction of my arrival. It is past time that the slaves were set free."

Bray suddenly stopped with his muffled laughter, and Trog-Hawk set down his popcorn. Trog-Ella gave a startled, "WHAT?!"

Unable to resist, I said, "Oh, I'm sorry, you may have had difficulty in hearing me. My understanding of Trog anatomy must be lacking: I didn't realize that you use those things to hear." I quickly climbed atop the table, and stuck my head into her cleavage, shouting into her chest, "I SAID, IT IS PAST TIME THAT THE SLAVES WERE SET FREE!!!"

I thought I heard Trog-Hawk chuckle as I, with a certain amount of regret, pulled my head out from between the two of the seven wonders of Tambelon. I know for a fact that Bray was laughing his ass off.

Trog-Ella blushed furiously for a moment, but then, after a few seconds, she gave a small laugh, and admitted, "I've acted quite the fool, haven't I?"

"You were shaking your teats at a goat," I answered, as I took my seat, "in an attempt to seduce him. There's a very, very large number of things that I could call you, fool not the least of them." I chuckled, then added, "I applaud your eagerness to get my attention, but if you want to really impress me, it isn't that hard: Produce excellent results. Exceed my expectations. Do better. I don't expect to be able to free the slaves instantly, but it is going to happen. If not by the end of this year, then definitely within the next three."

Why can't I just wave my hoof and instantly proclaim the ponies free? Well, technically I could, but it would be a very foolish thing to do. Why?

Well, consider this: You have Delta Force go into a prison camp, deep in enemy territory. They take out the guards, get the keys to the prison cells, and open the cage holding the guy they were sent to rescue. They then toss the guy a knife, a compass, and a crude map, and then rush back to their helicopter, high-fiving each other and congratulating themselves on a job well done all the way. After all, they freed the prisoner, right? Navigating his way through hundreds of miles of enemy territory, with no actual training or further aid? That was all the freed prisoner's responsibility now.

If you can see everything that is wrong with that picture, I hope you can see everything that was wrong with just freeing the slaves instantly without any preparations whatsoever. You had to walk before your could run, and you had to crawl before you could walk. I would need time for the ponies to be made ready to embrace freedom. But I'd need a good reason for why, as well...

"I have spent the last thousand years dead," I continued, taking a moment to sort my thoughts, trying to frame this properly, so it would sound like a proper overlord. "Death brings clarity, and clarity brings perspective. I was so short-sighted before. I brought an entire world into the realm of shadows, and then tried to use the resources of that world to conquer a small, insignificant little country. All for the sake of a meaningless grudge. A millennium ago, I saw the vastness of the cosmos, a potentially limitless number of worlds, with tremendous natural resources that were ours for the taking, and I failed to see what could be done with them. I was blind: With the power at my disposal, we could have an empire that spans worlds beyond counting. But we can hardly do that if we're fearing a slave revolt at every moment of the day. Slavery might, at one point, have been to our advantage. But now? It is a chain that holds us back, that prevents us from reaching our full potential. Whether Trog or pony, donkey or goat, I say that we are all Tambelonians!"

A pointy-toothed grin crossed my face as I said, "So, l say, let us break these chains. Let us work to free the slaves, so that we may free ourselves. Let them be made an equal part of my empire, that they might work to their fullest to spread our glory far and wide." I stood, struck what I felt was a dramatic pose, and proclaimed, loudly, "'Ad innumerabilis mundos ad regnum tangit fimbriam infinitum.' To worlds beyond counting, to a kingdom that touches the edge of infinity!" Yes, I know Latin. I'm awesome. Why wouldn't I know Latin?

The stunned silence that followed was broken when Trog-Hawk began to applaud, followed by Bray, and then Trog-Ella. And then dozens more, followed by hundreds. I looked behind me, and say that the ponies who had been watching Trog-Gob's punishment were now looking intently upon me, admiration in their eyes. They must have overheard when I'd said I planned on freeing them, and everything that came after it. I looked over to where the soldiers had been setting up camp, and saw that they, and their mounts, were applauding as well. Given that they'd probably been enraptured by the show Trog-Ella had been putting on, of course they'd caught all of that.

I smiled to myself as the applause grew louder, and soon turned to chanting. "Grogar. Grogar. Grogar."

Heh. Nailed it.

Author's Note

Flyting is basically the Viking version of a 'Yo' Momma' contest, but done in verse. Vikings were awesome like that.

THE OVERGOAT WILL OBSERVE YOUR TRIFLING TRADITIONS... So Long As Beer Is Involved.

Let me speak, briefly, on Trog history and culture.

This is going to be relevant to the events about to unfold, so please bear with me. Without proper context, much of what I am going to describe in a few minutes may lose its deeper meaning. I'll try to keep things as entertaining and as colorful as I always do.

The first and most fundamental thing you need to know is that the Trogs have a reverence for booze that is practically a religion.

You laugh, but to a Trog, this is no laughing matter. Upon the conclusion of my speech, the Trogs immediately called for a celebration, in particular an event know as a Thal'Thock. Thal'Thock is an ancient Trog word, in a dialect that is about as old as Latin is on Earth, and it means 'The Emptying Of The Kegs'. Yes, it is, at its core, a kegger, but it is a kegger done with a hell of a lot more reverence than any kegger thrown by any frat house that has ever existed on Earth.

Before I begin describing the wonder that is the Trog kegger, I need to give you an idea of just how fucking big a thing booze is for the Trogs, and to do so, I must describe to you how life started out for the Trogs.

Here is my thesis statement for the early history of the Trogs: It blew fucking goats. Seriously.

Apparently, according to the knowledge that Grogar had rattling around in his caprine skull, when the world was made, it kinda didn't go as perfectly as most religions like to claim Earth's did. Two major cosmic entities started out working together, but in the end had a big fight and things kinda went to shit for anything whose place hadn't been worked out yet. This was where the Trogs came in: On the surface, every race had a kingdom, a place to call their own. Ponies, for example, had Equestria, back on their homeworld, although there's a long story about how three separate races actually ended up becoming a united kingdom that I'd rather not go into. I won't go into detail for every race there was, but all but one had a home on the surface: The Trogs did not have an assigned place in the world, and whatever cosmic forces were supposed to arrange one for them never got around to it.

Since there was no place for them up top, the Trogs had to live underground, where they ate cave mushrooms which tasted like salted dog shit, and brewed a primitive beer from those mushrooms, one that tasted like fermented liquid salted dog shit. Still, they had to drink something: Life was far too depressing not to get drunk on a regular basis.

Consider this for a moment: In human life, we have a thing called Existential Angst, where people stress out about the idea that life may in fact have no predetermined meaning, and that there is no big role for them in the universe. Some people turn to religion to overcome this, with varying degrees of success. Others find strength in the idea of there being no set role for them, deciding that if life has no set purpose, then they are free to create their own. More than a few just despair and start drinking heavily. For the Trogs, there was no 'Existential Angst': They knew, for a fact, that while someone might have intended for them to have a place at one point, it didn't happen, and whoever was in charge now had decided that there really was no purpose for the Trogs to exist, and just left them to twist in the wind. It is one thing to believe there is no 'great beard in the sky' to watch over you. It is quite another to discover that he's there, but he doesn't give two fucks about whether you live or die, and may have even forgotten you even existed in the first place.

Who wouldn't start drinking at that point?

Sadly, the subterranean lands that the Trogs inhabited also tended to play out like an incredibly unlucky run of the game Dwarf Fortress, with gigantic monstrosities that did things like belch poison and bleed liquid murder showing up on a weekly basis. The Trogs were constantly on the move, and tried to find sanctuary. The few times they tried to come to the surface, the Trogs were met with torches, pitchforks, and torches tied to pitchforks. Life, as mentioned, sucked asses on fire, and it would have stayed that way forever, had a miracle not occurred.

That miracle, at least from the perspective of the Trogs, was a goat named Grogar.

One thing that I have learned from Grogar's memories is that, when he wants something from someone, he is not afraid to be the most generous goat, hell, the most generous ANYTHING on the planet, in order to get it. He'd given Bray health, a whole body, and immortality for what was ultimately only a single act of betrayal, one that many others would have done for a lot less. For the Trogs, from whom he needed so much more, Grogar rained so much good fortune upon the poor bastards that you'd almost think he was a nice guy.

He took the entire race, lock, stock, and barrel, to Tambelon, and used magic to adjust their eyes to the light of the artificial sun he'd created to light the world, and basically said, "If you'll join with me, you get an entire world of your own to enjoy, with thousands of things you can eat that don't taste like it came out of the ass of something that probably had diarrhea and a colon infection. There are monsters here, but I can help you tame them so that they will serve you, instead of devour you. This is all my gift to you: No strings attached, so long as you remain loyal to me, and only to me." The Trogs, in response, made him their chieftain of chieftains. Great food and a safe place to live made him a hero in their eyes.

Grogar then presented to the illiterate, uncultured, and primitive Trogs the gifts of writing, civilization, and technology, raising them from backward savages to a cultural and economical powerhouse. The Trogs made Grogar their emperor. Civilization is great and all, but it wasn't quite enough to reach the level of love they'd soon have for him.

And then, as an afterthought, noticing that the Trogs had awful beer, Grogar also taught them how to make liquor. Every liquor. Ever. And he taught them how to brew it better than any other race in the world.

If you've ever spent your life drinking bad booze, or even just mediocre booze, then suddenly were given really good booze, you'll understand just how big a deal that is. The Trogs were still haunted by their miserable existence in the caves, but with good booze, it is really, really easy to forget a painful past. The booze the Trogs could make now was enough to erase the memories of that past, and became pivotal in their lifelong celebration of how great things had become.

As an expression of their absolute and unending gratitude, the Trogs made Grogar their Super God Emperor Double King Grand Poobah Sultan Turbo President For Life. That's literally what the translated title they gave him means, although it sounds more like a cat trying to hock up a hairball made of hedgehogs in the Trog's native tongue. The Trogs held massive festivals a dozen times a year which centered around prasing Grogar and thanking him for giving his subjects the gift of booze... while drinking vast quantities of said booze. The Trogs had never had a god, or alicorns, or anything of that nature watching out for them, but in Grogar, the Trogs had found the closest thing that their entire race had ever had, and they wanted to be certain that they would never lose his favor.

Benjamin Franklin once said that 'Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.' Grogar gave the Trogs beer, and as such, he became the god of the Trogs, or as close to it as one can be.

Receiving this much pure adoration was perhaps one of the few times that Grogar ever felt anything like appretiation for another group of beings in his life. He'd secretly planned on dicking the Trogs over at the first opportunity after getting what he'd needed from them, but this display of overwhelming love and loyalty made him adjust his plans in such a way that the Trogs would continue to be a part of his schemes from now until the end of time. Part of that, I think, was because Grogar was alone, being the last of his kind. But a bigger part was, even amongst his own kind, he had never received anything even approaching love or appreciation: The Evils were a cruel and selfish lot, and Grogar's first encounter with another of his own kind had nearly been a fatal one, as the only way the Evils knew to react to one another was through the time-honored medium of ultra-violent murder attempts. The fact that an entire race of beings not only accepted him, but loved him to the point of worship, warmed the cockles of his black and twisted heart.

Even after his death, Grogar was considered, by and large, a legendary, almost mythical, and most certainly deific figure to the Trogs, and every so often someone would make a pilgrimage to Tambelon to look upon their hero's remains to confirm he was still there, and that he was not rotting or decaying in any way, shape, or form. The Trogs decided that he probably wasn't going to come back any time soon, but that didn't mean they had forgotten him, or didn't hold out hope for their founder and hero's return. Just like humans, Trogs had their legend of The King In The Mountain, who would arise when his people needed him most. He was here, now, and he had proclaimed that not only was he going to solve the biggest social problem that the Trogs currently faced (That being the fact that if the ponies ever rebelled, it would be an extinction-level event for Trogs everywhere), but that he was going to lead the Trogs to greater heights than they had ever imagined possible.

I was their King Arthur, returned from my resting place in Avalon, here to save Great Britain and lead it to a new golden age.

So, that in and of itself should be cause for the greatest kegger that the world had ever seen.

The party itself, the Thal'Thock, is something done in with a great deal of reverence and ceremony, but what it ultimately comes down to is that you're having a huge kegger, using most of the liquor confiscated from a defeated enemy. The idea was that much of the liquor in any conquest could be difficult to move, and might lose flavor and quality during a long trip from one place to another. Worse, if there was a war going on, carrying numerous barrels of booze could slow you down when speed was needed most. So, while the really high quality stuff, the rare vintages and things like that, would be taken away, the rest was drunk on the spot.

While this inevitably became a drunken mess, the beginning of the Thal'Thock is extremely formal, having rituals that originate in traditions literally a thousand years old. The first major step has to do with chalices.

Chalice is kind of a general term: Call them chalices, grails, steins, mugs, whatever, these were drinking cups that held deep and significant meaning to the Trogs, and some of them were as old as Trog civilization. A noble Trog would have three major chalices to their name. The first, and most important, is the Lineage Chalice, the one that is passed down to each head of the household from the previous one. In the ceremony where the right of leadership of the house is passed on, the elder pours a drink into the chalice, and it is then imbibed by the younger, in a ritual symbolizing the transfer of power from one generation to the next. There are other rituals that this chalice is used in, but you kinda see the idea: This is a chalice that represents not only the current head of the house, but the entire bloodline, going back to the founding of Tambelon. It is a really big deal.

The second is the Heart Chalice, a representation of the owner's heart and soul, and this is one that pretty much every Trog has, noble or not. This chalice is used in a lot of rituals as well, most importantly the courtship rituals of the Trog. When two Trogs marry, one of the biggest acts is when the two pour a drink from each of their chalices into a larger one, and then both take a drink from this larger chalice together. It is a show of how the two are now one, and share all things, and stuff like that. Anyway, the Heart Chalice is a pretty big deal too.

Third is the Travel Chalice. Basically, Trogs have to travel sometimes, and their chalices are too important to take with them everywhere, as they might get lost on accident. Worse, chalices can be fragile things, and can accidentally be broken or deformed during transit. So, a Travel Chalice goes with the Trog whenever they are on the road. The Travel Chalice is sturdier, so it is less likely to break, and can be used it rituals as a stand in, should there be an emergency. So that the chalice is able to have the same significance as the others, once a year, a drink is poured into the Lineage Chalice, and then from that Chalice to the Heart Chalice, and then from that Chalice into the Travel Chalice. In this way, whatever mystical properties are supposed to be in the other chalices are poured into the Travel Chalice itself.

As the first step of the Thal'Thock, the Lineage Chalice is presented to the one who has defeated their enemy, for use as a trophy. It is not in good taste to shatter it, as that is an insult to the entire bloodline, but is sometimes done if there has been a generations-long feud between two families. I didn't shatter Trog-Gob's, since his predecessor, at least, had been a fairly decent dude. I did, however, ask that a ceremony be performed that would remove Trog-Gob as head of the family, as well as from the family records in general. A fairly short affair: The Chalice is washed three times in water, and then the receiver of the Chalice (Myself) drinks water from it. Just like that, Trog-Gob was a pariah from his own family, in spite of being the only living member of said family. I like to think that his wails of despair got a little louder after that.

The second step is the presentation of the Heart Chalice. Now, this one is a bit more complicated, and it has a lot of nuances to it. The Heart Chalice is a representation of the self, both heart and soul, and what is done to it can have a lot of symbolic implications, and even have an impact upon the owner's afterlife, according to Trog traditions. If the Heart Chalice belongs to a respected foe, then the chalice is kept as a trophy, and the recipient may take a drink from it, in order to transfer whatever respectable qualities that foe had into one's own self. For a hated enemy, this is obviously not done. However, there's other things that can be done, things with far-reaching consequences.

"So," I began, speaking to Bray as I studied Trog-Gob's Heart Chalice, a gaudy thing of gold and gemstones that was cast in the shape of a pony's face, captured in the midst of a despairing wail, "whatever is the last drink poured into this will be all that Trog-Gob will be allowed to drink on his trip to the afterlife?"

"Indeed, Master," Bray answered with a nod. I was glad that in this case, I could admit ignorance of the meaning of all of this, being traditions that had come into being after Grogar's defeat. "The journey can be quite long, I am given to understand, and via some manner of coach. The Trogs hold that the last beverage held in the Heart Chalice will be given as refreshment to the deceased at regular intervals, and the story goes that the journey does not end until the deceased has emptied his cup a thousand times a thousand times over."

So whatever was poured in, Trog-Gob would have to drink a total of one million times. A villainous smirk came to my face, as I looked out over the assembled Trogs and ponies around me, watching the proceedings with anticipation. "Bray, find me a pony, a living pony who has suffered horribly under Trog-Gob's ownership. The one who has suffered most terribly, in fact, if you can find him."

It took him a few minutes, as there were a number of volunteers, and I suspect that more than a few knew where this was going already. Fifteen minues later, Bray returned with a stallion, a miserable looking fellow with scars enough to make Honey Butter, pre-healing, look immaculate. He lacked an eye, and could not speak, as Trog-Gob had removed his vocal cords, as well as having gelded him just for giggles. That wasn't all that was taken, as he'd once had a mare, three offspring, two brothers, and a sister. He'd lost all of them within the last year to Trog-Gob and his lot, and had been made to watch most of it. Poor guy.

"Fill this chalice to the brim with your urine," I told him, after hearing the end of the tale, through a translator. "And as you do so, think long and hard about how much you hate Trog-Gob. As he rides the road to Hades, this will be the only refreshment he'll be allowed, so be certain that he will choke upon your enmity."

Yeah, that's right: I was going to make sure that as Trog-Gob rode down the road to hell, he'd be forced to swallow pony hate-piss a million times along the way.

The pony only had to be asked twice because he didn't know what 'urine' or 'enmity' meant. I'd really need to do something about the lack of general education among the equines: If I was going to need to be verbose in order to fill the role I was currently stuck in, I'd rather not need to have a translator.

I had the Eidolon of the Grave pause its administation of Trog-Gob's punishment (Seven hundred lashes and counting) long enough to watch as the stallion who hated him most in all the world filled the symbolic representation of Trog-Gob's heart with spite, hate, and above all else, horse piss, and chuckled as the Trog's cries of despair grew even louder as the Eidolon continued its work. As a final 'fuck you', I used a spell to not simply melt the chalice, but sublimate it, ensuring that nothing else could replace what had been poured into it.

The final step for the initiation of the Thal'Thock is probably the simplest: The victorious one fills his chalice with one of the choicest liquors in the vanquished foe's cellars, after it has been verified to be free of poisons. Mind you, most Trogs would consider poisoning good booze a crime worse than murder, but Trog-Gob had been a suspected poisoner, so it was better safe than sorry. Still, after the stallion who'd filled Trog-Gob's chalice had been given a generous swig of Trog-Gob's finest brandy (The poor guy deserved a lot more than that, but I didn't want to start freaking out Trogs by accidentally creating another alicorn right in front of them if I made a mistake while casting a healing spell), and verifying that not only was it untainted, but of the highest caliber, all that remained was to fill my chalice...

...Which I didn't have.

As Trog-Ella, who had taken over the task of serving the booze out for the first round of drinks (She actually had an entourage that had caught up with us, but she had chosen to do the serving for myself, Bray, Trog-Hawk and herself, while they took care of the soldiers present. They'd also be seeing to the ponies, but many of them would be waiting until after Trog-Gob finished getting his just desserts, and wouldn't drink until that was done) stood in front of me in what had to be the granddaddy of all awkward silences, Trog-Hawk said, "Milord, if you wish, you can make use of mine."

Since you've only gotten a beginners guide to Trog culture, I'll let you know that saying that, offering to let me use his chalice, was the equivalent of offering to cut his own dick off and giving it to me so that I could use it to fuck his wife.

I held up a hoof, and said, "Not necessary. Give me a moment."

I began to concentrate. I'd gotten enough of a feel for magic by this point, having used several of Grogar's spells by this point, to be confident that I could work a spell on my own. I closed my eyes, and imagined what I wanted to manifest.

Some would say, "Just make something impressive, out of silver and gold, with lots of pretty gems, and maybe in the shape of a dragon," and that would not, necessarily, be a bad idea in and of itself. It would certainly look regal enough, I suppose, but at the same time, it would look more than a little gaudy, and it would give the impression of someone who cared a whole lot more about wealth than I actually did.

Throughout my life, I have lived with a certain attitude, a certain manner of thought. I was once offered a check for two million dollars, and immediately tore it up, threw it in the guy's face, and said, "You can't buy me, asshat, I'm not for sale." Mind you, that was as much because the guy was such a spectacular asshat as it was me being awesome, but the point is, I am a person who, as a general rule, lives in such a way that, if need be, I can afford to set everything I own on fire, then walk away from my burning house while smoking a cigarette. Fuck the insurance money. Mind you, I said everything, not everyone: I'd carry any pets I had with me, and I'd be sure that the house was empty of anyone I cared about before I lit the match, but the point is, nothing I own owns me. I have lived a life without chains, and chains made of gold are chains nonetheless.

If a Heart Chalice was supposed to be a representation of the heart and soul, I wanted it to actually represent myself, in a style that I accepted. I wanted something subtle, something that was powerful, but at the same time simple...

In Japan, during the feudal ages, the tea ceremony was a really big deal, especially when it came to the vessels used for it. Gold and silver were never used for them, nor were precious gems. These vessels, often made of fired clay, could still be ridiculously expensive. There are examples of some that were more valuable, in terms of pure monetary worth, than a lord's castle. Others were literal national treasures, so precious that they could not be given a price: Vessels made of fired clay, worth more than their weight in gold. It wasn't the materials that comprised the vessels, but rather the skill with which they had been transformed into art, and in spite of being made by hand, they possessed a symmetry, a perfection that was almost transcendent in its beauty and simplicity...

As I opened my eyes, I admit, my breath was taken away: The chalice before me was exactly as I had envisioned it, being simple in form, with a broad, circular base, and a solid stem rising up to the cup itself. Devoid of decoration, yes, and yet decoration would have detracted from its beauty, as the cup, in spite of being black, was also brilliantly iridescent, its surface seeming to shift through every color of the rainbow as one examined it.

It was magnificent: A brilliant interplay of both darkness and light.

As I heard whispers of admiration from the assembled Trogs, I gestured for Trog-Ella to pour, and sat back in my seat. I didn't know it at the time, but I'd done something that no one in Equestria had managed in a thousand years, save from a certain flying purple pony I'd not yet been introduced to: I had created new magic, entirely on my own...

THE OVERGOAT DOES NOT LIKE SURPRISES... Except When He Does.

Immortality is not without its drawbacks.

Immortality comes in many flavors, from the plain vanilla of "You don't die until something kills you", to the rich, delicious chocolate of compete invulnerability immortality, or the tutti-frutti of reconstructive immortality (the kind where your body rebuilds itself, rather than regrows, as per regeneration), the possibilities are endless. However, the biggest catch is, of course, that a lot of things that are really fun are also self-destructive. Case in point: Alchohol is a poison, technically, and my caprine body was immune to all poisons. Upside: I could drink all the beer I wanted, and never get drunk. Downside: No matter how much beer I drank, I would never get drunk, no matter how badly I wanted to.

As I contemplated my thirty-eighth beer, I looked out at the assembled trogs and ponies, drinking beer and having fun. Most everyone was well on their way to getting spectacularly plastered, and were reaching the point where bad-yet-incredibly-entertaining life choices were about to begin, and I was filled with a terrible sorrow due to the fact that I was not going to be drunk enough to partake.

My contemplation of the dreadful doom that had descended upon me was disturbed when I noticed something strange in the crowd: A flash of pink, which I soon discovered was a bright pink pony that was moving through the crowd, no... pronking, hopping up and down energetically as she went. Three things made it clear that she was not a standard Tambelon pony: First off, she had no scars whatsoever that I could see. If she'd ever felt the sting of a whip on her flesh, it had left no trace of its passing. Second, she was clean: Every pony in Tambelon was dirty, due to the simple fact that slaves aren't allowed to bathe often. She was almost sparkly in her cleanliness However, the third thing was the most telling: She had a mark on where a human's thigh would be, or in equine terms, her flank, in the shape of balloons. All of the ponies in Tambelon had blank flanks...

In a way. Grogar pitied the ponies.

When a pony reaches its fifth year of life, a mark would appear upon its flank. This mark had numerous magical implications to it, but it also signified two very important things. The first was that it would show to all the world what that individual's 'special talent' would be, whether they wanted that to be known or not. The second was that, no matter how hard that pony tried, he'd never be as good at anything else in life as he or she would be at that talent. So, if the stallion's talent was mathematics, and he was only so-so when it came to crunching numbers, then he would know, more certain than sunrise or sunset, that he would never be able to rise able average in any other pursuit. He was destined for a life of agonizing mediocrity. And he would know that all of his life.

Destiny's brand was a cruel joke, one that most ponies failed to get, and the few who did blamed themselves for not being able to rise to greatness, rather than the cruelties of such forces as Equestria's much vaunted 'Harmony'. Grogar had tried magically removing the marks, to see what the effect might be. The results were that the pony just became terrible at everything. Even if they were spectacular at, say, baking bread, once the mark was gone, their bread became inedible, in spite of years worth of experience that should have allowed them to bake properly. It was as if they had no abilities, no skills, no talents, asides from what 'harmony' allowed, and could retain no skills of their own. Without a mark, they had nothing.

It was the worst cruelty that Grogar could imagine: Being reliant upon an outside force to maintain your continued existence, being a mere puppet on a string. And most horrible of all, the ponies praised these strings, not seeing them as the chains they were. They were shackled by those marks, and were allowed no self-determination of their own. Ponykind would never grow as a race, or if they did, it would be at a painfully slow progression, and only when the mysterious and ineffable forces of 'Harmony' allowed them to do so. Their accomplishments could never truly be their own, as they were things given to them by 'Harmony', things that could just as easily have been given to any other pony in the world with the same exact results.

While the force behind 'Harmony' seemed benevolent and intent upon protecting ponykind, it was also a force that, to an outside observer, was slowly suffocating ponykind, to the point that ponies cannot survive without that force's constant meddling... and removing 'Harmony' from the equation would be as simple and as easy as cutting down a tree and burning it to ash. Without 'Harmony', they would be at the mercy of a world that seemed to take great pleasure from creating newer and more terrible means of attacking them, things that made Grogar at his worst seem like an adorable kitten that liked to cuddle with baby bunnies.

In Grogar's eyes, pulling the ponies out of Equestria and into Tambelon was a kindness, even if they'd have to spend a few generations as slaves before they grew, as a race, to a point where they could thrive without 'Harmony' pulling their strings. A few centuries, five at most, and they'd be able to stand on their own hooves, and instead of having to wait for their own destiny to be handed to them, they would be able to go forth and claim it for themselves. In cages to come, they would praise the mighty goat for having freed them from a tyrrany far, far worse than anything Grogar had ever conceived, and would be able to become Tambelonian citizens in their own right.

Of course, first, he would have his sweet, delicious vengeance. Hurting the ponies, at least for now, would hurt the princesses, as would the fact that their subjects would spend centuries as slaves. Grogar never did anything for a single reason, and would never scratch unless it was to soothe two itches at once.

As the memory cleared, I realized something incredibly important, something that was even more important than the fact that Grogar had believed that enslaving the ponies would be for their own good...

There was an Equestrian pony, here, in Tambelon.

And in the time that it had taken me to play that memory through Grogar's brain, and then blink, the pink pony had somehow managed to cross the large crowd, and made it all the way to me.

With the cheer I'd normally associate with really good drugs, or deranged psychosis, if not both, the pink pony grinned and said, "Hi! My name's Pinkie Pie! What's your name?"

I noted from the corner of my eye that Bray had done a spit-take at the sudden pink and perky pony presence that had arrived. He was well-acquainted enough with Equestrians that, even after one thousand years, he could tell when one was in front of him, even if he had been drinking a bit. And, even slightly sloshed, he remembered that one shouldn't be here. He continued to stare at the event that unfolded with the look of someone who simply cannot believe that the shit in front of them is happening.

I take great pride in my ability to take the seemingly-impossible, or at least highly improbable, in stride. As Alice in Wonderland once said, I believe seven impossible things before breakfast, just to keep my mind flexible. As such, I only hesitated half a second before I said, "I am Grogar, Overgoat of Tambelon." Raising a goatish eyebrow, I asked, "And... how did you get here? I was under the impression that the route between Equestria and Tambelon was sealed."

Pinkie Pie raised a hoof to answer, then stopped, and seemed slightly puzzled. "Huh," she said, confused, "how did I get here?" She took a moment to think, then admitted, "I honestly have no idea."

Okay, so the first Equestrian to set hoof in Tambelon was a ditz who didn't know how she'd managed it. I couldn't help but chuckle a little. I asked, "Have you been here before?" She'd seemed fairly chill about being someplace with strange ponies and creatures that weren't present in Equestria, so...

"Oh, yeah, I've been here a bunch of times," she answered promptly. "Not in this particular neighborhood, though." Sliding in close, she whispered secretively to me, "Just between you and me, Trog-Gob's parties are just awful."

"Obviously," I agreed, "especially for ponies. I'm glad I'll be seeing the last of him shortly." His whipping had finally reach the end, and now ponies were taking part in the second half of his torment: Trog-Gob was now doing an unwilling impersonation of a public urinal. It would be a while before that was done, but the Eidolon of the Grave was still present, making sure that ol' Gobble-Gobble couldn't escape.

I thought for a second, then asked, "Do you think you'll have any trouble getting back home?"

The pink one shrugged, then said, "Nope, I've never had trouble before."

"Capital," I said with a grin, which surprisingly got an adorable giggle from Pinkie Pie. "Would you be able to get a message to Princess Celestia or Princess Luna, by any chance?"

"Sure!" Pinkie Pie exclaimed, cheerfully. "I see them all the time, so getting a message to them will be easy-peasey!"

I nodded, then took a more formal stance and proclaimed, "Then could you please tell them that Grogar, ruler of Tambelon, has returned. At this point in time, I have no intention of continuing our past conflict. I am currently too busy tending to matters here in my own kingdom. I expect it will take several years to get everything running to my satisfaction, and even once I have things in their proper order, my intent is to expand my domain towards unclaimed territories well away from Equestria. I am leaving the conquest business: I am now in the empire-building business, and while kingdoms may be built on conquest, empires are best built through alliances. If either of the princesses are interested in diplomatic negotiations, or in making trade arrangements, I am willing to discuss those at a time and place we can both agree to. Otherwise, if Equestria leaves us alone, Tambelon will leave them alone." I paused, and considered the fact that this was a long message to give to someone even slightly airheaded, let alone her. "Do I, uh, need to write that down for you?"

Pinkie Pie made a show of clearing her throat, and then recited, in a passable imitation of Grogar's voice, "'Tell the princesses that Grogar, ruler of Tambelon, has returned. At this point in time, he has no intention of continuing our past conflict. He is currently too busy tending to matters here in his own kingdom. He expects it will take several years to get everything running to his satisfaction, and even once he has things in their proper order, his intent is to expand his domain towards unclaimed territories well away from Equestria. He is leaving the conquest business: He is now in the empire-building business, and while kingdoms may be built on conquest, empires are best built through alliances. If either of the princesses are interested in diplomatic negotiations, or in making trade arrangements, he is willing to discuss those at a time and place you can both agree to. Otherwise, if Equestria leaves you alone, Tambelon will leave them alone.'" With a smile, she added, "Anything else?"

"That should be all," I admitted, impressed. If she could relay that message properly to the princesses, that would be one less problem to deal with...

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Pinkie Pie exclaimed. Pulling a bottle from out of her hair, she presented it to me and announced, "I have a present for you!"

Raising an eyebrow again, I asked, "A present, you say?"

"Yup!" Pinkie Pie set the bottle on the table, and said, "It's a really nifty drink called Poko!"

Interlude Part One: The Legend Of The Hero

From "Analysis Of Popular Legends And Mythology", By Starswirl The Bearded.

An excerpt from Chapter Twenty-Seven, The Hero Who Vanquished The Great Evil.

I sincerely question whether this tale is a legend or myth, but instead may deal with something that truly did happen at one point in the distant past. Before I begin, let me give you a scenario that may help better explain why than a simple explanation.

We discussed, in chapter five, the Boojum and how such a beast could not exist as anything other than a cautionary tale to keep colts and fillies from misbehaving. Let us say, theoretically, that one pony told you that there was a cave nearby that housed such a creature. You would likely consider such a fellow a fool. Then, however, you are told by ten ponies that they have indeed seen the boojum, and that it indeed lies within that cave, and had even spirited away a colt or filly last year, never to be seen again. You'd think that they were likely mad or gullible, and suspect that something else was more likely to have done harm to that young pony. Then, however, if you speak with every pony in the village, you are told that each and every one of the residents have seen the creature with their own eyes, eight hundred ponies in all, and they can give you a detailed description of the boojum, its habits, a list going back three centuries detailing each of its victims, and can even tell you that the creature walked through the middle of town yesterday at high noon, where everypony could see it clearly, before going back to its cave.

Now, in that situation, a rational pony could come up with a dozen excuses for what could have happened that would explain away this "Boojum", but a reasonable pony would also keep well away from that cave if he knew what was good for him. An especially reasonable pony would stay away from the cave after just ten ponies had corroborated the tale. Just because the boojum isn't real doesn't mean that SOMETHING isn't in that cave, and there are many creatures out there that can kill an unwary pony more dead than any fictional boojum ever could.

Returning to the original point of this chapter, I'll now explain why I feel this may indeed have relation to an actual event in the past. The reason is simple: Everyone tells this same story. Every culture, no matter how remote, tells the story largely the same way. From every corner of the globe, no matter how distant, the story is told and told largely the same way. Only a few details are different, and many of those are largely trivial. Later in this chapter, I'll go into detail regarding those varied and admittedly minute differences. For now, however, I shall describe how all of them are alike.

First, there is always a hero. No two species agree on his race, and he is always a member of the race of the storyteller, but the hero's existence is always a constant, and he is always male. He is also never alone: The hero has a magnetic personality, and even if he has a few odd quirks here and there, and is never described as physically attractive, he is so inherently charismatic that he draws others to his cause without much difficulty. And while the his comrades vary in description, they likewise share qualities we shall go into detail about later in the chapter. While other qualities are discussed and vary from place to place, these qualities are always universal.

Second, there is always a "Great Evil". While some stories vary wildly in description, the fact that all the tales describe it as a powerful shape-shifting entity in addition to all the other abilities it possesses, this means that the entity's shape was most likely always in a state of flux, with no set form, explaining that variation in appearance. This matches the appearance of the "Evils" that ravaged the land, until the alicorns put them down. This is appropriate, since these creatures are believed to owe their existence to the very vanquishing of that great evil in the first place.

Third, there is always a magical sword, and a quest to obtain it. Why a sword? Who can say? Perhaps this sword was specially forged for the purpose of slaying the Great Evil. Here, however, the details are almost always universal, to the point that I have only been able to find one variation on the theme, which I will describe to you now.

According to the Goats, after the great hero reached the end of the quest for the weapon to defeat the Great Evil, he was presented with two swords. The first was the weapon that is described in every tale, a blade known as The Sword of Destruction, a powerful blade that could cleave mountains and slay even the mightiest of beasts in a single blow. The second blade is not described in detail, save that it was a strange sword that the hero could not understand, and named only The Sword Of Reason, a contradiction in terms if ever there was one. The hero was told that while the first blade could strike the Great Evil down, it would not truly destroy it, and it would eventually return in one form or another. Worse, slaying the Great Evil would cost the hero his life if he used this sword. The second blade, as strange and incomprehensible as it was, could destroy the Great Evil forever, and without the cost of the hero's life, but only if the hero could truly understand the weapon and utilize its full power. If he could not, the Great Evil would surely end his life in a heartbeat, and there would be no one left to stop it.

The goats say that the hero took The Sword Of Destruction, since he could not comprehend this "Sword Of Reason". Perhaps, if he could have, the world would not have undergone the trials and tribulations that it has since, but he may have been wiser than we think, given that he went with a guaranteed victory over a risky gamble, even if it did cost him his life.

From here, the story ceases its deviation, and continues the same as it does for all races: The hero and his band journeyed to face the Great Evil, and after a long and terrible battle, the hero used The Sword Of Destruction to deal the finishing blow, at the cost of his life. From there, the hero's companions return home to tell the tale to the varied peoples of the world. Et cetra, et cetra.

I sincerely wish that there was more information available regarding this "Sword Of Reason". After all, even with the Evils defeated, we will never be certain if the Great Evil, in one form or another, may not someday return. And even if it does not, there may come a day when an evil may appear that is so terrible that it will require that strange weapon's power to defeat it...

Interlude Part Two: Something Rises

"I'm back."

White Quill looked over her shoulder at the pony who'd spoken. The earth pony Old Iron may have been getting on in years, but he was solidly built, and impressively bearded. Twenty years the unicorn's senior, his coat was gray, and his mane, beard, and tail a rust red, although most of his body was covered by a heavy jacket to keep out the chill of the frozen north. He was also the only other pony for miles, and the unicorn scholar was lucky enough to have anyone else with her on what most ponies would consider a fool's errand.

Chasing a legend, one older than Equestria itself.

"Have our guides changed their minds yet?" the white unicorn asked as she turned back towards the structure ahead.

Old Iron stated, flatly, "No. I didn't expect them to: The yaks are many things, and traditionalists is chief among them. That thing ahead is considered cursed, forbidden, and dangerous. There isn't enough money in the world to convince them to come any closer, let alone what we've paid them. They won't come within ten miles of it. They said they'll wait where they are for three days, but after that, they'll be turning back, with or without us." After a moment, he added, "Can't say I blame them. That... thing gives me a bad feeling, even from this far off."

White Quill pulled out her binoculars, and studied the object again. You couldn't consider it a castle, fortress, or palace, as that would imply it looked pony-made. Instead, it seemed more like a rock formation that happened to have formed in a vaguely building-like shape. A building of black crystals, shot through with veins of red, it stood out in the ice and snow that surrounded it. It was sitting out here as far north as a pony could go before they would start going south again

'Black as night, red as blood, a fortress at world's end, stay well away from this foul place, you'll surely die my friend.' Just like in the legends. The place where the hero did battle against the First Evil, or at least so she hoped. It looked deserted, although the glowing red veins of those black stones implied that something might still reside there...

And the chill that ran down her spine every time she looked at it told her that, even now, this was not a place for any being who treasured their life.

But she couldn't just turn back now: She'd staked her entire career as a scholar on being able to find this place. If she left now, she'd be a laughingstock. The legend of the hero who slew the first evil was perhaps the oldest legend, predating Equestria, and possibly even the first Equine civilizations. Everypony dismissed it as a fairy tale, like the legend of Gusty the Great's battle against Grogar. Presenting evidence, indisputable proof that the legend was true, would make White Quill the most lauded archaeologist on the planet. She'd need to get closer, so she could take photos, maybe find a relic or two to bring back...

Quickly in, and quickly out: What could possibly go wrong?

Little did she know that those five words were etched into thousands of tombstones the world over.

White Quill picked up her knapsack, slung it across her shoulders, and turned around to address Old Iron again. "Let's go."

"This was a terrible idea."

Literally just five minutes after they'd stepped inside.

White Quill ignored Old Iron's comment. He'd repeated that same statement at least three times already in the last five minutes, and it was just as irritating now as it was the first time... especially since she couldn't possibly agree more. The moment that they'd stepped through the doorway, the veins on the wall had pulsed brightly, and the stone had suddenly closed behind the pair, trapping them inside. Since then, they'd tried navigating the halls, seeing doorways open and close as they approached. The pair were clearly being herded, but there was no option other than to continue moving: The one time they'd tried to stop, dozens of spikes had sprung from the floor, walls, and ceiling, making it clear that delay would not be tolerated.

They continued to hustle down the corridors of the fortress, doors slamming shut behind them every few seconds. Clearly, something was waiting for the pair at the end of this path, but somehow, White Quill doubted it was going to be Fufu the Huggy Bunny.

Finally, the two turned a corner, and entered a massive courtyard. For the first time since they'd entered this place, they found normal soil and grass, rather than black stone, beneath their hooves, and the sun shone down on them from above. More surprisingly, the courtyard was as warm as a pleasant spring day. But all of that paled in comparison to what the pair saw in the center of the courtyard

A sword, plunged point first into the ground. A magnificent sword, with a blade that shone with a brilliant white light. No, it couldn't be...

"The Sword of Destruction..."

White Quill immediately began walking towards it, all concerns about her safety forgotten. Here it was, the legendary sword itself, the blade that struck down the First Evil. It looked just like how the legends described. If she could take this back, show it to the other archaeologists at the Equestrian Archaeological Society, she...

"Touching that is a really bad idea," Old Iron stated, bluntly, suddenly snapping the mare back to reality. "This is obviously a trap. The moment you touch that thing, something awful will happen. Maybe even every awful thing that could ever happen to a pony."

White Quill turned back towards Old Iron, and raised a hoof to argue... then paused, placed her hoof against her chin for a second, then admitted, "Yeah, you're right. Nothing good could possibly come from touching that thing." Taking her knapsack off, she began digging around inside of it. "I can just take a picture of it. Once I've explained the circumstances, I'm sure that the old boys at the Equestrian Archaeological Society will accept it. We can come back with a real expedition, with enough backup to make sure that, whatever happens, we can go home with that sword..."

With her back turned, and with her body blocking Old Iron's view of the blade, neither one of them noticed a tiny drop of black fluid emerge from the ground where the sword was planted, and suddenly zip through the grass in a long, curved path, careful to keep well out of sight and away from the scholar. As White Quill finally succeeded in finding her camera and turned back towards the sword, the droplet reached Old Iron, and shot up his leg, in an instant entering his ear before the stallion even noticed it was there. The stallion's body went very still, his eyes glazing over, and his last breath exiting his lungs with a quiet hiss.

After finally lining up a proper shot, White Quill took a few pictures, then began putting the camera away. "There we go," the scholar said, smiling. "I'm no Photo Finish, but I think that'll do the job." Turning back towards Old Iron, she added, "And I found my grappling hook. My dad always said that, if you were ever to go on an archaeological expedition, you should carry one. That or a whip, but I'm not that kind of girl. Anyway, I think we might be able to scale the walls from here. It might be tricky, getting across the roof, but..."

She stopped, noting her associate's odd posture and vacant expression. And... weren't his eyes brown before, not red? "Old Iron, is something wrong?"

Seeming to notice White Quill for the first time, the stallion turned towards her. "Oh, I'm fine," he said, his voice sounding... off. "Just a little bit hungry." Then Old Iron opened his mouth wide, and...

Then fingers emerged from his mouth, took a good grip, and forced his mouth open even wider. As White Quill watched in horror and revulsion, first two hands, then four, then eight emerged, all of them forcing the stallion's mouth impossibly wide, to the point that a pony's head could fit inside.

And then the mare saw something inside his mouth. Something with blood red eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth.

"Care to help me with that, dumpling?" the First Evil asked, its voice dripping honey and malice in equal measure.

Before Quill could react, run, or scream, an arm shot out with speed enough to put a bullet to shame, and a hand with a grip like iron grabbed the scholar by the throat. With equal speed, the arm retracted, pulling the mare in. The hands holding the stallion's mouth open retracted, and his mouth closed shut with a snap.

For several seconds, the sounds of muffled screams were heard inside of the stallion's body, and for a brief moment, his side bulged, as if something here pushing its face against the inside of his skin in an effort to get out. Then, there was a muffled snap, and the screams grew louder. Then a second snap, and a third, each one punctuated by an increase in volume. Then, with a final crunch, the screaming stopped, and was shortly after followed by a sound that was disgustingly similar to someone sucking a thick milkshake through a straw. When the sound finally stopped, the stallion's head hung low, almost as if asleep.

Then, a horn sprouted from his forehead. After a moment, it traveled downward, cutting his face open with a sound like a knife cutting through wet cloth, and didn't stop until it went down to about mid-chest. Then, two hooves emerged from the opening, and pulled his skin open, revealing a blood drenched White Quill... or at least, something that looked a little bit like White Quill. But it didn't walk or hold itself like her, and White Quill certainly didn't have red eyes.

Taking a moment to shake itself off, it moved over towards Quill's knapsack, and dug around until it found a mirror. It took a few seconds to study itself, then shook its head in irritation and said to itself, "Pathetic. Why did the first mare to come here in eons have to be somepony this... plain, and pudgy. You'd think that somepony who'd venture out this far would at least be in decent shape. I'll have to make a few adjustments..."

Closing its eyes, it went to work. First, the mare's stomach retracted as a freshman fifteen that had stayed on well after senior year (and candor forces us to admit doubled in the years after) vanished, along with any other excess fat across the body. Then, muscle began to tone, until her body took on a panther-ish look of grace and fitness that would normally require a lifetime gym membership, at least two personal trainers, and more granola bars in the place of regular meals than even a pony could tolerate. Finally, the mare's facial structure began to change, going from average to attractive, and then to jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

Looking itself in the mirror again, it said, "It's a start. But certainly not enough." It stretched, and its limbs began to lengthen, and she grew taller, her body changing until it had reached alicorn proportions, yet still kept its highly athletic tone and angelic beauty. "Much better," it said, before regarding its reflection again. "But the color scheme will have to go: White on white is so not my color."

It opened its mouth, and a black fluid emerged, flowing backwards over her body, changing its coat to an inky black, and her mane and tail a smoky gray. As an afterthought, the mane and tail lengthened considerably, going from the short bob cut that the scholar had preferred to a long, silky waterfall of smoke-colored hair that went down to the tops of her hooves. Finally, the fluid flowed over her cutie mark, erasing it. A moment later, a new mark appeared, a red hand, an eye sitting in its palm.

"Much better," it said to itself as it admired its handiwork. "I think I can work with this." After all, it had learned that mortals seemed much more vulnerable to a beautiful female than most any other creature, no matter how obviously evil they looked. In fact, the obviously evil appearance seemed even more of a turn on for most. It would be a while before it regained its full strength, but for now, the First Evil had flesh of its own again.

After a moment, it turned towards the Sword of Destruction, and opened its mouth. Again, an arm shot out, and its hand grasped the weapon by the hilt. The arm retracted, drawing the sword inside. Best not to leave that thing lying about. That blasted weapon had caused enough trouble the first time around. While it couldn't be destroyed, it would be well out of reach to anyone, housed in the First Evil's stomach.

It chuckled a little at that last thought. 'The First Evil'. How amusing. How languages change over time. Before being the First Evil, it was The Source Of All Evil. And before that, it was The Origin Of All Evil. And before that, That Which Gave Birth To The Great Evils. But before even that, at the very beginning of it all, was its favorite name of all.

The Mother Of All Evils. And as the name implied, she was one bad mother...

Her stomach grumbling, The Mother Of All Evils frowned in annoyance. It had been ages since she'd had a proper meal, and two little ponies weren't nearly enough to sate an appetite that could depopulate an entire city in one sitting. 'Well,' she thought with a smile, 'there's a few yaks a little ways away, according to Old Iron's and White Quill's memories. A delightful little appetizer. And a bit further off, there was a whole lovely city full of yaks to play with, before sitting down to a proper meal...'

Then, the evil paused, cleared her throat a few times, then belched out a skull, its shape indicating it had belonged to an earth pony. A moment later, a second followed, this time belonging to a unicorn. After several minutes, and two full skeletons, she finally quit. 'Blech', she thought to herself, 'that's what happens when you don't properly chew your food before swallowing.'

A pair of pained moans began to emerge from the vicinity of its stomach. In annoyance, it turned towards the offending organ, and snapped, "Shut up. You two will have plenty to keep you company shortly." Mortals. Sheesh. Swallow their souls, and all they did was complain, complain, complain about how much being digested hurt. And they only complained louder when it finally came time for them to be... released. She doubted that even the most pessimistic mortal expected to spend their afterlife at the bottom of an outhouse, or however they disposed of solid waste these days...

Author's Note

I honestly can't think of anything more evil than eating someone's soul, and then crapping them out. It's one thing to kill someone, its another to make them spend eternity as literal shit.