Prologue

The happiest ponies don't have the best of everything; they just make the best of what they've got.

The summer sun rose lazily into the cloudless sky that morning, its tendrils warm and comforting. Waves of light poured from it, painting everything that they landed upon in a palette of warm, bright colours.

And, for the six-thousand-and-somethingth time in my life, I did not see that. No, all that I saw as I awoke from my slumber was the bleak darkness born from the rocky walls that enshrouded our little village. The surrounding cliffs seemed quite literally endless, especially for a small mare like me. Depressing as it was, though—knowing that I would live my whole life in the village—things down here were at least passable when compared to the rumoured horrors that waited above.

Most of us had never been topside, it was safe to say. It was basically impossible; the insanely strong wind which filled the Abysmal Abyss was the reason that our village elders had survived the apocalypse. They didn't need fancy spells to protect them from the polluted, corrupted magic and nuclear radiation which was released when the bombs dropped; all they required were a few griffon escorts to carry them down the cliffs and a few pickaxes for everyone else. And, though it had been dark and damp at the bottom of the abyss, the magical dust was merely blown away. It was so close to the perfect escape that it was untrue—but then came the issue of getting out. To get past the wind one needed a griffon to haul them up, and then another to carry them back down. It was hardly the easiest of treks at the best of times; it was not hard to realise why only a select few ever got to go up topside, and only when it was vital.

"Klipspringer! You're late!"

The shrill cries of my mother echoed around my bedroom. As per usual the cold stone walls helped the sound to bounce around perfectly. If I had any ambitions of returning to sleep—and I did—there was no chance of them being achieved. It was almost as if my great-great-something-grandmother had hollowed out this room with that specific aim in mind; to make so much noise that sleeping for a slightly decent amount of time could not be possible. Honestly, I couldn't quite understand the logic behind that concept, but I swear it was the best I could come up with.

"Klipspringer!"

My mum had a habit of waking me up way too early. And the fact that huddling under my centuries old, more than a little stained duvet was one of the only ways to stay warm didn't help motivate me to get up. Outside was shaded, cold, loud; here, right now, was less so.

I groaned and rolled onto my side—the springs beneath me groaned and grumbled noisily—and then (quite literally) fell out of bed. It was a technique which I found to be successful, and the only one at that; the dull pain which occurred when I landed on my side was at least enough to shock me out of the in-between stage. I wasn't much of a morning mare, to say the least.

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled, silently cursing everyone who lived here—I don't know why my tiredness was their fault but they were all as crazy as each other—before I began to stumble towards the chest at the foot of my bed. It wasn't particularly impressive, but nothing in the village was. There wasn't much time (or many resources) to spare to make things pretty down here; functionality was key.

That was more than proven by the heavy old coat that I pulled out of the box; it was a less than impressive fur, harvested from the village's farmed wolves. The things had been lurking at the very bottom of the abyss when the first griffons and ponies had arrived down here and were quickly captured. It was a favourable situation; their only major need was fresh water. They needed food, of course, but they were more than capable of catching most of their own; the giant roaches which made their way down the treacherous stone walls, descendents of bugs who survived the nucleo-magical fallout two centuries before, were a more than adequate meal.

Why wolves? Well, ignoring the fact that they were here from the start, it was simple; they didn't drain our resources. While sheep might've been a better choice in terms of safety, they certainly could not eat the roach meat that the wolves did—and would have hence killed us either way.

I could have contested that theory, though. At twelve—on my birthday, of all days—I wound up stuck inside of the wolf pen after a case of haywire foal magic. Not my magic, of course; I was an earth pony, and didn't need to use such an unpleasant force. It was one of those blasted unicorn kids. Either way, there I was, minding my own business and munching on a carrot—I remember that distinctly—when, all of a sudden, I felt this... lightheaded sensation. And then a moment later, after I had shaken off the confusion, I realised that I was sat at the other end of the wolf pen.

Needless to say, I screamed. I probably shouldn't have; the wolves may have never noticed me if I hadn't done so.

I learned two things that day: telling the enemy where you are is not a good idea, and I was actually pretty damn decent at running. And jumping. And generally avoiding big hairy things that were trying to eat me.

My cutie mark appeared that day; a hedge in the shape of a horseshoe through which an eagle flew. It had taken me a little while to understand it and it was my mother who finally told me what she thought that it meant; the steeplechase, an old pre-war sport. For a filly such as me who always loved a good run, it was fitting—though earning it in such circumstances seemed a little like overkill for a simple tattoo on my flank.

I smiled as I pulled the coat over my head, the old fur slightly stale in smell. I let my mind then wander as I began to stumble out of my room, heading towards the dim, nearly nonexistent light which filtered into the communal lounge every morning; though pitifully lit, it was at least somewhat brighter than my own.

I thought of my cute-ceñeara, as momentous an occasion now as it had ever been. As had always been the case, even before the bombs fell that blasted the world apart, the event was significant in confirming what you would do with your life; after the celebrations, you could officially be classed as a mare. A young mare, but a mare all the same—and that was a big step up from being "a weak little filly". And even if ponies still referred to you as such, you could at least know the truth.

Because you were a grown-up then.

I snorted a little and flicked my tail as I trotted. I then all but bumbled into the kitchen and snatched a bread roll from the table, beaming at my mother through the darkness as I slumped into my chair. She, however, merely scowled and lit her horn, spreading her dirty unicorn magic all over the room. I cringed at the sight and covered my eyes with a hiss. "Mother!" I cried and my teeth squeaked together. That drew a laugh from her, and she dimmed her horn slightly. I relented at that, but only somewhat.

"Your dad's been spending too much time with you," she teased, a smile now on her face as she sat down across from me. "All this magic phobia... Unicorn magic isn't evil, kiddo. You know that right?" I rolled my eyes and smirked at her, though I did not answer. The world had ended because polluted pony magic had been spilled across the lands—but unicorn magic always seemed the most dangerous. Whatever the case, my mother knew my opinion on the matter and did not press any further. Instead she said, "It's nice to see you happy, y'know. Every time I see you... You always seem so down, so depressed. Is something wrong, kiddo?"

I shook my head firmly, but I slowed a moment later and sighed. "It's nothing, Mum," I said, my mouth now full with a few mouthfuls of bread and honey. It wasn't particularly impressive stuff—without good supplies of yeast we had to make do with cavemare-style loaves which were far from flavoursome and more than a little tough—but the small drizzle of sweetness made it mostly palatable. "But I'm not a kid; I can take care of myself."

"Oh, of course not!" my mother cried, looking surprisingly guilty. "I just meant..." She trailed off and sighed as she looked at me with tear-filled eyes. It was hard to see her like this; I saw her so rarely as it was—she worked the night shift guarding the wolves—that wasting our time together like this was painful. And so I relented, placing my head in my hooves as I did so.

"I just can't imagine working down at the farm all of my life," I grumbled, looking at my fur coat. Caring for the village's small brood of hens was a full time job, and it certainly kept me busy, but between cleaning them out, finding them food, retrieving their eggs and moving them to new pens, which also meant I was required to build them a new shelter in each location from the limited supplies that we had, it was not the easiest job. It was no surprise that I hardly took much pleasure from it. “I just... I feel like I could be doing something more." I paused briefly and eyed my mother warily, testing the water. She said nothing. "I feel like, if I could just go up topside, I could do something good."

"Hmm?"

My mother's green eyes were slightly narrowed, now—unnervingly so. I swallowed loudly, slowly, before I carried on speaking. "You now how you used to tell me that story about the Minutemares? Protect the ponies at a minute's notice. That's how it went, right? Well, why couldn't it be true? Why couldn't I do something good for the wasteland like that?"

My mother raised a hoof and sighed. "Klipspringer... These dreams of yours; they're noble, really. And there is no reason that you couldn't make such a great impact on ponies' lives—" I beamed and my heart lightened. My mother's scowl quickly crushed that joy, though, "—but you can't go up into the wastes, Kiddo. You'll be killed; we all would. The ponies up there... They're savages, raised with killing lessons every other day. What's so wrong about being a Minutemare down here, helping the village how you can so that we can all live happily? At least you'll have a chance to make that change; the wastes surely don't need another corpse."

I cringed at my mother's words and swallowed the dense mouthful of bread that I had just taken. I winced as it went down, too big really to have swallowed—but no matter. "Sure," I mumbled, my eyes now focused on the wood of the old table; I then pushed myself away and stood up, walking briskly past her. When she began to call my name, I merely swished my pale green tail and did not turn back. Instead I said, "I don't want to be late." Before she could argue that point, I then wrapped the fur coat around me tighter and galloped from the kitchen and out into the abyss itself.

As one would imagine, the place was dark—very dark. And, as was the case every day, that bleakness came as an ever-so-unpleasant shock that took a few seconds for me to recover from; once my breath had unhitched itself from my throat, I took a deep breath and then began forwards on my journey once again.

The paths through the village were well lit, with torches bursting into flame as I walked past. It was an old enchantment which had been cast on the very first day of the village's creation, yet still the fire crackled brightly when somepony approached to light their way. While I may have been slightly off put by unicorn magic, I had to admit that I was at least slightly grateful for the additional light—though after walking the same route for a few years, now, I probably could have managed on the trickle of light that made it to the bottom of the abyss.

I glanced up to the sky, so very high above. As a filly, long before I realised how far away it was, I would dream of climbing up the cliffs and going topside. It was such a powerful wish, if only to touch one of the bright stars which twinkled at night. These days I knew better than that—but the thought was still a lovely one.

The soft but insistent clucking of birds pulled me from my musings, and I glanced down at the makeshift henhouse; a short breath slipped from my mouth. With arguably less enthusiasm than ever I then bent down slowly, slowly, and let my hoof touch the hook which kept the door shut. After a moment, I then flicked it open and braced myself.

Hens of all colours rushed out, squawking and pecking at each other as they did so. The things were less than pretty creatures. Though not so mutated by the magic as some animals that lived topside, they had all been hatched from scavenged eggs laid by wild birds. And those wild birds, it should be noted, had at least lost half of their feathers and more than some of their body mass when the bombs fell.

Meant they could put more energy into laying eggs, though, which was good. Or, at least, it was good if you could ignore the slightly imperfect nature of the eggs and cracked them into a pan with your eyes closed; red blotches all across the surface didn't make for an enticing meal. They were a filling treat, though, it had to be said, especially when the main diet of the village was tough bread, honey, and a few vegetables on a good day.

I sighed and began to trudge forwards once I was confident that the birds had all abandoned their makeshift shelter; I pulled off the scrap of wood which made up the roof and dumped it to the side, scarcely missing one hen—oops—which squawked loudly and shot away. I then hopped up onto my hind legs and peeked inside. My heart sunk even lower at the meagre harvest of three eggs; less than a twenty percent yield. For the twelfth day in a row.

I huffed as I reached into the house and pulled the precious, precious food from the dirt with my teeth, careful not to allow them to break. With the hens getting older now, everypony had known that it would be inevitable that they would begin to dry up soon—but it was unfortunate that they were going down now, only a week after one of the village griffons had headed out on a search and retrieval mission. He wouldn't be back with a good cockerel for a few weeks at least—travelling by hoof, or claw, was not particularly fast—but when he did, the girls could very well have stopped laying anyway.

Life was cruelly ironic like that.

After slowly, gently placing the eggs down in the box at the side of the pen, I took a few steps back and hopped the fence. As per usual, I landed without fault on the other side. I smiled at the execution—it came to something when the only real pleasure you could get from your job was from literally jumping away from it—and then trotted slightly more bouncily over to the rocky wall alongside the hen house. It was at that point, though, that my joy fell once again when my eyes landed upon the meal that I had prepared in advance for the birds yesterday.

A nice, chargrilled giant roach.

Ugh.

I cringed as I bent down and clasped a leg of the repulsive thing in my teeth; my heart thudded in my chest as I did so, completely disgusted. Dancing on the spot, I hissed and snorted and whined. I then yanked my head backwards and threw the carcass as far as I could, my eyes scrunched shut, and scrunched up my muzzle in disgust as I spat at the floor. I quickly proceeded to take a large guzzle of water from the canteen in my coat pocket; though slightly stale, it at least cleansed my mouth of the (probably imagined but still very real) taste.

When I squinted my eyes open, I had to at least laugh a little at the sight before me; the girls, being the omnivores that they were, went absolutely mad for the meat. It was hardly a treat; with the village farms only just producing enough food as it was, the hens only really got the irradiated scraps of vegetables that the patrols brought back for them. Whatever the case, though, they were always eager for their breakfast.

But I had more important things to do than watch chickens all day. Sadly. With a grumble and a groan I popped back into the pen, dragging myself over to the house and looking it over quickly. After a glance inside to check for any remaining eggs that may have missed my gaze earlier—there were none—I then turned and raised a rear leg. When I struck out, the flimsy shelter fell to the ground.

I've never claimed to be good at building.

I let my mind trail to thoughts of my foalhood as I hauled the wood over the fence, running amok through the village's cave system without a care in the world. We all had to do our bit, of course; every colt and filly was a drain on supplies and so it was expected that they at least help out with simple chores. But life back then... It had been good. That wasn't to say that my life now wasn't decent, of course, but it wasn't easy. I swear I would kill for a day to just relax. Do nothing.

I opened my lips slightly and closed my eyes, not needing to see to know where I was headed; the next chicken coop, where the girls were to be moved to today. Every day they had to be moved, and every day I took the exact same paths with the broken-down shelter draped over my back. And, as I always did, I parted my lips and began to whistle.

A few minutes passed in the quietness of my own company. I would whistle a tune as always, pause for a moment and then begin another. Once that was finished I would usually stop, find myself at my destination and dump the wood, before then trotting the journey back to carry the hens there, one at a time. And today was no different, I thought to myself as I meandered through the abyss.

With the exception of one thing. One tiny, insignificant thing.

My whistles were returned.

I froze and stiffened. My heart thudded in my chest like the pounding of a drum, heavy and low but ever so fast. My lips parted and I gasped; the whistling only got louder. I reeled backwards and slammed my body up against the rocky wall, my eyes the size of pinpricks. The whistles were louder now, and I shrunk back even more with my hoof slammed against my lips to prevent any noise from escaping. My legs trembled violently beneath me.

A whistle once more. A single, short note—and then a short laugh. And another, and another, and another. And then a pair of eyes, bright red against the relative darkness of the abyss, came out of nowhere.

I screamed and spun on the spot, springing from my position with a powerful leap as my hooves smashed against the rocky ground in some attempt to get away. They were not village ponies; village ponies did not sound that way. Village ponies did not laugh that way.

The dirt blew up in clouds around me as I galloped; my hooves, not used to running as they had once been, screamed at the heavy blows. I did not have time to take care, and I leapt over stray logs and rocks and zipped around fallen boulders purely on instinct. My body scraped so close to the ground that I could almost feel the blood pouring from my side already, though the only cuts now were from the pebbles thrown up by my frantic hooves.

A bang resounded around the Abyss and I screamed, but that was only from the sound which sent shudders down my spine; worse was the agony which followed. Something small and metallic tore through the skin of my foreleg and, for just a moment, I stopped and watched it, perplexed. And then I fell, writhing. I was close to the village now, close to safety, and I could hear the chaos as my friends and family panicked—but the pain was everything.

"Klipspringer!"

My father's rough voice sounded somewhere, or was that all in my head? All I knew was the pain and the heat of the blood which now stained the feathers of my hoof; as I cradled my leg to my chest and climbed back up so as to stand, I knew it was over. I hobbled forwards slowly, screaming and crying and shouting. And all the while, blood poured from my hoof in torrents.

The bangs returned this time; louder, fiercer. From somewhere in front of me, a counter-attack commenced. But all I could do was limp the last few metres towards my mother and father and collapse in their hooves. I closed my eyes and whimpered and hoped this was all some bad, bad nightmare—but the real nightmare was still to come.

Our defences were pitiful; we never stood a chance. They stole everything: our food, our belongings, our families and friends. And, as I was dragged—literally—away from my home by a blood red aura of ghastly unicorn magic, I came to one single conclusion before I finally was allowed relief.

Life was never going to be so simple again.

Author's Note

Many thanks to Dagger of Winter, Word Worthy, AShadowOfCygnus, Azure Drache, LinktheLazy, RuinQueenofOblivion and Kalash93 for prereading and editing this chapter!