Ogres and Oubliettes: Roll The Dice

Chapters

Rolling New Characters
Favored Enemy
MY TACTICS ARE TOO SUBTLE FOR YOU!
Cutebold
Prologue: Rocks Fall, Everyone Dies

Rolling New Characters

"Oh rut, what now?"

It should be mentioned that the life of a gate guard at the last city left on the continent is much more hectic than one might normally assume. Stalwart Sentry had found this out the hard way when, after making the terrible mistake of "spending the night" with the commander's daughter (They were both incredibly drunk, and neither one remembered any of it... which was a terrible shame, since she was quite lovely) and eloping with her, he'd been permanently placed on guard duty for the front gates of the constantly harrassed city. From the outside of the city. Where all the monsters were.

His life had, ever since, been a rutting nightmare. Seriously. Monsters were trying to eat his face every day. Not hyperbole: There were monsters that considered pony faces to be a delicacy, and many of them came directly to the castle's front gate, drawn by the smell of the thousands upon thousands of ponies within. In fact, most monsters seemed to view ponies as some sort of sweet, delicious candy that complained loudly when eaten. And Stalwart Sentry was the most delicious of them all, it seemed. Every day, he fought from sunrise to sunset, until his relief of thirty guards came to hold the gate at night.

And all of this for a salary of a meager five bits a day. A pittance. He and his wife (The previously mentioned commander's daughter) could barely make ends meet. His commander had mentioned that, if he were to simply divorce her and forswear ever seeing her again, there might be a promotion in it for him, or at least reassignment. However, as mentioned, the commander's daughter was very lovely, and they were both very much in love. Plus, there was now a foal on the way, although they hadn't shared that bit of news with the grandfather to be yet. So...

Well, he hardly had time to be thinking on such things, given what was now walking up the road towards the city gate.

It was a mass advance of goblins. At least fifty of the green-skinned, foul-smelling creatures. Even a dozen of the blighted things could be dangerous, but fifty of them could bring down even a skilled adventurer, let alone a poorly equipped, underpaid gate guard. They were armed with various crude weapons. Swords, spears, knives, torches, axes, daggers, halberds, slings, bows, arrows, a duck, crowbars, blackjacks, and lead pipes. Fairly common equipment for a horde of goblins (Except for the duck. What the rut?). And worse, there was something larger and more menacing behind them.

The creature advancing behind the goblins was at least thrice the height of the tallest of the foul beastss (And the average goblin was as tall as an average pony), walked on two legs, and was garbed head to toe in steel armor, with a decidedly deadly looking sword in its left hand. The cut of its armor implied a saurian figure underneath, but not a square-inch of its flesh was visible to confirm its race. The figure advanced in a stance that indicated a strong sense of combat readiness, and the quality of its gear indicated that it would be a terrible foe to face.

So, in addition to a dreadful murder-mob of goblins, Stalwart would then be faced with this terrible foe... if it didn't decide to just jump in and aid its advancing underlings.

Oh well, it wasn't as if he hadn't fought worse, and just within the last week.

Stalwart took a fighting stance, and prepared himself for the charge that would soon begin, once the goblins came close enough. They were advancing steadily, but not running. After all, the city was situated on a grassy plain, with no trees or cover for miles and miles. This was a tactical advantage, technically, since it meant that nothing save the occasional invisible monster could take the city by surprise. Of course, this was a double-edged sword, since this meant that there was no means of ambushing any advancing army of monsters. Thus, monsters could advance upon the city with confidence, certain that nothing could take them by surprise.

Then, the figure advancing behind the goblins made a gesture with one hand, a "shush", as if to indicate that Stalwart should remain silent. As the earth pony stallion tried to overcome his confusion at this sudden movement, the steel-clad creature seemed to take a deep breath, and then gave a mighty shout.

"ADVENTURE... AND... GLORY!!!"

The goblins jumped in the air in surprise, almost in unison, an almost comic expression of confusion on their faces. Before they could recover, the armored figure was in their midst with sword and fist, laying about the goblins with an almost demented enthusiasm, laughing all the while.

Goblins, while dangerous in a group, are individually very weak, cowardly, and none too bright. When they have the advantage of numbers, and are feeling confident, they can be a force to reckoned with. While they don't usually wear armor, this makes them nimble and harder to hit in combat, and while their weapons are crude, they're also often fouled or poisoned, so that even a small scratch can do a great deal of damage over time if left untreated. However, a surprise attack can easily rattle them, destroying that feeling of confidence, and whatever advantage they might have had due to their high morale. And when the one springing the surprise is encased in high-quality armor, and swinging around a sword easily as heavy as a goblin itself, the mob quickly goes from a single, united army to a mass of scared, screaming individuals trying desperately to escape the monstrous thing that was slaughtering them wholesale.

Within seconds, the will of the goblin horde was broken, and they started to retreat. Within seconds, only a scattered few who'd either been too brave, or too stupid, to run.

And then there was this guy.

"MON CANARD EST EN FEU!!!" a goblin shouted, chasing around a duck that was flying about crazily while on fire. It was difficult to say which was stranger: That the duck had somehow ignited during the fracas, that the goblin actually cared enough about the duck to try and chase it down while it was burning, or that the goblin actually knew Prench...

Regardless, its concerns were put to an end when the armored figure separated the goblin's head from its shoulders with a casual backhand slash, while the duck flew away to parts unknown, trailing fire all the way.

After taking a moment to clean its sword of goblin guts, the threat now dispatched, the figure approached, and with a salute that involved a flourish of his sword, the armored warrior announced, "GREETINGS, FELLOW ADVENTURER, I AM GORETHYNDRYLLOS, OF FAR OFF DRACONIAPOLIS!!! I HAVE VENTURED FAR TO REACH THIS PLACE!!! TELL ME, WHERE MIGHT I FIND A TAVERN, SO THAT I MIGHT SLAKE MY MIGHTY THIRST WITH THE FINE BEER OF THIS DISTANT REALM!?"

Quite the voice on this guy, and a little bit overdramatic for a greeting. Still, he'd just done Stalwart a solid, so the least he could do was give the guy directions.

"Okay, first off," he began, "I'm a guard, not an adventurer. If you're looking for adventurers, you can find them at the local guild. It's near the market square, just follow the signs and you'll find yourself there pretty quick, the guild will be the largest building. If you're looking for beer, I'd recommend the Feed Trough, it isn't too far off the market square, anypony or anybeast at the guild can give you directions there: It's more or less the official tavern of the guild. The beer's good, but a little bit pricier than most taverns, but at least you won't end up with something that tastes like a tankard of moose urine."

Gorethyndryllos looked around in confusion, at the dozen and a half beaten to death monster corpses that littered the road leading up to the city, that had been there well before the goblins had arrived. It had been a slow morning, normally Stalwart had to deal with thrice that many before noon, most days. "ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE NOT AN ADVENTUERER!?" he asked/shouted, taking in Stalwart's hoofwork. "I HAVEN'T YET MET THE GUARD WHO COULD HANDILY DEAL WITH SUCH BEASTS!!"

Shrugging, the stallion said, "All in a day's work." Signalling to the guards that manned the high walls of the city, he said, "The gates'll be open in minute or so: It takes a bit to get them moving. They'll stay open just long enough to let you in. Best behavior, please: If you cause trouble in town after I've let you in, the commander will have the skin off my flanks for a new coin purse."

"OF COURSE, NEIGHBOR," the armored saurian agreed. "I WOULDN'T DREAM OF CAUSING ANY TROUBLE IN YOUR FINE CITY, ESPECIALLY IF SUCH MIGHTY HEROES GUARD THE STREETS!!!"

"And, um, keep the shouting to a minimum," Stalwart added as an after thought. "There's no law against it, but it's more an issue of courtesy. You're a little too loud."

Looking a little abashed, Gorethyndryllos said, "Sorry. My bad. Force of habit."

With Gorethyndryllos shuttled quickly inside of the city and the gates shut and re-secured, Stalwart Sentry resumed his post, and prepared to spend the rest of the day fighting monsters for a pittance. As he did, a few thoughts kept bouncing around in his brain pan.

"...I HAVEN'T YET MET THE GUARD WHO COULD HANDILY DEAL WITH SUCH BEASTS!!"

"...ESPECIALLY IF SUCH MIGHTY HEROES GUARD THE STREETS!!!"

"...FELLOW ADVENTURER!!!"

"ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE NOT AN ADVENTUERER!?"

Had anyone mentioned the idea of becoming an adventurer to him before, he'd have laughed it off as too dangerous. Who'd want to go out and risk their life fighting monsters all day?

...But, wasn't he doing that already? And if he was going to fight monsters anyway, maybe he ought to take a job that had him do so and paid better than this...

Favored Enemy

Once upon the time, there was a little filly.

She was a nice, kindhearted, adorable unicorn filly, whose grandfather was the master of the local adventurer's guild, and whose parents were the top two adventurers active in the city of Trottingham. She was loved, both by parents and grandparents, as well as all of the heroes of the mighty guild. That guild was hailed as the best in the realm, greater even than that of their sister city, Spiketopia.

But then, one day, everything changed: An oracle foretold of a terrible force that had come into existence within the Oubliette that had formed beneath the city fifteen years prior. This prediction had taken place just six moons after the city's ruler had announced that there would no longer be a bounty on giant rats or their various relatives, due to budgetary concerns. Had anypony thought to connect the two events together, perhaps everypony might have had some idea of what would soon transpire. Instead, the guild was blind to what they ventured into the depths to face.

More than five hundred adventurers ventured into the depths beneath the city, thinking some massive and dreadful beast had made its lair within the deeps. Instead, when they came to the entrance of the Oubliette, what emerged was not a single, massive beast, but a seemingly endless swarm of giant rats, ranging from the standard version to the larger dire rats, and even the rare Lords of the Rats. The flower of an age of adventurers fought valiantly, but were overwhelmed, and devoured by the ravenous horde that had already devoured every monster in the Oubliette, including its master. The rats were starving, having eaten everything edible in the depths, and they now had a trail that they could follow straight up to the city, where more food awaited them. Led by the fabled King of Rats, the army of teeth and claws pounced on a city woefully unprepared.

Thousands of ponies died, devoured by the black, brown, and grey ocean of rats that erupted from the sewers. The rats cared naught if their prey was male or female, old or young, innocent or guilty, rich or poor. Meat was meat. Hundreds of escapees died from infections caused by rat bites and scratches, or from varying diseases carried by the parasites that lived on even normal sized rats. Hundreds more died from starvation, or were devoured by the monsters that roamed the wilds between Trottingham and Spiketopia. Only a handful survived to make the trip and relate what they saw...

...And were met with disbelief, if not outright derision. After all, everypony knew that giant rats were cowardly creatures, among the weakest monsters in existence. The idea that an entire city could wiped out by the weakest of all monsters, something that even complete novices could handle, was ridiculous. While nopony could say what "really" wiped out the city, they were certain that the dozen survivors of the city were wrong.

And the little filly who had been loved by all? The daughter and granddaughter of heroes? She died somewhere in Trottingham. Nothing that innocent could survive such wholesale slaughter. But something managed to escape from the city, a few moments before the entire acropolis suddenly vanished in a pillar of incandescent fire, sufficient to melt even the very stones to slag. Something walked away from that city, smoking a cigarette while the city burned, in spite of her obvious youth. Something scarred, bloody, damaged, but still, miraculously, unbroken. Although, perhaps, something inside of her had broken. The part of her that had once been that lovely little filly.

Something walked out of the city that looked like a filly, but was dead inside, save for a hate that burned brighter than a thousand suns.

That was fifteen years ago. That was the beginning of the story of The Ratter.

Ratter. Noun. A person, animal, or thing that catches rats.

This was a term of derision used by more than a few adventurers, but The Ratter didn't mind. In truth, it was a perfectly good description of who and what she was. She wouldn't save the world, she killed rats. Other adventurers could deal with the various monsters outside of the city, or in the depths. The Ratter hunted down the monsters that, she knew from experience, would destroy the city if left unchecked. She killed rodents of unusual size, vermin that other adventurers considered beneath contempt, but if not eradicated, would devour the city, hooves first. The Ratter hunted the wiliest of creatures through the sewers, the ruins underneath, and even further down.

But this morning's prey wasn't hiding in the depths. No, tonight, it was on the first floor of the sewers, which was a definite cause for concern. After all, a pack of giant and dire rats of this size just wouldn't haunt the sewers this close to the entrance of the city proper. Not unless something was guiding them.

The Ratter checked her gear as she perched upon a pipe that spanned the ceiling of a cross-section, a four way junction where two major tunnels intersected, the corpse of a recently slain monster sitting at the center as bait. Her scale mail and face covering helmet were stifling in the heat, the sewers unusually warm here, but she was used to discomfort. Her crossbows were ready, and with a quick cantrip, she could have both loaded, strung, and readied in the time it took for her to breathe. She didn't plan to use them, but experience had taught her that, where rats were concerned, it was better to be prepared. She had several dozen fire bombs in a box beside her, ready to release, a favorite weapon against the creatures. Few things could upset a swarm of rats quite like fire. She also had a dozen grenades of her own design, a type that, rather than bursting into flames, exploded with a thunderous sound and blinding light. She'd taken to calling them "Flashbangs". Somehow, the name felt right. She carried half a dozen "Nosekillers" as well, bombs that released a powerful compound that drew the noses of any animal that ate meat, but would kill the ability to smell anything for hours on end once it entered the nose.

And then there was Boscoe at her side, a massive warhound, and the only other creature on the planet that she could rely on these days. The massive black and orange dog was on full alert, a sure sign that their prey was approaching.

And here it came now.

It started with a single giant rat. About half the size of a pony, the creature slowly entered the cross section, scenting the air. Good luck with that, given that The Ratter had taken great pains to cover her scent and that of Boscoe with a foul smelling compound that would make their scent impossible to distinguish from that of the rest of the sewer.

The rat was a scout, clearly. Not very rat-like behavior, a sure sign that her prey was approaching. After the scout finished checking for anything amiss, more rats began to appear. A dozen of them were about the same size as the scout, but eight of them were twice as large, and much more sinister in appearance: Dire Rats.

When an ordinary rat eats the flesh of a monster, the magic within that flesh mutates the rat, causing it to grow in size. However, the mutation will continue as long as the rat is able to find more flesh to eat, and if it is able to consume enough monster flesh, its body will change in various ways, mutating into a more monstrous dire rat. And if a dire rat continues to feast on the flesh of monsters...

The Ratter's train of thought was broken when the rats suddenly stopped, and then formed up into a square, leaving a section open large enough for a more massive beast to approach. It was thrice the size of a dire rat, and even more monstrous in appearance its smaller servants, but what truly set it apart was a circlet of metal atop its head, copper, or maybe just tin, fashioned as a crude imitation of a crown.

And here he comes now, the Lord of the Rats. Her prey.

The Lord of the Rats approached the corpse of the monster that the Ratter had slain, and then positioned here, to draw her true prey to this place. She needed visual confirmation of the creature's existence, and termination, or she wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. She didn't sleep well most nights, but after a good hunt, she could slumber soundly for a night or two, the ghosts of the past put to rest for a time...

The massive rat nosed the meat for a moment, seeming to check the stuff over, rather than wolfing it down as many would expect. Rats were social creatures, though: If they encounter a rat in trouble near a food source, they'll more often than not aid their compatriot and share, rather than just eating the food alone. The Ratter had considered poisoning the meat, but the fact that the Lord of the Rats was more likely to share with its compatriots than to devour the meal itself would risk ruining ambush. Besides, for a beast that size, it would take a lot of poison to do anything more than inconvenience it.

The Ratter's thoughts were interrupted for the second time today as the Lord of the Rats did something surprising: It stepped aside, and another rat, larger than a Dire Rat, but smaller than the Lord, approached.

'Dung', The Ratter thought to herself, 'he's raising himself a mate.'

Giant rats didn't get any larger than the Lord of the Rats stage of growth, but once they did reach that state, they gained intelligence, sentience, and sapience, along with the ability to control other rats to a limited degree. If two or more Lords of the Rats encountered each other, they could bind their tails together, and link their minds, intellects, and powers, boosting their abilities exponentially. This was the King of Rats, the Doom of Trottingham. And when giant rats mated, they produced more of whatever state they were in at the time. Giant rats made more giant rats, dire rats made more dire rats, and Lords of the Rats made more Lords of the Rats...

And this Lord of Rats was getting ready to produce a mate, so it could begin spawning more Lords of the Rats. Within a few moons, there would be enough to create a terrifyingly powerful King of Rats, and then...

...The Doom of Trottingham would devour Spiketopia.

'Not while there's a rutting drop of blood in my body, you bastards,' The Ratter thought to herself, rage turning her face into a rictus grin fit to frighten any who saw it, as she readied her weapons and placed a set of smoked glass lenses over her eyes.

First, down came the flashbangs: All of them at once around the perimeter, deafening and blinding the rats below. The Ratter and Boscoe were saved, as both wore earplugs, and while The Ratter wore dark lenses over her eyes, she simply covered Boscoe's until the light faded.

The cross section became a sight of pure chaos as the rats began running about blindly and crashing into walls. Terror was the fastest way to break the hold that a Lord of the Rats held on its minions, but the other rats wouldn't desert their master, they simply would fail to obey its commands for a few brief minutes. Plenty of time.

Rather than dropping the firebombs as she had originally planned, The Ratter readied both crossbows, and with the ease of long practice, fired two bolts. Two very special bolts, also of her own design.

Fine steel arrowheads bit deep into the skulls of both the Lord of the Rats and its prospective mate. While the mate died instantly, the Lord's skull was thick enough to prevent instantaneous death. That was fine. The shaft of the bolt contained a special chamber that held two glass beads, each holding a small amount of a chemical compound that would only break and mix once they were properly primed and fired. Alone, the two chemicals were inert. Together...

As the chemicals mixed, and anarchy continued to reign down below, The Ratter lit the firebombs and dropped them all, her face beneath her helmet a mix of rage, hatred, and ecstasy. The cross section became a fiery holocaust. The rats below ignited, burning and screaming, and as the payload within the special bolts finished mixing and reacted, the two bolts exploded spectacularly, killing all but perhaps two or three of the vile creatures, and taking the Lord of the Rat's head clean off in a shower of gore.

As she and Boscoe jumped down from the heights above, and the pair went to work on the few survivors, The Ratter said, half to Boscoe and half to herself, "I love the smell of burning rat in the morning. It smells like... victory."

A few minutes of messy work to remove the tails of the slain monsters, and then The Ratter went to work burning everything: Both the dead rats and the monster's corpse that she'd used as bait. Leave a dead monster behind, even a rat, and more rats would come to devour it, and then there'd be more giant rats to take their place.

If adventurers would burn the remains of their prey after killing it, then The Ratter would not have been quite so busy, but today's prey made for a good haul. Ten bits apiece for the standard giant rats. Fifty for each dire rat. And while the guild would never "officially" recognize the Lord of the Rats or its consort to be for what they were, they'd qualify as Abnormal dire rats, sufficient for double the standard bounty, for a solid one hundred bits apiece. Better than she made most days, a solid seven hundred thirty bits.

More than enough to resupply after today's expenditure of resources, pay rent, and buy food for the month. The Ratter's war chest was fat with bits already, given that she hunted daily, and came back with something nearly every time she went out, but today was better than average. Still, as she walked down the street towards the guild hall, Boscoe at her side, she pondered something... worrying.

'I've been killing giant rats by the dozens,' she thought to herself. 'But they're still coming. Worse, there were that many dire rats, plus a Lord of the Rats, along with one well on her way to that level. That shouldn't be possible, unless there's a nest somewhere I've yet to discover. It can't be in the sewers, I've got those completely mapped out, and I've gotten most of the ruins beneath scouted as well. So where...'

She had let herself get so lost in thought that she accidentally collided with a large, armor clad warrior who'd happened to turn the corner ahead of her. Due to his size and heavy armor, all that happened was that she walked face first into him with a clang, her helmet colliding with his armored calves. Still, the collision rattled her slightly, and she dropped her parcel of rat tails.

"Oh, my apologies," the warrior said, seeming to have trouble controlling the volume of his voice, he carefully helped pick up the bundle and placed it on her back. "I should be more careful where I walk. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," The Ratter replied in a flat voice. Somewhere in Trottingham, she'd lost the ability to emote, her voice usually devoid of emotion, save for when rats were concerned, and even then, she only expressed anger. Ponies tended to find it disconcerting.

However, this fellow was some sort of bipedal saurian in full plate, and if her voice bothered him, it didn't show. "That is good," he said, then took a moment to study her bounty. "A fine day's work, but... where's the rest of your party? Shouldn't they be helping you carry the spoils."

Gesturing to her canine partner, The Ratter said, "This was all Boscoe and me."

Clapping his hands together in appreciation (Which resulted in a loud clang, given his steel gauntlets), the warrior exclaimed, "Then that is a fantastic day's work! I've seen what those dreadful creatures can do when they get into a hatchery back home, and they can be quite dangerous if left to breed unchecked. You've done a great service, exterminating them."

The Ratter was ready for many things, most of them related to sudden appearances of giant rats or other monsters. An honest, heartfelt compliment, however, was completely unexpected, and it took her a second to say, "Thank you."

"Ah, I forget myself," the armored saurian said, slapping himself on the forehead with a clang. "I have not introduced myself. I am Gorethyndryllos, previously of Draconiapolis. I understand that is a mouthful, so please, call me Gore. Who might you be?"

"They call me The Ratter," she replied bluntly. There were times when she did miss the ability to emote even a little. It didn't sit well with her, being unable to be nice to someone who had praised her. After all, it was such a rare event...

"Well, Ratter," Gore said with a polite bow, "I was on my way to register with the adventurer's guild. Might you be on your way there with your bounty?"

The Ratter nodded, and said, "I am. It's this way. I'll walk you there."

Author's Note

Fun fact: During World War 2, ship captains who smuggled refugees out of Nazi occupied territory would use a concoction that was a mix of rabbit blood and cocaine to throw dogs off of the scent of their passengers. The rabbit blood drew the dogs to the mix, and the cocaine left them unable to smell anything. Something similar is in The Ratter's Nosekiller bombs, but for the sake of decency, I'll say it isn't cocaine.

Favored enemy is a term used in D&D, a ranger skill that grants a ranger bonuses against certain enemy types. As you may have guessed, The Ratter is a ranger, and her level one favored enemy is Rats.

MY TACTICS ARE TOO SUBTLE FOR YOU!

"You really cannot be serious..."

Bad Penny, the copper-coated, golden-maned pegasus who ran the criminal underworld of Spiketopia, glared at what had to be the most pathetic attempt upon her life that she had ever seen. In front of her was obviously a pony, hiding under a blanket in the middle of her bedroom, with a sign hanging around the neck that said, "Definitely not an assassin." Just underneath it was a second sign that said, "Seriously, don't look."

However this idiot had gotten into her lavishly furnished villa, past all of her guards, locks, and traps, was beyond her, but whoever this idiot was, he or she was in for a nasty surprise: Penny hadn't gotten to the top of the bottom of society just because she had a pretty face. Even without any weapons or backup, she could, and had more than once in the past, killed ponies with her bare hooves, tail, and even once crushed a stallion's head between her thighs. She wouldn't have to call for back-up for this: She'd disable this dimwit, and then torture the identity of who sent him or her here, and then maybe spend a couple more hours having further fun before finishing the dolt off.

"I'm not an idiot," Bad Penny stated, bluntly. "I know that there's a pony under that blanket."

"No, there isn't," the blanket promptly replied.

Giving a sigh, Penny asked, "If there isn't, then who just said that?"

"I'm a magical talking blanket," the 'blanket' responded, after a moment's thought.

That answer was so patently moronic that Bad Penny actually needed a few seconds to consider her respone. As she did, the pony underneath shifted slightly.

After a few more seconds, the 'blanket' added, "Would you believe that I'm also a magical, wish-granting blanket? Just close your eyes, count to ten, and I'll grant any wish you want."

Bad Penny finally lost her patience, and decided, 'Rut this, I'm not going to waste any more time with this stupidity.' Grabbing a corner of the blanket, she pulled it off, knocking the signs loose in the process, to reveal...

A crude mannequin in the shape of a pony had been underneath the blanket, with another sign hanging around its neck that said, "Isn't it sad how nopony trusts anypony anymore?" A second sign hung underneath it that said, "Oh, and also: Blanket Monster."

An expression of confusion on her face, Bad Penny asked to nopony in particular, "Blanket Monster?"

A shadow fell over her, and she turned to see that the blanket that she had tossed aside had risen up, claw-tipped fingers emerging from the corners and edges, and she could also see that the underside was lined with hundreds of razor sharp, shark-like teeth, with a half-dozen cat-slitted eyes staring hungrily at her.

"Oh," she said, weakly. "Blanket monster..."

"OMNOMNOMNOMNOMNOMNOMNOM!!!"

In the hallway outside the room, Absurd Calamity, Abby to her friends, called over her shoulder, "Be sure to leave the head intact, Sweetums, I need it for the bount-eeeeeey!"

There was a distinct sound of someone spitting something out that landed with a muffled thud, like a head hitting a pillow rather hard. Well, at least he'd spit it out on something soft.

The black-coated, silver-maned unicorn inspected the bottom of her hoof while her summons continued his work. She often wondered why it was that nopony really invested much effort into studying the fine art of conjuration. There were so many fascinating magical creatures in the world, a being for every occasion. And for a pony like herself, who worked for the guild's bounty-hunting division, a creature like a blanket monster made for the perfect assistant on missions like this. Had she felt like waiting, she could have simply had Sweetums replace Bad Penny's real blanket, and done the job after the criminal scum had drifted off to sleep, but...

Well, any ol' wizard could kill a pony with magic, if they were powerful enough. It was the mark of a consummate professional and artiste like herself to be able to do so with style.

And besides, she'd gotten a good giggle out of it all, both in the planning and the execution. And really, if you can't find joy in your chosen vocation, then really, what was the point?

"All done!" Sweetums called out from the room behind her.

"Thanks, lovey-love," Abby said, in a silvery voice. She walked in, and confirmed that the blanket monster had, indeed, consumed all but the target's head, leaving not even a drop of blood of his prey, and the head was sufficiently intact for claiming the bounty on this wanted criminal. "I'll be sending you back now. See you later!"

As Sweetums faded away, he said, "Any time! Thanks for the munchy-crunchies!"

A solid five thousand bits, easily the biggest bounty that she'd ever gone after. Absurd Calamity simply couldn't believe her good fortune. A single tip had panned out, letting her find the location of the single most wanted mare in the city. All it had taken after confirming her location was a few simple teleportation spells to get all the pieces in place, a sound-muffling spell to keep anypony from hearing her or Bad Penny, if she managed to get a scream out before the end, a mid-level summons to get Sweetums into the room, a few minutes to let events unfold, and then a final teleportation spell to exit without having to try and get past Bad Penny's guards, and she was scot-free, with Bad Penny's head stored in a pocket of holding so that Abby could walk down the streets without having to hold a severed head. Easy-peasey, hot-grilled-cheesey.

She practically danced as she cheerily made her way down the streets of Spiketopia. Being skilled at magic was practically a license to mint bits, if you simply had the imagination for it, something that for some reason was in short supply for most magic users. Well, bad cess to them for being a dull and dreary lot. Abbie had heaps of imagination, and if anypony thought ill of her for being willing to kill a pony for a bounty, they could take a look at Bad Penny's rap sheet (It stretched from floor to ceiling, thrice, and more than half of that was murder, conspiracy to commit murder, attempting to somehow invent super-, or perhaps even turbo-murder, and a number of crimes that paled in comparison to all the murder that was on that list) and they'd see that Abby was perfectly justified in taking advantage of the 'Dead' on that Dead or Alive bounty. Besides, more than a few ponies, more altruistic (Read: Moronic) than her had tried to take the incredibly dangerous Bad Penny alive, and had ended up adding another entry to that long list of murders.

All Abby would need to do now was turn in her bounty, and then she could spend the day at the spa, as a treat for such a fine day's work.

As she entered the guild, she noted that there was a bit of a line leading up to the clerk's desk. Right, it was the last day of the week, so most adventurers were turning in the bounties that they'd gotten this week (Some preferred to do it daily, but most preferred to just drop off a week's worth in one visit, so they didn't have to come in every day). A pity, that, but patience was a virtue, especially for a bounty hunter. However, there was a slight wrinkle: The back of the line was occupied by... blech, The Ratter, carrying a stinking load of giant rat tails.

Now, don't get Abby wrong, she didn't mind that The Ratter hunted giant rats. They were monsters, of course, and there was nothing wrong with collecting a bounty on them, but...

Well, The Ratter was so... dull about it. She was so staid, so stoic. All work, no play. Her entire life revolved around hunting rats, there was nothing else to her, really. She was so one-dimensional. She practically exuded a field of boredom around herself, making boring things even more boring just by being in the room. When Abby worked, she had style, panache, flair. And when she wasn't out working, Abby was hanging out with friends. She spent her bits on clothes, spell books, jewelry, trinkets, and sundries. She was more than just somepony who went out and killed stuff. She had a life outside of her work.

Well, at least the adventurer in front of her, a large biped in full plate, seemed fun.

"So there I was," the saurian figure said, relating a story. "In the middle of the woods, tracking down the Ghouls of Gastrolithia, in the middle of winter, trying to shake off a pack of wargs and another pack of worgs who thought I'd make good prey. Well, I thought to myself, ghouls will come out to eat any dead thing that they scent, even monsters. So, why not just use one problem to solve another, and kill them for bait?"

Surprisingly, The Ratter seemed to be listening attentively to the tale, in spite of the fact that, so far, rats had in no way been involved.

"So," the warrior continued, "I spotted a nice, thick tree that I could put my back against, so that I wouldn't have to worry about a feral canine trying to chew on the back of my head. An annoyance, of course, given that I was wearing my helmet, but hey, who needs that kind of a distraction? The wargs and worgs started to close in, although there was some friction between the two packs, a bit of growling and snapping, but they seemed willing to hold off on any fighting over my meat until they'd dealt with me. Pretty smart, wargs and worgs, in spite of what some might say. But then, there was a surprising sound, the sound of wood cracking, and I looked up to see a face form in the wood above me. It seemed that I had accidentally set my back against the trunk of an ent. Ents are, of course, foul-tempered and violent, even at the best of times, but when winter rolls around, they are downright unfriendly to anyone who wakes them up. Some would think that this was a stroke of bad luck. However, I've always felt that, when life gave me lemons, it was because I was supposed to make lemonade, no matter how evil the lemons might have been. It was a cold winter, and you know what? I'd need a fire to dispose of the ghouls when I was done with them, anyhow, so I figured, why not use this problem to deal with that one, too? After all, ent or not, the wood should burn fine, regardless..."

Author's Note

Don't worry, we'll hear more of the story in the next chapter.

The title of this chapter is one of the two catchphrases of Oinkbane, were-boar assassin. Why were-boar? Because awesome, that's why. I'd like to think that he'd be proud of this setup.

As for blanket monsters? I remember reading a manga that had a life-sucking monster that disguised itself as a bedroll. Seemed crazy, and kinda awesome, so I built on that. Aren't homebrews fun?

Cutebold

Life stank for the kobolds, but it wasn't their fault: They didn't know better.

Faithful Servant, devout cleric of Frith, looked upon his congregation with pride. Kobolds were often called stupid, weak, trash, less than trash, less than pond-scum, and even less than dung. They weren't even considered fodder by most adventurers, and it had been more than three centuries since any city had offered a bounty on them. Adventurers would exterminate them on sight, and think nothing of it. They existed to be destroyed, and nothing more.

However, there was so much more than meets the eyes...

A year ago, Faithful Servant had been part of a party of adventurers who had journeyed into the sewers, and then into the ruins that lay beneath the sewers, and then, upon finding a tunnel beyond a rickety bridge that led even further down, prepared to to go further than any pony had ever gone before. They were certain that they had found the entrance to an Oubliette, and believed that, if they ventured into its depths, they could find the source of the scores of monsters that threatened Spiketopia from underneath, and destroy it.

Most oubliettes had ten floors. A few had twenty. This one had well over a hundred. It had taken days to traverse it... and had there been any monsters inside, it would have taken much, much longer. It was confusing: Monsters were well known to be found inside of an Oubliette, being the source of many of the foul fiends that plagued the world. The scores of monsters that infested the sewers, and the ruins that lay underneath, indicated that a truly prodigious Oubliette like this one had to be the source. But if that was so, then why was this Oubliette empty?

When the party reached the chamber of the Oubliette's master, they found their answer... and it was one that would haunt Faithful Servant's nightmares for the rest of his life.

The master of the Oubliette was an ogre, or something like one. And something was already in the process of killing it. A horde of giant rats were gnawing upon it, the creature's limbs and torso buried under what seemed like thousands of of the creatures, the beast powerless to do anything but wail as it was devoured alive. The room itself was carpeted with thousands more, seeming to be waiting their turn. And not far from the slowly dying ruler of the depths, stood something that would scare the brown earth pony to the point that his blonde hair went white. A group of massive rats stood, tails linked together, and as they watched, another added its tail to the knot that linked them.

The legends were true. The Doom of Trottingham lurked in the depths, and its servants slowly feasted upon the flesh of an ogre.

Had they silently fled, then perhaps they might have lived to report what they saw to the citizens of Spiketopia. However, somepony made a sound. Faithful was certain it wasn't him, but someone made the smallest squeak of fear, and then, thousands of furred faces turned, in unison, to stare at them.

Had all of them not taken a few minutes previously to relieve themselves before entering the chamber, then they all might have suffered from such severe fear-induced explosive defecation that the ponies might have all detonated simultaneously in explosions of fear-dung. Thankfully, that did not happen, but they all screamed like little fillies before fleeing for their lives, the rats on their collective tails.

The first to fall to the swarm was their magic user, who turned an launched a powerful fireball into the flood of rats behind them. The fireball struck home, and killed perhaps a dozen of the creatures... but there were thousands behind it, and their forward motion served only to propel those corpses forward at high speed, and when one of them was knocked onto the wizard's back as he turned to continue running, it slowed him long enough for the vermin-tide to catch up with him and overwhelm him. His dying scream was swallowed up by the sound of the approaching avalanche of rats. Whether he died instantly, crushed from the weight of so many rats, or died more slowly, eaten alive by the creatures, Faithful didn't like to consider, but regardless, his fate was sealed.

The most heavily armored of their party, a pair of armored knights, died next, their armor preventing them from being able to run full speed long enough for them to be granted an opportunity to catch their breath. Their fate was more certain: They could not turn a corner fast enough, and the rats collided with them at full speed, like a battering ram made of flesh, fur, and hunger. The force of the thousands of rats that propelled the vanguard forward was sufficient to crush them both, crumpling their armor like tin foil, and the flesh beneath it fared no better. Their death was swift, at least...

From there, it was difficult to say in which order Faithful's comrades died in: They were running for their lives through an extensive, one hundred floor labyrinth: While Servant had an exceptional memory and it allowed him to remember the correct path to the entrance, his allies did not possess the presence of mind to recall their exit path while running for their lives. They took a wrong turn, and Faithful never saw them again: Either the rats caught them, or they were lost in the depths of the Oubliette, doomed to wander its halls until either the rats caught them, or they died of thirst and starvation.

One by one, his comrades either took a wrong turn, or tripped and fell, or didn't turn a corner fast enough, or one of a dozen other things that allowed the rodents to catch up with them. Regardless, death was death.

It had taken the adventurers days to traverse the Oubliette, moving very slowly and cautiously, expecting enemies at every turn. It took Faithful Servant two hours to reach the entrance, running full speed. And when he did, he looked back long enough to see that he was, indeed, the only one left. As he turned back to continue speeding forward, he whispered a prayer to Frith to speed his hooves, to slow his foes, to do SOMETHING so that he could reach the surface and warn the ponies of Spiketopia of the horror that was nesting beneath the city. They might have days, or perhaps only hours, before the rats finished their feast, and began moving up towards the surface in search of food, much like poor Trottingham.

He had been one of those to scorn the accounts of the city's downfall, believing such a thing was impossible. Here, with the reality of it breathing down his neck as he fled, he was eating the proverbial crow, and its taste was as bitter as he'd been told it would be.

Faithful Servant did not know if Frith had answered his prayer, or if desperation lent the cleric the speed needed to reach his one hope of throwing off his pursuers, but he finally reached the place he hoped would grant him the opportunity to lose his pursuers: The old, crumbling stone bridge that marked the path to the Oubliette. The weight of the rats would cause the bridge to collapse, and by the time they found an alternate route (If any such route existed), Faithful could lose them in the ruins. Dodging monsters all the way to the surface would be difficult, but possible.

But something happened when Faithful crossed the bridge that would shock and horrify him: As he reached the halfway point of the bridge, there was the sudden sound of a thousand clawed feet grinding to a halt at once. The rats stopped at the edge of the bridge, and the horde would advance no further. The legends were true: The King Of Rats was as intelligent as a pony, if not more so, and had complete command of its servants, even from this far away. They knew. They knew that the bridge would not support their weight, and would not advance en masse across it.

But they had not given up the pursuit. As Faithful watched in disbelief, the rats made a hole in their horde to allow a dozen large, pony-sized rats, and one much larger, to advance to the front. A dozen dire rats, and a lord of the rats, were going to continue the hunt. And once they crossed, another squad could follow, and then another, until the horde of rats crossed the bridge safely. The bridge was a bottleneck, yes, but no matter how narrow it was, they could all still cross it, given enough time and patience.

Faithful Servant had a choice: He could run, and try to escape his pursuers through the ruins, which was unlikely now, as the cleric was near-to-death from fatigue, or...

Taking a deep breath, Faithful chose what any good servant of Frith should: He chose to stop the horde, here and now, even at the cost of his life. He began to chant the strongest prayer that he knew, outside of healing. It was a powerful prayer, and while it wasn't quite strong enough to defeat the squad of rodents that were approaching, it would be more than sufficient to destroy the bridge. When he reached to conclusion of the prayer, the rats were bare inches away... which meant that when the Holy Word of Frith erupted from Faithful's mouth, they took the full brunt of it to the face.

The voice of Frith raged forth, shouting, "VALEO!!!" Begone.

The force of Frith's Word was sufficient to set the bridge to crumbling, and before Faithful Servant could move, the floor gave way beneath him, and he plummeted into the depths. Everything went black...

Faithful was surprised to awaken anywhere other than Elysium, and when he did, he found himself staring into the face of a kobold, laying upon a crude cot in a crude lean-to. It seemed that he'd survived the fall, and the kobolds had nursed him to health. Well, as best as they could, at least: The fall had crippled the cleric, beyond even the power of Frith's prayers to be able to heal completely. He'd never be able to run again, and could not even walk without a cane. There was no way he could reach the surface to warn the citizens of Spiketopia of the doom that waited beneath them... after all, if the rats' leaders were intelligent enough to be able to see that the bridge would collapse, then they could certainly work out a means of constructing a new bridge. It would take time. Perhaps years, even, but eventually, they'd work out a way across.

However, Frith's followers were not known for wallowing in despair. Instead of focusing on his terrible state, he began doing what any cleric should do: He spread the word of Frith to anypony willing to listen. The word of Frith should not be allowed to die with ponykind, afer all. It had taken close to half a year for he and his new flock to reach the point where they could understand each other, but once that point was reached, the kobolds could understand the words of Faithful Servant, and more to the point, they could understand the Word of Frith.

And surprisingly, they liked what they heard.

Unlike many deities, Frith was neither narcissistic, one who excluded any from His grace, nor was He one to stand on ceremony. Frith's word was simple: Frith didn't want his followers to sit around begging him for stuff: "Oh Frith, I want money." "Oh Frith, I want power." "Oh Frith, I want to get it on with that fine mare across the street." Etc. Etc. Frith didn't raise a hoof to help anyone who asked, begged, or even demanded something that they would do nothing to work for, and had done nothing to deserve. Frith helped those who were helpless but had not given up hope, He helped those who helped others, and He helped those who were working hard to achieve the things that they wanted. And above all else, He helped those who sought to do good for the sake of goodness. He was the one who made sure that those who reached out to Him got, not what the asked for, or what they needed, but what they deserved. And if you did nothing to deserve what you asked for, then nothing was exactly what you got. Most importantly, Frith did not reward those who did good deeds solely for the sake of getting a reward. He did not grant the eternal bliss of Elysium to those who spent all their time on their knees, praying to Frith and accomplishing nothing else in their lives, or who did good deeds solely to curry favor with Himself or those around them. Instead, Frith rewarded those who did good deeds for the sake of doing good. Selfless acts of goodness were what pleased Frith, more than anything else.

The kobolds grasped this with surprising speed: They understood well enough that there was no such thing as a free lunch, given how bad life was down in the deeps. The idea that there was someone or something out there that rewarded those who worked hard, or helped those who were no longer able to work hard due to the harshness of life, spoke to them. And the idea of a deity that cared not who you were, but rather what you did with your life, touched something, deep within their hearts. Kobolds were the ultimate exiles, but by Frith's word, their race didn't matter: Frith loved them regardless.

The kobolds took to their study of Frith's word with a will. Within three moons, the kobolds could recite the word of Frith, front to back, from memory. Of course, Frith's book was pretty short, but it was still impressive, given that the Kobolds couldn't read, and could only listen to Faithful's recitation of it. That was nowhere near as startling, however, as when one of the kobolds performed a miracle of Frith.

Her name, loosely translated, was Spinel, although a more accurate translation was Balas Ruby, or just Ruby, as Faithful took to calling her. Ruby was a female of the species, and close to becoming 'of age' amongst kobolds. Kobolds were lizard-like creatures, but while the males tended to have a slightly rougher appearance, with small crests and ridges along their bodies, females tended to have scaled skins as smooth as a serpent, and Ruby's scales were the color of her namesake. Ruby had once witnessed Faithful perform a healing on one of the kobolds when he was injured, and had successfully memorized the words to the prayer. So, when another kobold had been similarly injured, she had knelt down, recited the prayer and... Frith heard it, and answered.

That was when Faithful Servant had an idea. It was a lot to ask of such a small creature, but Spiketopia had to be warned...

And so, he spent two moons preparing Ruby for a holy pilgrimage to the surface. The journey would be dangerous, no doubt. However, the young kobold learned quickly, and within a short time, she was more than ready: Through the strength of her faith, and her dedication to her lessons, she acquired a level of understanding of Frith's word sufficient to rival Faithful's own, and the power to perform miracles equal to his. If she were to progress further, it would require instruction from a cleric of a higher caliber than himself, or divine intervention from Frith Himself.

And now was the faithful day: The day when his best student would venture forth, the future of ponykind riding on her young shoulders. The road would be long, but Ruby had faith, and so did Faithful Servant. He had faith that she would make it.

But what worried him was what would happen to her when she reached the Adventurer's Guild to present the letter he was sending with her...

Two weeks later...

"Funnily enough," the armored giant in the guild hall continued, his voice, while not loud, carried through the entire room, and more than a few adventurers were listening to his tale with interest, "the Ent saw the wargs and worgs as a much bigger threat than I. In fact, it didn't see me at all, at first: It's eyes were much higher up on the trunk than I would have expected, and when it stood, I was certainly completely out of view, so it went to wiping out its lupine targets with a will. Monsters of wood are much sturdier than creatures of the flesh, and this ent was quite large for its kind, so the fact that it was greatly outnumbered meant nothing to it, and it walked through the wargs and worgs as easily as I might walk through a field of daisies. And wouldn't you know it, the smell of all the blood and carnage drew the very ghouls I was hunting to the battle, and they set about trying to pick a fight with the ent as well. Within fifteen minutes, the wargs, the worgs, and the ghouls were all vanquished, and the Ent was exhausted. Of course, it had been woken up from its hibernation, so it wasn't in full fighting form, but I hope I don't sound too proud when I say that, even at its best, it wouldn't have fared much better against me: I keep a couple of ignition charms, that can imbue my sword with the power of fire, for those times when you face a monster that is vulnerable to fire, or regenerates when it isn't burning. A few quick chops at the roots, and all that was left was to shout 'Timber!' as the Ent fell, and then I finished it before it could rise. From there, I got to work with burning the bodies of my foes, save for the trophies I'd need to claim the bounty." With a chuckle, he added, "I felt a little guilty, taking the credit for the kills, since it was the Ent who did the majority of the work, but when I told the Guildmaster the tale, he said that the beasts would never have crossed the Ent in the first place had I not been there. Besides, an Ent is a far more dangerous foe than ghouls, wargs, and worgs put together, as the Ent had just finished proving during that adventure. However, that was the last time I tried to adventure solo: Having boon companions at your back is always far better than a thick tree, especially if it turns out that the tree is even more dangerous than the beasts you're fighting."

That got a few laughs, and nods from the more veteran adventurers in the guild hall. Ruby gulped, hoping that she'd be able to present her letter to someone, before someone like that towering creature got its sword out and bisected her.

She gathered her courage and wits together, and whispered a prayer to Frith. This was the most dangerous part of her pilgrimage: Faithful Servant had told her that, to most adventurers, kobolds were pests to be killed on sight. Thus, she might end up presenting the letter, and be killed before, or perhaps even after, it had been read. However, Frith walked with her, and if she died trying to fulfil the goal of her holy pilgrimage, then at least she could rest easy knowing that Frith would not abandon her.

She adjusted her robes, bleached white and still moderately clean even after the trek through the sewers, made sure her amulet of Frith's bright and holy sun was clear upon her chest, and climbed up atop the table she'd spent half the day hiding under, having snuck in and hidden under the tablecloth before anypony had come in. This was it, the moment of truth.

She cleared her throat, and asked, somewhat meekly, "Um... hello. May I have everyone's attention, please?"

Dozens of heads turned to look at her, each adventurer possessing more than enough weaponry, magical might, or divine favor to wipe out her entire village in minutes. Ruby struggled to say the next part of her prepared speech, holding out the Faithful Servant's scroll in front of her. Before she could say a word, a unicorn mare with a black coat and a silver mane squee'd, "OH MY GOSH, SHE'S ADORABLE!!!"

That reaction was not in any of the possible scenarios that Faithful Servant had prepared Ruby for...

Author's Note

Cutebold is a term originating from Dwarf Fortress users, who consider the little creatures, with their bungling attempts at theft and all-around incompetence, to be adorable. While not 100% harmless, they are more or less non-threats. In D&D, they're one of the few creatures that are popular for playing since they have no Level Adjustment (A kinda irritating rule in D&D is that, in order to balance out the abilities that non-player races have without needing to level, it takes an increased amount of experience to level them up, in comparison to "standard" adventurers. This becomes frustrating at higher levels, since whatever natural bonuses your creature has will usually not be as good as being at the same level as the rest of the party).

However, Kobolds in D&D are also the source of Pun-Pun, the creature that can potentially ascend to godhood due to manipulation of various rules , provided the DM doesn't know what you're trying to do, or decides its hilarious and decides to go with it. So, even within such cute, seemingly harmless creatures, there is the potential for greatness.

Oh, and Vermintide is the name of a Warhammer fantasy game coming to consoles that deals with the Skaven, giant ratmen, attacking the surface. The endtimes are pretty metal in the Warhammer universe, and include the Skaven somehow detonating a freakin' moon.

Prologue: Rocks Fall, Everyone Dies

"As you can see, Antiquia still stands."

The armored knight, Golden Champion, stood beside his prisoner with a triumphant grin upon his handsome face, what little of himself was not covered in orichalcum armor, as they rode the waves on one of the grand city's fastest clippers. The stone walls and tall towers seemed to gleam in the distance, showcasing the strength and beauty of the mighty city-state of the earth ponies. It was a fine day, one of bright sun and clear skies, with a powerful wind to push them forward. Admittedly, the prisoner would not have much to be cheerful about, but after having been away for the better part of ten years, the knight had hoped that the sight might do him some good. He'd been a morose sort, even before his capture a week ago, all gloom and doom.

The prisoner in question, Sage Elder, was a grandfatherly stallion who had left the city ten years ago, after having made outlandish claims of some sort of doom beneath the city. A pity, that: He'd been a respected citizen, a member of the ruling council, and a decorated war veteran, at least before his fall from grace. Had his delusions been confined to simple declarations of impending destruction, he might have at least been able to retire with his reputation untarnished. However, given what he had been accused of doing...

Well, attempting to give away the secret of forging the alloy, orichalcum, was a serious crime. In fact, just trying to sell the stuff to outsiders without the proper authorization could result in a long sentence and a tremendous fine, if the courts were feeling merciful, but trying to reveal the process for producing the legendary metal itself?

The penalty was severe, to say the least. Of course, national secrets often were treated that seriously, even in nations not populated exclusively by earth ponies.

After all, the monopoly on that fantastic metal was what had allowed Antiquia to stand tall and proud, with an army outfitted with armor that was equal to the Starlight Silver of the ivory towered city of Arcanopolis, or the Avian Steel of Cloudtop, but far easier to produce as it required much simpler, non-magical materials, to the point that every soldier in the army, every guard, every knight of the realm, all could be clad in it. While the city's location made it impossible for sneak attacks by winged soldiers (Being more than two days travel by sea, even on the wing, meant that most avian armies would either collapse from exhaustion halfway, or be too weak to fight upon arrival), and deposits of a rare magic draining mineral made teleportation and long distance assault via magic impossible, even if the distance over which such an assault would have to pass were not a such daunting proposition. The mighty armada that Antiquia possessed made for a formidable target for any assaulting force, combined with those advantages of geology and geography.

Still, the possession of the secrets behind orichalcum was what truly made Anituqia a major power on the continent, in spite of being an offshore island and a latecomer in the conflicts that had divided the landmass into three seperate confederations, ruled by the city-states of Antiquia, Cloudtop, and Arcanopolis. The tentative peace between the three mighty city-states (and their respective vassal states) that ruled over the known world would not last forever, and when war finally broke out, Antiquia held the the upper hoof, at least for the time being. The most vital military advantage the island city had in the war to come would be lost if the secret of orichalcum's creation and forging were discovered by outsiders.

Still, the knight would speak well of the elderly stallion: Simply because he suffered from some illness of the brain was no reason for him to be executed. Whatever was wrong with him seemed to be punishment enough, given the terrible melancholy that afflicted him. He'd beg the judge to be merciful. After all, a lifetime of service to the city-state should mean something more than an executioner's axe...

The knight's train of thought was broken when the old pony stated, in a voice filled with sorrow, "I am uncertain if I should thank you for letting me see my home one last time before it is gone... or curse you for bringing me here to witness its destruction."

Deciding to humor him for once, the knight replied, asking, "Oh, and when do you expect that to happen, Sage Elder?"

Looking over at the knight with an expression with sorrow so profound that the knight's heart went out to him, the prisoner asked, "Are you in possession of a watch at the moment, by any chance?"

"I happen to have one," the knight said, pulling it out in good humor, and said, "It is three hours past noon, fifteen minutes, and.... twenty-five seconds as of the end of this sentence."

"Then we have five minutes, give or take," Sage Elder stated bluntly. "Not much more. I admit, my calculations are an estimate, but given the size of the entity at work, the volume of stone it reduced to sand during the hour I observed it, the amount of stone it had already converted, and the amount of stone I estimated still remained, it won't be much longer. Antiquia has seen its last sunrise."

In spite of himself, the certainty of Sage Elder's statement rattled the knight a little. With a glance over to the prisoner, he asked, "Really thought this out, huh?"

With a nod, the older stallion admitted, "Indeed. As did my friends from Cloudtop and Arcanopolis, when they estimated when the great cloud city in the sky and the city of ivory towers would fall, respectively. All three are expected to fall simultaneously. I suspect that whoever or whatever is truly behind this wanted to ensure that there would be no chance of evacuation before all three of the cities died."

With a regretful sigh, he added, "I gave the council a detailed map of the route that would bring anypony they sent directly to where they could safely observe the creature at work, and confirmed that the route was so safe that a five-year-old colt with a lantern could traverse it without encountering any danger. If anypony had listened, and gone to look, they could have confirmed the creature's presence with their own eyes. However, I was laughed out of the council chambers, and no one could be bothered to even look to see the truth. I am uncertain if the mastermind behind this has bought enough of the current ruling council to silence and censure me, or if we are truly so prideful, so arrogant, so foolish, that we cannot believe in any threat that does not involve other ponies, but in either case, our graves have been dug for us, and today, we shall be inhumed."

Golden Champion fell silent. The news that the elder had given such detailed maps was new to him, along with the fact that the elder claimed to have seen and studied the creature with his own eyes over an extended period. The knight had been told that it was simply a delusion of the mind, a flight of purest fancy, and the story still sounded unbelievable... but perhaps it might be wise for Goldento pay these tunnels a visit, and see what might have led Sage Elder to the conclusion that the city was doomed...

Any thoughts or plans for the future were interrupted when, as his watch hit three hours, twenty minutes, and twenty-five seconds, and suddenly, all of the birds in the distant city of stone towers and tall, unbreachable walls... flew away in a seeming panic.

"It begins," Sage Elder stated bluntly.

The fall of the great city started with a thundrous noise, something not so much heard as felt down to the marrow of the bones, a sound that was loud indeed, if it could be heard so clearly from nearly seven miles away. It was the sort of sound that one might hear at the bottom of a mine, when the thousands of tons of stone above one's head have decided that they are tired of being held up by supports made of such a flimsy material as wood. It was the sound of gravity deciding that it was time to enforce its will upon all that was above itself. It was the very crunch of doom itself... and it went on and on and on.

A massive cloud of dust began to rise, and even from here, the two could see the walls cracking, breaking, and falling. The other sailors aboard the ship ceased their work, and stared in growing horror at the spectacle before them. The stone towers toppled, raining down upon the city like the fists of some vengeful deity, no doubt slaying all within and many more beneath.

'An earthquake,' Golden Champion thought to himself. 'A terrible one, to be certain, but we can rebuild. It doesn't mean that Sage Elder was right. After all, it isn't possible for an island to sink into the sea...'

The sound, impossibly, became even louder, and then a massive plume of something reddish-orange, liquid, and horrible, shot up and then began to fall as it rained down upon the city. Magma. A molten barrage of liquid stone now added its two bits to the ensuing destruction of the fabled city-state.

"The geothermal springs beneath the city, the ones that provided us with heat in the winter, and hot water all year round" the elder muttered, in an oddly detached voice. "Their presence always did imply that there was volcanic activity locked deep beneath the island. I expected that a breech might occur as the island sank. A finishing blow, if you will."

As the island began to both drown and burn at the same time, the knight saw the ocean around the island begin to stir, gently at first, and then wildly...

Turning towards Golden Champion with a sorrowful expression, Sage Elder said, "If you wish to live, I recommend shedding your armor now. I doubt that it would offer you any protection from the seismic sea wave to come, and if you survive the impact, I doubt you will wish for the weight of it to drown you."

The wave began to rise from about the island, almost as if on cue. It was starting small, but anyone experienced with the ocean could testify that these waves were like oak trees: They might start tiny, but they grew quickly, and they most certainly grew profoundly...

The knight began stripping his armor off with all speed. He managed to get the last bit of armor off while the wave was still halfway between them and the island and began bracing himself for the inevitable impact. Sage Elder, rather than trying to ready himself like the rest of the crew, instead climbed onto the railing, standing upon his hind legs, with his forelegs spread wide, almost as if welcoming his oncoming annihilation.

"Every day of our lives, we make choices, and roll the dice, hoping for a favorable outcome," the elderly pony proclaimed. "Our great kingdom, and the other great kingdoms of our time, have rolled ones, and now we reap the results of those poor rolls." He laughed aloud, and then added, "I have rolled the dice myself. Will it turn out any better? When the future of our kind is in the balance, I pray that it will be. Regardless, the die is cast. Let us see how it lands..."

And then, with a cataclysmic impact, the wave struck the ship, and for the knight, everything went dark...

The centuries to follow would not be pleasant for the equines remaining. The mysterious structures known as Oubliettes would appear, some of them taking over currently existing structures, some forming in caves, in cemeteries, in the ruins of cities that one by one fell to evil, and others just mysteriously spawning without rhyme, reason, or expectation. From them emerged swarms of monsters, from goblins, to trolls, and even the most terrible and feared of all... the mighty Ogres.

Ogres: Wreckers, ravagers, destroyers, beasts with incredibly tough hides, unthinkable endurance, and overwhelming strength. These nightmarish abominations considered all things as food, and equines as food that gave the extra benefit of serenading the ogres with the sounds of screaming while being consumed. A single ogre could wipe out an army. A dozen ogres could lay waste to even the most well defended city.

Battles would be fought, legends would rise from the ranks of the common ponies, and great kings would struggle to fight back against the oncoming legions of foul fiends. Bit by bit, land was lost, both from marauding monsters and infighting between the remaining nations who could not, would not, put aside old grudges until it was far too late. Finally, only one city remained, a city of refuges, one containing all of the equine races, and a dozen others besides. A single city, a final light of civilization at risk of being snuffed out.

This was Spiketopia...

One thousand years later...

'In a world where evil reigns supreme, a small band of warriors stands tall against the darkness. This is... Ogres & Oubliettes.'

In the royal council chambers, the truth behind the meaning of those words hit the ruler of Spiketopia like a leaden mace upside the head.

"We are so rutted," Princess Schmerity muttered sadly as she stood before her council of advisors.

At the shocked expressions of the mares and stallions surrounding her, the regal unicorn sighed, and begged, "Please don't tell me that I'm the only one who has realized this?! Equines used to run this continent unopposed! Since the fall of Antiquia, Arcanopolis, and Cloudtop, cities have fallen like dominoes. We're reduced to fighting for our continued existence in a single city now, and have been since I was six! We have newer, more terrible threats coming at us EVERY WEEK!!!" She pounded her hooves on the table before her, disrupting the figurines present upon a map that represented the locations of monsters and oubliettes that were stationed about the city.

"Our soldiers are barely up to the task of keeping the peace inside the city and dealing with any monsters that come up from the sewers and the ruins that lie deeper down, nevermind trying to reclaim any new territory! And all we have against the dark forces aligned against us are just two, no, wait, so sorry, I forgot there were three new recruits last week, FIVE WHOLE ADVENTURERS WHO ARE ACTUALLY COMPETENT ENOUGH TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT THE THINGS THAT WANT TO STORM INTO OUR CITY, DEVOUR OUR FLESH, SUCK THE MARROW FROM OUR BONES, DRINK OUR SOULS TO WASH IT ALL DOWN, WITH OUR OFFSPRING THROWN IN FOR DESSERT!!! EQUINEKIND AS A WHOLE IS MORE RUTTED THAN A CHEAP DOCKSIDE WHORSE WHEN THE SAILORS COME HOME, AND I'M THE ONLY ONE WHO REALIZES IT?!" The princess had not realized that she was screaming at the end, until her voice went hoarse, and paused to take a drink of water from a glass nearby.

"So," she said, as a ruse to keep the focus away from her unprofessional outburst, "please explain to me why our adventurers aren't meeting with any success, asides from Garbunkle and his associates."

"Adventuring is a calling with a high mortality rate," her military advisor, a buff earth pony named General Advance, admitted sadly, as the princess slowly regained her composure. "From what I've been told by the guildmaster, the mortality rate is between fifty and sixty-five percent on the first mission that new recruits accept, and while it does decrease over time, it never drops below forty percent. Even with the best training possible, battlefield experience plays a factor. That can't be taught anywhere outside of combat, and when the teacher giving your final exam is a monster that considers steel armor as a minor annoyance, you don't pass that test very often. Garbunkle and his comrades have done great work defending the city, but they are the exception, not the rule."

Her minister of the interior, a richly dressed unicorn named Finest Fashion, added, "Actually, good steel armor is able to fend off most monsters, but most adventurers don't know the difference between good steel, and steel that only looks good. I've received numerous complaints from adventurers who were promised that their armor was of the highest quality steel, but was less effective than tin foil in the field. And those are just the survivors: I'm certain that there are dozens more who died before they could register a complaint about their gear being inferior to what the merchant selling it promised." She gave a regretful sigh, and added, "I've tried to crack down on such things, but there are limits to what we can do. Currently, only one smith in Spiketopia offers weapons and armor that are triple-proofed and crown certified for quality, and while he and his apprentice work hard, there's a limit to how much they can produce in a given week... and they do have to charge what their equipment is worth to stay in business, so most rookie adventurers cannot afford it anyways."

Sad to say, even in a city that was the last bastion against the extinction of their respective races, ponies still needed to be paid to do work. To be fair, many would likely have worked for free, save that the merchants who currently controlled the city's food supply would not part with their goods without recompense, and it took all of Princess Schmerity's political capital to maintain the price cap on food, otherwise the merchants would likely raise the cost of grain so high that there would be food riots within a week, and then equinekind would save the monsters of the world the trouble, and wipe itself out.

'A crisis like this should be bringing out the best in us,' the princess thought, with a mixture of furious anger and terrible sorrow, 'so why is it that I am barely able to keep my fellow ponies from destroying themselves out of sheer cupidity and stupidity? Do we even deserve to keep existing when we become like this when pressed? If all we are capable of is greed and ignorance, maybe I should just throw the gates open and invite the Squizzard to finish the job...'

"We need a gamechanger," the minister of morale, Happy Day, stated bluntly, disrupting her thoughts before they became any darker. "We need something that can at least give us the appearance of a chance of victory, if not a real one. Our current problems stem from the fact that anypony with any sense can see that, as the princess so eloquently put it, 'we are rutted', and we have no means of un-rutting ourselves. Those who see that, and understand that our current position cannot be maintained forever, are out to get what they can while the city is still standing, so they have a chance of getting away with something of value when the walls crumble down and the monsters flood in. Cities have fallen left and right, and we currently have nothing to prove that Spiketopia won't be the same, and the only reason that we've not been abandoned by our citizens yet is the fact that there is no place left to run to when the end comes. If we can give our ponies something to pin their hopes on, we might be able to curb this kind of short-sighted, destructive avarice, and maybe, just maybe, we can start seeing ponies willing to help others, rather than take advantage of them."

"What kind of gamechanger?" Princess Schmerity asked, hopeful.

"Rutted if I know," the minister admitted, unhappily.

Imagine, for a moment, a fixed perspective that looks out over a calm ocean. Nothing to be seen for miles. Peaceful, serene, and perfectly calm.

And then, a noise is heard.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD-"

Something comes into view, a saurian, bipedal creature, clad head to toe in steel armor, on a rowboat. He is working a pair of oars with such speed that he is shooting across the ocean with ludicrous speed, shouting joyously at the top of his lungs.

"-VEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNN-"

As quickly as he appears, he vanishes from sight, his exultant cry trailing behind him.

"-TUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!"

What was that, anyway?