The Shadow over Equestria

by Torgaddon

Rating: mature
Tags: Twilight Sparkle, Anthro, Main 6, Princess Luna, Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Warhammer, Mystery, Tragedy, Horror, Violence, Princess Celestia, Crossover
Length: 7219

Buckling under the subjugation of it's hateful masters, Equestria crumbles. A girl walks the paved roads of the hellish parody that had once been her home with only the voice in her head to keep her company. At least she hopes it's just a voice.

The Equestria that could have been. It could have been glorious. It could have been magnificent. It could have been many things. But what it is, is a hell for all those who once called it home.
To be enslaved, to be broken, to be forsaken, this is the fate that awaits those ponies that exist within this Equestria. The Equestria that is under the dominion of the Caribou.
She is one such forsaken soul, walking the paved roads of Ponyville, making her way to the manor that is the subject of her every night terror, with only the voice in her head to keep her company, and the offer in makes to her every day, ringing in her ears.

It's a ritual spanning very week of the last eight years. Why should to day be any different? All she needs to do is not accept the offer. All she needs to do is not let it in.

She remembers the words of her teacher: There are things waiting in the dark. Malicious, evil things. Things with bones of ice and blood of flame. But the things are only a threat if you let them in.

Author's Note:
This is NOT a FoE story. The Caribou may be the central antagonists of the story but this is where the similarities end (Don't worry you'll still hate them).
Mature tag is set for blood, gore, eldritch horror and all those other nice things :pinkiecrazy:.
Do Enjoy.

Published 2018-06-08 16:00:07 UTC
Last updated 2018-06-08 16:00:07 UTC

Tether

A Corpse.

Such a simple word, so easy to formulate, so harmless to speak. It is easy to claim the word for oneself when one is no more than an objective, uncaring observer.
It becomes infinitely more complex when one is the reason for said cadaver.

The mass of ponies stood in silence, looking at that which had once been a stallion, laying upon the cold hard earth, blood as the richest vermilion vintage flowing freely from battered and bruised flesh.

He had been alive mere minutes before. Howling for Equestria to rise up once more, to push back against the Invaders, to…
It had all stopped with the sound of beaten flesh as the first of the ponies around him had slammed a lump of timber into his skull. Then more sounds.
Stone, wood, fists and feet, the world had degenerated into a cacophony of hits and the howling of the still barely conscious orator.
But then it happened, as it always did. The howling speech had turned to roaring hatred, shrieking pain, the whimpering of despair then finally, the silence of the deceased.
Still the sound of flesh being crushed, broken and pulled had carried on, until the crossbows of the caribou soldiers that surrounded the group angled to the ground.

The captain, a fat pig of a creature, lathered in the rich, gold threaded coat of the caribou military, a gaudy and blatant counterpoint to the ponies dressed in little more than rags, walked slowly and deliberately towards the small group, emphasising every step to make sure the mass of onlookers witnessed every move, felt every motion.

The captain had moved over and examined the unmoving body, prodding and pulling. Satified he rose to his full eight feet of height, towering head and shoulders over the emanciated forms of the small group of killers.
The eldest among them shook, his unkempt beard smoothed out by the tears that flowed freely from bloodshot eyes.

"There is a price to pay for everything" he bellowed, his shrill voice brimming with all the swagger and self-assurance expected of one who knew he held the winning hand.
"This fool had tried to organize a resistence against the rightful king of this land. He had tried to spread dissent and falsehoods, tarnishing the good name of the crown that feeds and clothes you. In accordance to law, his execution has been carried out by his family. As such, his kin do not have to suffer the consequences of having raised a traitor".

He turned from the mass of unwashed, underfed and rag covered ponies that reluctantly payed attention to his every word and looked back to the old man that spoke for the family which had executed the revolutionary.

"You have redeemed yourself in the eyes of the crown. Be at peace for the Caribou Empire has accepted your redemption and embraces you once more" he roared again, for all to hear and scooped up the old man in a symbolic embrace.
"This is the second time one of your family causes problems" he whispered into the pony's ear. "If it happens again, your entire line of kin shall be disposed of".

He released the old pony and with a signal, the Caribou walked away from the scene. The masses split open to allow them to move unobstructed, their heads down, lest they attract any more unwanted attention.

With the caribou gone, the sound of sobbing took form within the small group of seven killers. The mares and foals began to cry and fall to their knees, allthewhile the old stallion looked with empty eyes at the dead body of his nephew. The young one had never been able to forget or forgive the death of his parents who had been executed the same way, killed by their own forced family, by their own child, lest they would all have been slaughtered.
Consumed by hate he had tried to fight back. Poor fool. Poor boy. Nothing had changed in the seven years since Equestria had been conquered, nothing was going to change now.

In the end, even the old uncle fell to his knees, his tired heart finally breaking from being forced to kill his own blood once again and began howling in grief over the body of his brave, kind nephew.

The masses began to disperse, empty eyed and rag clad ponies going back to their work, their manditory participation at such executions driving another nail through their withered hearts.
None said a thing to the family as they passed. In the past seven years, the sight of families being forced to kill their own had become dreadfully common.
So much so that there was naught left to be said.

The seven cried. They howled. They screamed. Until guards returned and forced them back to work. Mourning a loss was a privilege slaves did not have.

Forgotten in the falling twilight of the day, the body lay upon the cold ground.

A Corpse.

Such an easy word to say.

The hooves of the young mare clapped the paving stones of Ponyville as she walked the road between the Orphanage and the estate of Duke Blindr Broadaxe. Light, the crimson and blue of twilight, cast deep shadows in the grooves that scarred the pavement, coloring the road in a hellish red that mirrored perfectly what the mare felt about this specific walk she had to make every week.

Whipcord thin, of petite build and one of the very few Unicorns left in Equestria, she would have cut a very appealing figure to most onlookers. Would have, if not for the uniform she wore.
Plain and somber, parodying the school uniforms that the foals had worn before Equestria had fallen to the Caribou Empire. A deep black with a single red ribbon tied to her neck, the uniform marked her as an "orphan". It marked her as forsaken.

In this world. This Equestria where ponies were slaves in all but name. Where the only ones who gained any rights or the barest inkling of a chance to thrive rather than just survive, were those that sold information to the crown or trod upon their own kind.
Even in this hell, the "orphans" were damned beyond all others.

The colts and fillies of those parents who had been executed for treason or insurrection, who had no other relatives to be given to, these children were sent to the "Orphanage". They became less than slaves, less than nothing.
They became the playthings of the strong, the rich, the influential. Objects upon which those that could afford it could play out their most sickening and depraved of perversions, whether it was pleasure, torture or simply the desire to kill.

That was why even though this young lady, no more than fifteen years of age, blossoming into a gorgeous mare, walked the road that haunted her nightmares without drawing even a single eye.
The work slaves were either too broken or too immersed in their own private hells to care about such horrors anymore and the caribou guards who patrolled the town knew better than to talk to one that was the property of the Empire's elite.

A Corpse. It was as if it was waiting for her, broken and blodied, laying in the middle of the square. It gazed at the young mare with an empty, glassy gaze.
She did not pause, nor gasp, not hesitate. The sight of corpses had become commonplace in Equestria and she had seen her fair share since the age of eight.
The dead did not frighten her anymore. Quite the contrary, she envied them.
They were free.

"How depressing your thought process has become, my dear" the voice said, his deep timbre reverberating through her entire being.

"It is true though" she answered in her own mind.

The voice no longer startled her. Since that day, eight years ago, when Equestria had fallen, when Celestia had been clamped in irons and robbed of her horn and wings, when her own parents had been publicly executed for the "crime" of being Unicorns.
The day when she had become an "orphan".
One year within that burgeoning waking nightmare, the voice had begun speaking to her and for the past seven years it had been her ever present "companion".

"True?" The voice chuckled deeply within her "Oh sweet child, dear child, there is so much you are ignorant to. So much I could teach. One who lives and dies in the grasp of true despair gains no peace. Such a life. Such a death. It attracts things. Dark, monstrous things".

"Such as you?" she retorted.

"Such as me".

"Are you a dark and monstrous thing?"

"I am the most monstrous and wicked among them, sweet child".

She walked in silence. There was still a ways to go and the straps of her rucksack had begun biting into her shoulder blades. Of course it would. The accursed thing was filled with the whips, scalpels, knives and all the many instruments of pain that Duke Blindr favoured.
She could remember the day four years ago when he had ordered her to carry the tools herself when coming for their weekly "sessions". To give her "perspective" he had said. It was just another way of torturing her.

To take her mind off the straps, the young lady started on the daily ritual she had with the voice.

"What are you?" she thought.

"I am that which lurks at the edge of sanity" it answered in a chuckling voice. How it loved this game they played.

"What are you?"

"I am the one who laughs when what is becomes what could be and can never be".

"What are you?"

"I am the most cultured brute and the most savage thespian".

"What is your name?"

"I am Azrik the Maze-keeper. I am Kakra the Timeless. I am Daudi Kaupmadr".

"What is your name?"

"I am the Ashenwing. I am the Shadow of all Colours and None. I am the Eternal Raven".

"What do others name you?"

"Monster. Beast. Abomination".

"What do others name you?"

"Saviour. Majesty. Merciful".

She sighed inwardly.

"Every time you answer differently. You lie to me".

"Oh my dear, not to you. It is my nature to envelop my every word in layers of deception. To run my every action through nets of misdirection and contingency. But not to you, never to you".

"Then why is your answer different. You've given me a thousand names".

"And I would give you thousands more. I have held many names throunght the countless eons".

"Haven't seven years of doing this back and forth bored you?"

It chuckled slowly and deeply
"Oh but my sweet one. The time when you accept the offer draws close. What are a mere seven years for one who knows not the concept of mortality".

The offer. Of course the voice would bring it up. It had done so every time it had the chance. It sounded simple. All she had to do was to accept the offer.

"Sorry. I may be young but I'm not stupid"

"That you are not, child".

"I'm still pretty sure you're just a figment of my deteriorating psyche. But in case you're not and you really are a demon I'm not stupid enough to make a deal with the devil. I like my soul untouched".

"Ahahahaha, oh but my dear girl, as I have told you so many times before, I am so much worse than a mere devil or some petty God. They would ask only for your soul or your wholehearted devotion. I would ask for so much more".

"Mmm… you're hardly making a good case for yourself"

"The truth seldom does".

The seconds past slowly, drawing out the dread of reaching the estate, as if time itself was privy to some perverse joke at the girl's expense.
In these past seven painful years she had always played it safe with the voice. She was smart enough to do so. She couldn't even provoke it enough to allow some small tidbit of usable information to escape. Whatever it was, it spoke only in calculated riddles and half-truths, leaving actual knowledge to dangle before her, like bait on a fishing line, almost within reach if she only pushed a little more, a little further.

Today she decided to make a small push. Just a fraction.

"What then, would you offer?"

"Everything".

"And what would you ask in return?"

"Everything".

"… I don't understand."

It chuckled deeply, the girl's lithe body shuddering in tune with it's basso mirth. She knew it would not talk about this anymore. The town gave way to the outskirts, it's dusty roadway serpenting upwards to the hillock and the estate.
Perched upon it, leering towards the small town like some ancient and dread gargoyle, the Duke's Manor awaited.

"Ok then…. Why me? Why not some other unicorn?"

"Among the remaining Unicorns, yours is the strongest pool of magic. Barely strong enough to allow the offer".

"But aren't there stronger creatures out there. Creatures with more magic?"

"Indubitably so, my dear. But there are none who so match my taste".

The young mare stopped mid step for a heartbeat. There had been no lasciviousness in the words but there had been something else.

"What does that mean".

"Your magic is embalment in it. It reeks of it. It tastes of it, down to it's last droplet".

She could place it now. It was a tone she had heard many times, before Equestria had fallen, when she would spend her days as a juvenile filly in the high society of Canterlot, under the tutelage of her teacher. It was the tone of a gourmand making ready to sample a particularly sublime morsel.

"What is the - it - that my magic reeks of?".

"Why, desperation of course. Sweet child, it tastes absolutely EXQUISITE".

The last word. In the seven years since the voice had first spoken to her, she had only heard it speak this way only a handful of times.
It was in these moments that she knew beyond all doubt that her hopes that the voice was naught but a manifestation of impending insanity were no more than instinctive attempts at self deception.
No mind, no matter how broken or diseased, could manufacture a voice such as the one that had spoken that last word.
Gone was the deep, cultured baritone, replaced with a chaotic wail of thousands upon thousands upon thousands of voices stretched together in a deathly chorus that cried together to form the word. Beneath the chorus, at the edge of her mind, a single voice stood among the howling mass. It was as deep as a sundering world and brimming with a hunger that would consume eternity and still yearn for more.

No, this was not paltry insanity. What spoke to her was the worst kind of abomination, a monstrosity that had been born of the stygian depths of the empty void. A beast far beyond anything her insignificant mortal mind could even begin to properly comprehend.

" Oh my my… here I have gone and showed you a bit of myself to you once more. Apologies if I have frightened you my dear girl" it laughed, resuming it's usual cultured baritone.

"I… I'm not scared of you demon".

"Of course not, little one".

"As long as I don't take your offer I have nothing to fear".

Yes, she had nothing to fear.
And she needed only hold on for a little while longer. Most "orphans" died within four years, either at the hands of their "benefactors" or by their own hands.
The young mare had been unlucky in that sense, having survived for seven years, but lately a change had begun to take place. The Duke had introduced the Duchess, his wife, to their "private time". Unlike her husband, the caribou female had none of the self control of the Duke and she would indulge in the act of torture until the young mare would be on the verge of death.

One day she would take it a step too far. One day she would not stop in time and the young mare would finally be granted the freedom of oblivion.

"There is no freedom in surrender, child".

"There is for me. The sooner the better. Even though I've lived longer than the other "orphans" I still have one thing the caribou haven't stolen yet. The caribou robbed me of my home and family. The Duke and Duchess robbed me of my childhood. But their excesses lie in the realm of inflicting pain. In the realm of whips and chains and knives. They have yet to rob me of my innocence. I still have a chance to die untainted by the caribou. Most of the other "orphans" did not have this luxury".

"Oh little one. For all your intellect there is still so much you are ignorant to".

"What's that supposed to mean?".

No answer came. It seemed the voice had decided that their conversation would end here for the day.
She made to add a final retort to the now silent voice but stopped as the shadows of the gate loomed over her.
She had not even realized she had reached to entrance to the estate, so engrossed in the conversation she had been.

Faced once again with the entry point to grounds that haunted her every nightmare, her skin began to tighten instinctively. The many whipmarks and scars made by wicked knives and nails began to throb painfully, an unbidden reminder of what the next twelve hours were going to entail.
Biting her own cheeks to keep the whimper from escaping her mouth she began taking the first few reluctant steps, unravelling the bandages around her wrists, ankles and the ribbon around her neck.
Scar tissue devoid of the short fur that covered the rest of her body ringed her throat, wrists and ankles, mementos of the iron cuffs that so mercilessly bit into her flesh every "session" stood out for all to see.
The Duke and Dutchess did not like to see these scars covered, they enjoyed to gaze at their craftsmanship on the tapestry that was the young mare's flesh.
While the whipmarks would heal, the knife scars would fade covered by fur, these five scars were too large, too consistently made to fade away. These were the brands that marked her suffering.

She passed the orchards with reluctant but quickened steps. Although twilight had already passed and the moon was shining brightly from it's cradle of stars, the orchards were still rife with motion. Stallions, mares and foals, work-slaves clad in rags, soot and sweat, milled about between the thorny bushels of stone-grape, gathering the fruit that the caribou favoured for their wines. They would work until they passed out or until their taskmasters would tell them to stop. Usually that meant they would work until close to morning, allowing for a scant few hours to rest and eat then put to labour once again.

It was a hard, ruthless life and those who could not endure it, died of exhaustion.
Still, even these sad souls, tired and tortured as they were, could not bare to look at the mare walking towards the manor. The few that did were the foals, with their empty eyes and sunken in faces, but were quickly admonished by their parents.
The adults knew all too well what the mare meant. Tonight, the gloom would be split by screams of a young mare once again, just as it was every week.
There was always the odd one out who did look, despite all warnings. And their gazes were always the same. Pity for the poor girl who would suffer more than even they did and the shame of an adult whose inaction allowed the suffering of a child. Invariably they always set their gaze down, drowning their screaming conscience in the reality of their powerlessness.

The girl walked in silence, gazing forward towards her own, private hell. She did not want to meet those few gazes. The empty eyes, the sunken in cheeks, the bruises and the tear marks that stained their faces. She had her own torment to suffer, she did not want to add more to it.

Pole oil lamps dotted the estate, their flickering and playful light, a cruel counterpoint to the scene that was playing itself out. The scene of a petite, defenseless child walking towards assured pain, through a field of souls too broken and battered to try and help her.

Larger than the outer one, the second gate that marked the entry to the manor courtyard was a frightening and brutish thing made of two slabs of wrought iron, carved with caribou runes and bassoreliefs each more gruesome than the previous.
It took four caribou guards to push the twelve feet tall slabs apart and grant her entry, the leg thick hinges singing her arrival before any of the many guards could announce it.

And then the gate closed...
But… in seven years they had never closed. The runes etched into the iron slabs were runes of silence, as such, once those gates closed, no sound would escape the manor and it's courtyard.
They had never closed them before. They left them wide open so that the thralls in the orchards would hear the screams pouring out from the manor.

Something was different.

Hesitation held her only for a split second and she resumed her walk. Stony faced guards stood at every corner, ignoring the little thing that walked towards the mahogany double doors of the palatial house.
The Duke and Duchess were famously possessive of their little toy and would severely punish even looking at her.

Before she could even knock, the doors opened and a snobby looking caribou dressed in a fine doublet, edged in gold opened the doors.
"Ah, the entertainment, go on then" he mumbled the words mechanically, holding a handkerchief to his nose. The Duke's butler was an elitist that placed such value in the purity of his blood that he refused to even breathe the same air as another species.

As always, she said nothing but nodded and began to walk towards the basement, where always her "benefactors" and their chains awaited.

"Ahem… the masters are waiting for you in the study - pony" he spat the last word with such vitriol it might as well had been a particularly disgusting cockroach on his tongue, but the young mare payed no attention.

The study?

Again something was different.

Again something had changed.

Seven years of consistency were warping before her, confusing and terrifying the girl. One of the main reasons she had been able to endure it all to this point had been because of these "rules" under which her torment would take place.
She would know when the pain would come and would know to brace for it. But now, things were different, and it was this unsureness that frightened her more than even when the Duchess had first been introduced to the "sessions".

Her "benefactors" were waiting for her in the study, sat on soft velvet armchairs, sipping fine wine, their fingers rummaging on a platter of various sweetmeats and fresh vegetables.
The scent and sight of fresh vegetables sent pangs of hunger through her stomach, rumbling it's desire to put an end to the seven year long fast consisting only of stale bread, mouldy oats and water.

"Oh my… are you hungry my sweet?"
The Dutchess said in her sing song voice and grabbed a few thin slices of cucumber from the platter, holding them out before the young mare, the caribou cow's face bearing a smile that would not have seemed out of place on a mother looking at a child's first steps.

The young mare looked to the Dutchess then back to the food. She knew it was a trap. Unlike the Duke who favoured the lash and the knife, the Dutchess preferred a specific brand if torture. Humiliation, debasement, psychological torture, she wanted to see others grovel beneath her.

But the young mare was so hungry. She had not tasted a fresh vegetable in so long.

Against her better judgement, she outstretched her hand.

"No no" the Dutchess chirped and her left hand lashed out. An angry red and bleeding welt appeared on the girl's cheek where the warbeast training crop bit deep into her flesh. It was a vicious object, straps of cured leather studded with iron rivets, wrapped arround a young and flexible stick of willow.
"That is not how one goes about when begging for scraps. 'Tis only manners to be on your hands and knees".

The young mare cursed her blind hunger for falling into the obvious trap, but it was already too late. Any word against the Dutchess's wishes would only earn her more pain on top of what was scheduled for the night. She kneeled to the hardwood floor, hands and knees, her head held down.
She said nothing. Not even when she felt the caribou cow's hoof step of the back of her head, nor when she heard the crunch of eaten cucumber as the sadistic woman ate what she had offered.

"Ah such a shame. If only you would have had propper manners from the very beginning I would have given you the morsels. But alas, appropriate upbringing is next to impossible to find amongst you pony-kin".

"Now now my darling" the Duke's honeyed voice came. "Let the poor girl be. 'Tis no use to lecture a pony about propriety".

The Duchess balked for a moment. She despised being told to do anything, even if it was no more than a suggestion. But in the end she relented and returned to her cushioned seat.
"Of course you are correct husband. No point in lecturing slaves. Especially not in their last day".

Last day?

What did that mean? Too many things were different. What was happening?

The girl on her hands and knees lay there unmoving, wracking her brain, trying to gouge out some meaning in the words. Only when the brown furred fingers of the Duke cupped her chin and forced her head up did she move.

Honeyed words, charming features and a sugary smile, all these served to hide the sadistic psychopath that lay beneath the veneer of high society and class that the Duke was.

"Oh sweet thing. I can see you are confused. But do allow me to elaborate. You see, my beloved wife has decided that it is time to aquisition ourselves a different "orphan". One who is not as used to our special kind of entertainment as you have become".

The girl just sat there, on her hands and knees, transfixed by what she was being told.

"Of course, that would normally mean that you would be sent back to the "Orphanage" but I fear it is not so simple. You see even though my darling wife has decided that she has tired of you, she is also of the opinion that if she can not have you, no one can. Such is the possessive nature of caribou females I'm afraid".

Before she could say anything, the caribou's hands clasped around her throat and began to squeeze. The girl was lifted of the ground and the hands squeezed even tighter.

"Fear not, sweetmeat. The appropriate compensation has already been made to the Orphanage and your name has already been stricken from the records".

The girl made no attempt to pry the fingers off or struggle. She simply dangled there, looking at the Duke that was going to murder her, his face locked in that perpetual, practiced smile.

Was it finally going to end? The pain, the despair, the torment? Was she finally going to die?

"Oh I know, I know, sweetmeat. It is a shame. A few years more and you would have finally bloomed into a truly gorgeous mare. Then I would have gladly introduced you to the pleasures of womanhood atop our blissful sessions. But alas, my darling wife's father is one of the Grand Marshalls, and I would rather not displease her and by extension him. My social standing is quite important, I trust that you can understand. Now, be a good girl, and sleep".

The young mare's vision was beggining to darken. Yet she still held enough lucidity to notice the ecstatic glint in the Duke's eye. The depraved monster was enjoying the act of killing even while he claimed he did not. On the plush armchair the Duchess was looking at her with a lascivious smile on her face. Unlike her husband, she made no attempt to hide her depravity.

It did not matter.

They can all burn for all she cared. She was going to die. She was going to be free. Not them, not anyone could hurt her ever again. She was going to see her parents again.

Yes. She was finally going to die.

… Going to … die…

… To… Die…

…

…

…….AAAAAAAHHHHHH…

The silent room, perturbed up to this point only by the sound of a young girl being slowly choked to death, was suddenly wracked by the shrill scream only one who was on the verge of dying could make.

Whether it was luck or the sheer desperation that would make a cornered rat jump for the throat, the girl clawed at the Duke's face with desperate strength, shredding his brown furred skin and raking a deep bloody gash across his right eye. Her neatly trimmed bails bit deep into his flesh, with a fury and savagery that only a creature desperate to survive could muster.

The Duke fell back howling, clutching at his ruined face, while the Dutchess still sat in stunned silence on her plush armchair, the wine glass she had been holding slowly slipping from her fingers.
Before any could react, the young mare turned tail and ran for the door, shouldering beyond the butler that had been drawn by the screaming Duke.

"GRAB THE ACCURSED BITCH" the Dutchess screamed, spittle dribbling down her chin as she threw the precariously held wine glass into the wall.

The girl ran, bolting beyond the surprised guards, into the courtyard, eyes wide and breath coming in panicked gasps, while in her mind questions assaulted, calling her entire being into question.

"I'm going to die".

"Why am I running, isn't this what I wanted"?

"I'm going to die".

"Isn't death the freedom I've been dreaming about"?

"I'm going to die".

"Why did I fight back? Why didn't I let the Duke kill me?"

"Ahahahah, sweet child. You mortals and your intrinsic desire to survive never cease to entertain".

Before the girl could ask anything, before she could say anything, a jolt of pain froze her and sent the petite form careening into the ground as a crossbow bolt tore into her thigh.

She rose slowly, her face stuck in a despaired grimace, tears streaming her closed eyes and clutched at the grass in a futile effort to tether herself to the security if the ground. To stop the hands that had grabbed her ankles from pulling her back towards the manor.

But she couldn't and her hands grabbed uselessly at the ground, the grass, the air as she was dragged by the guards back towards the entrance. Two cloven feet pushed painfully against her shoulder blades and she was kept there, face into the dirt, waiting for the Duke to come and kill her.

"Oh sweet child, you fight so hard for one who claims to have given up".

She opened her eyes. A raven, large and as black as pitch, pecked at the ground before her. It looked to the girl and spoke.

"Vengeance, Justice, Retribution, all this can be yours, girl. You need but to ask".

"…Please… help me… "

"I shall. You need but say the words".

The sound of hooves thrummed into the girl. The Duke was walking from the house. He was close.

"TURN HER. I want to see the little ingrate's face".

Brown furred fingers like vices grabbed the back of her uniform and turned her on her back. The Duke stood above her, a fistful of bandages pressed to his ruined eye. The Dutchess stood behind her husband, her warbeast training crop in her hands.

The Duke breathed heavily and spoke with clenched teeth.

"I should give you to the guards to have as their barrack entertainment, to be used until you die. But let it not be said that I am unkind. You three, beat her to death. And make it slow".

Three of the ten token force of guards close to the girl put their swords back in their scabbards and unstrapped the covered blades to be used as batons. Their faces were sullen, but not because of any concern or pity for the girl. Rather that the Duke had dangled such a tasty morsel in front of them and then immediately decided to take it away.

The scabarded blade rose, and fell…

And stopped in midair.

The girl could see or hear none of it. All she saw was the titanic figure that looked down on the estate.
The deepest black, the clearest grey and the most beautiful azure were the feathers that covered it's gigantic body. Muscles like mountains rolled beneath the feathered flesh. Wings of scintillating black feathers stretched from horizon point to horizon point and the girl could swear that in the black void of those wings she could see images, dark and dreadful images of past deeds and possible futures.
A staff of pure obsidian, topped with a castle-sized eight pointed star sculpture was held in his left talon, the black stone of it's make drawing and devouring any shred of light and color with a hunger so passionate and possessive it made her want to burrow into the deepest parts of the earth if only to escape the sight of it.
Atop impossibly wide shoulders, the cloud obscured outline of a head looked down on her. Whether it was the gloom obscuring it, or something much worse, the head itself seemed to change from heart beat to heart beat. The girl could see the beaked shape of some great and terrible bird, only for it to be recognized as a the horned visage of some dread deity of the deep woods. But the eyes never changed. They looked down at her, with pupils that were the amalgamation of every color and spectra that she could think and so many more that she could not even begin to fathom.
The wind split by dark feathers came as an ethereal wail, bearing the names and titles of the leviathan that
stood unseen by all but the girl herself.

The Drinker of Worlds, they wailed. Kakra the Timeless. Azrik the Maze Keeper. Anakesh the Unborn. First and Last of the Outer Darkness. Trepzikore the Dark Dream. The Eternal Maw...

These names and so many more screamed into the young mare's mind until she thought her sanity was going to sunder but then, the wail ended.

The girl thought she had gone mad. But not even insanity could have imagined such an abomination. Still, she barely found enough courage to speak.

"W… what…a… are…?"

It tilted it's mountain sized head and spoke in a deep, booming voice, echoing in perpetuity, spoken in different tones, voices, subtle inflexions changing the meaning and purpose of every single word.
"I have already answered that question, have I not, child?"

"N…no… No more riddles… N-No more … p-please…"

It's booming laugh sent arcs of shock and tremors through the still and unmoving world.

"Then our little game takes hold. Very well child. I am the first of the Feathered Ones. The first Lord of Change chosen by Tzeentch. The Architect of the Impossible Fortress".

"Your… true nam…"

"That, dear child, is something you shall never know. You may, however, refer to me as the Crow Father. Now speak your deepest desire, little one".

"I…" the girl whispered.

"I… I want Equestria to be free… I… I…"

"Leave vapid, empty platitudes where they lie, girl. In the dark recesses of your heart, your desire lies unspoken. I can see it as clearly as you can see the night sky. Speak it".

"I …"

"Liberation of your home shall be given. I will offer it to you. Now say it. Say what you really want".

Tears of hatred. Frustration and pain over the last seven years, finally broke the veneer of self-control and the girl shrieked out.

"I want them all to die" vitriol and enmity spilling out with every word. "I want the caribou to pay for what they did to me and the other children. I want them to suffer for what they did to Equestria. I… I… want their entire damned race to burn…"

"Oh and they shall burn most magnificently".

"I accept your offer" she howled at the titanic figure.

The Crow Father chuckled "Do you child? Even though you know it will cost you everything? That once your request has been fulfilled, I shall take from you, everything?".

"I GIVE IT ALL TO YOU, MONSTER. My soul, my life, everything that I am, have been and shall be. Drown the caribou in floods of their own blood and I wilLingly give it all to you" she spoke, all timidness and fear lost in the fervor and fire of promised vengeance.

The Crow Father spread his arms, encompassing the skyline and laughed. A deep, gutural and malicious laugh.
"A most impressive display of verbosity, little one. A most appropriate desire".

He closed his right hand leaving only a taloned finger outstretched. The air howled and space bent as the extented talon, the size of the largest mortal fortress sped towards the young mare. She closed her eyes, expecting to be skewered, obliterated by the mountain peak of a talon.
But there was no pain. Only a gentle, almost attentive push on the center of her chest. She opened her eyes again to see the talon retreating and a small hole burned into her uniform. Peeking out from the hole, branded on her lavender furred flesh, a representation of a flaming circle, no more than half a hand in size, greeted her sight.

"The offer has been made. The offer has been accepted. The Mark of Tzeentch, the Raven God will forever brand you as mine, living or dead. As for the price, it shall be paid by you in due time".

The Titanic staff rose and fell, with the toll of a deafening bell, and the world snapped back into motion. The scabbarded blades the guards had struck at the mare started to move again and fell against the girl.

Limply.

Softly.

There was no force behind the blows as the three guards fell dead to the grounds. No wounds. No cuts. No grunts. Just simply dead, like puppets with cut strings.

The Duke, the Dutchess and the rest of the guards looked in disbelief at the suddenly dead caribou and at the young mare who rose from the ground with an expression of confusion that mirrored their own.

"Now, let us begin" said a deep, cultured voice from behind them. They turned to see what could only be described as an eleven foot tall figure enshrouded by the shadow of the manor. His features were indescribable within the gloom, but the taloned hand that extended from the dark form was clear enough.
Flesh tore and viscera splattered on the grassy ground as the talons extended and moved like serpents, tearing and impaling through the armor and muscle of the guards, ripping into caribou flesh with the ease of crossbow bolts through paper.

The Duke and Duchess watched transfixed as their seven guards hung in the air, held aloft by the talons that had run them through, like perverse parodies of grapes on their vines. As quick as they had extended, the talons retreated and the corpses fell limply to the ground.

Duke Blindr went for the sword strapped to his hilt and the Duchess opened her mouth to scream, but two massive, black feathered hands engulfed their heads before either of them could finish what they had started and lifted the large caribou of the ground with the ease of an adult holding a child.

"Shhhh. Do not be so loud" the creature growled, his amused voice mocking the futility of their actions.
"You will wake the dead, if you do so".

Rows of dagger like teeth grinned at the stunned caribou as the sound of shuffling and moaning began from around them. Through the edge of their sights they could see their guards rising from the blodied ground, hands outstretched, eyes glazed and faces stuck in rictuses of pain and rabid, idiot hunger.
Fear turned to abject horror then to desperate panic and the two Caribou nobles lashed out with animalistic abandon at their captor, all the while the walking dead surged on, closing in. Sword, crop, hooved foot and fist rammed against the giant's body, with all the use of wind trying to topple a granite wall. Sword shattered, crop broke, hoof splintered and fist pulped, the monster's laugh never ceasing even as it's vice like hands squeezed the struggling caribou's faces, cracking bone and crushing catilage, only to finally release them.

Into the waiting arms of the hungry dead.

Twilight lay on her knees, hunched over, eyes closed and her hands squeezing her ears, trying to somehow block out the sound of splintering bone and ripped viscera, the screams of the living devoured by the dead, her earlier bravado and revenge inspired courage diminished by the gruesome retribution.
A shadow fell over her and she opened her eyes to be greeted by the hunched figure of the eleven foot behemoth, it's taloned hand outstretched.

"Come then, my dear. We have a massacre to begin".

The fires in the lanterns that dotted the inner courtyard flickered madly then expanded, breaking from the confines of their gilded and glassed cages, spreading towards the manor like red serpents, latching on to the timber and stone of it's structure and setting it ablaze.

In the flickering light of the conflagration, under the red autumn moon, accompanied by the song of breaking flesh and the feasting dead, Twilight Sparkle took the hand of the Crow Father and was lifted to her feet.

Author's Note

The Shadow has fallen over the Equestrians.

Whether it will be for better or worse is up to the whims of the Crow Father and the wisdom of a certain purple unicorn.

As always, leave a like or comment if you can, but most of all enjoy the read.

P.S. As i mentioned in the description, although this series will feature the Caribou as main antagonists there will be none of the *ahem* specific FOE type stuff (you know what i'm talking about).
But don't you worry none lads and lasses, I promise i'll make the Caribou such complete (insert favorite curse word here) that you'll definitely want to see them die (Oh and they shall die, magnificently so).