I'm going to assume that the Southern deserts of Equestria have not yet been colonised.

I'm making this assumption based on the wiki's timeline that implies mass-scale colonisation, therefore, settle-mentation had only occurred in 1001ALB, where the Appleloosans and the Buffalo Chiefdom would clash over a land dispute.

But this doesn't mean that they would be completely devoid of Equestrian equines, however, it would mean that the sparse few that escaped from the 'wider society' would be isolated, both geographically and politically.

A Lost Cretan Fisherman
It was most peculiar...
Markos scrutinised the familiar desert coasts directly ahead of him.

He would occasionally encounter such terrain when he strayed too far, or a spontaneous current carried his inherited, generational fishing sloop south, tracing the ancient routes his late ancestors would trek to raid the rich, industrious port cities of Libya and Egypt, girt by golden sands and spots of luscious greens.

What currently perturbed him was the lack of such landmarks anywhere on the endless yellow shores.

The ancient cities that he was so accustomed to seeing, even from the start of childhood, sailing with his four brothers and distant father when the waters near Crete proved unbountiful, were absent on the landscape that stretched from one head turn to the other; one, nevertheless, that seemed uncannily familiar.

Perhaps this was what had compelled him to sail directly towards it. Though, he would have been remiss to not remind himself that the entirety of Europe had been displaced, and the vast desert before him, reminding him of North Africa had not come with them. So what was it?

Possessed with the same spirit that had haunted great explorers before, Markos entered a state of single-minded exploratory adventurism. Infected with the optimism that he may discover new land, and may his forgettable line be forever engrained into the immortal paradises of history.

After all, why not? Why shouldn't he pursue this impossible dream?

He had no spouse he owed his return to, and he was still young in age; 19, and overflown with energy to see any possible troubles he may encounter through.

Under his stumped hoof, he rolled his Mauser Rifle, attained from his services in the Balkan 'reconquests' to its side. With the flatter side now facing the sky, he could wrap his hoof quite adequately around the stock of the rifle, at which point he swiftly lifted it and slapped it against his barrel, holding it horizontally against his upright body, still gently rocking in the shallow waters of the strangely familiar shore.

He figured he would need it later.

The Eternally-Ravaged Frontierponies

"A life of the frontiers is often short, violent and brutish. If not perished on the first seasonal cycle, one can only expect the never-ending sensation of dreadful paranoia; otherwise, the constant fear of violent death."
- Promise Hooves on 'Warre' (chaos & statelessness)

...

The buffaloes were ceaseless in their pursuit.

Everypony knew that these broad-shouldered brutes never chased anycreature past their loosely determined territory, much less, even close to the barren coasts of southern Equus.

Yet, they were currently being chased, even still out of their zealously protected lands, and foreseeable into the ocean from the pace of the buffalo's unrelenting stampede and the direction of their funnelled desperate gallop to escape.

It seemed that the native's patience had run dry.

They would all perish too, as a message to the rest of the 'hopeful settlers'.

Little did the southern chiefdoms know, the ponies from the north weren't some conniving colonisers, intent on milking their sacred lands dry of their resources and committing sacrilege to their various holy grounds with their petulant homes. But instead, they were better described as refugees, fleeing the oppressive rules of regional nobles, lordlings and religious or discriminatory laws.

This impending massacre would prove as convincing to these fronteirponies as the last.

That is, nothing. As long as the risks of being murdered en masse by furious natives were better than the odds of being tortured or quartered back home.

The early, current 'settlers' weren't evil, but simply ignorant. They wished no harm or offence to the natives.

The later ones, though, would make the future generation of chiefs forever curse their forefathers for needlessly slaughtering the 'good ones'.

These were actual colonisers, intending harm and actually exploiting their lands; due in three centuries passed.

Though, a certain displacement would move said event to this decade.

...

Coats, ranging from the vibrant colours of orange and red, combined with darkly hued manes proved greatly noticeable in the golden, dusty sands of Southern Equus.

If not for the grains of stinging brown that radiated in the air from their thunderous kicks against the shambling ground, every buffalo tribe nearby would've been able to make out their bright visage in the blank features of the screeching, cliff-littered land.

"Melrose! Where are yer' sisters?!" An elderly, brown-coated earth pony with spots of algae-green huffed through exhausted breaths, galloping to meet her listener flank-to-flank.

"They're with mah' paps! What about your own, missis Splendour?!" The apparent-Melrose yelled similarly in a short breath, peaking behind her with the sudden opportunity to notice the tip of the stampede closing in.

"They were with yer' siblin's, last when I saw 'em! -I remember them takin' a right from the last split!" As Splendour spoke, Melrose noticed the outlines of another galloping group amidst the dusty clouds at a fair distance behind the elderly pony's ear.

"There! That must be them!" Melrose leaned her muzzle towards the splintered group, and began gradually turning to converge with them, gently pushing against the barrel of Splendour to direct her towards them too.

A hovering eagle nearby would be pleasured by the witnessing of a hypnotising sight of a few specks, trailing massive fumes of dust, gliding, maneuvering in the sands like a sloop in a calm sea. They would see the smaller group integrate seamlessly into the larger strained-out specks, who were still followed by an even larger horde of 'fumers', terraforming the very landscape beneath their heavy hooves, barely nipping at the tails of the fleeing stragglers.

"Sis!" A barely distinguishable face, far less, voice, brightly welcomed the approach of Melrose, and the separated group she had briefly led in an impromptu herd.

"Honeycrisp! Where's paps?!" Melrose relievedly asked, but the chaotic atmosphere, precarious situation and breathlessness made it come out as a demand.

"Delicish'- ain't with you?!" Honeycrisp blurted suddenly, briefly getting caught on her own hooves in shock.

She quickly regained her hoofing, and began galloping faster to catch back up to her elder sister.

"Dear Celestia-! What happened to paps?!" Melrose yelled in delayed reaction once Honeycrisp caught up.

"Nothin'! He's probably at the front! -Ya know how paps is!" Honeycrisp happily assured, smiling deeper when Melrose's worry melted entirely from her face.

"...Yeah! -Paps was with me just before the split! -It's not worth a worry, -none!" Melrose absently nodded to herself.

...Which proved to be a perfect momentary distraction for her to stumble on a jagged rock.

"SIS'!" Honeycrisp saw Melrose roll forward, but quickly disappear into the larger dust cloud kicked behind them. She instinctively began to wheel around to help her up, except for a familiar elderly pony to wring her hooves around her neck and usher her forward.

"You youngin's are spry! Yer' sister will be up and galloping ahead of you in no time!" Splendour confidently announced, swiftly loosening her grip as quickly as she had wrung it.

Honeycrisp nervously glanced back. The ever-loudening sound of buffaloes trampling convinced her more than the elderly pony ever could. "Melrose..."

"Eyes straight, foal! T'ere comes another split!" Splendour nudged the smaller pony to the side, directing her to follow the entire group to the right, away from the coasts and inland, this time, not separating.

"Ah'm not losing you too sis'!" Honeycrisp yelled to the skies, inadvertently tasting the salty, bitter sands permeating the air around them.

...

Melrose tumbled, but as survival necessitated, her twisted, bruised hooves immediately began paddling, even in the air, until it finally found purchase on the ground to push off against, quickly entering into a full gallop again.

She hissed at the sharp pain radiating from her forward left hoof she had tumbled on, yet nevertheless, continued galloping with bit lips to fulfil her primary drive; survival. She dared not to even briefly glimpse at her hurt hoof, dreading the possible damage, which, despairingly, may perhaps warrant an amputation due to internal hemorrhaging.

She did not need that in her conscience. Especially, not now.

In her squints of pain and teary blur, compounded by the enormous dust clouds before her, she barely made out the open path to the left, which, her instinctively-acting hooves immediately decided to take her through.

She could barely hear the sounds of galloping in front of her, but she reassured herself it was due to her falling behind from her earlier stumble.

The sounds of the buffalos still trampling behind her, the closest that they had ever been so far, definitely convinced her that she was heading the correct path.

"Ah'm, -ow! Gonna survive, -ow! This!" She resolved through bouts of incredible pain.

At least the deeper sands of the coasts cushioned her gallop... It would also slow down the heavy buffalos more than her!

...

...

...

The Pitiful, Lumbering, Hirsute Cows.

"The Springfield rifle was the favourite weapon of the hide hunters. A party could kill over six hundred Buffalo on the hunt, keeping only the tongues and the choice cuts, but leaving the rest of the carcasses to rot on the plains."
- General William F. Cody (Claimed to have personally slain 4000 buffaloes.)

...

Markos kept glancing back at the landmarks that would guide him to his sloop, ensuring that the chosen irregular-shaped rock wasn't all common to the other rocks that littered the inland coasts.

When he wasn't looking behind him, he would twiddle with his German rifle, still quite awkward in his stump for a hand, but functional with the winter trigger and sling, which was used to tie the forestock of the rifle tightly on the overreaching forehoof. Finally, the cocking of the bolt would be achieved by using the still-mysterious suctioning characteristics or magical intervened, 'phantom hands' of their hooves.

Markos, like many, preferred the last method, even if it somewhat strained his hoof points after a while. Hands, even if magical, still simply felt natural.

He felt somewhat jealous of the griffons though, with their convenient digitigrade claws and all. Not to even mention their wings!

Markos sadly patted his head, feeling the distinct lack of a spirally horn like some lucky few.

Like so many, it had seemed he had lost the 'lottery', so to speak, being a creature not from mythology like the Pegasus, Unicorns, Gryphons, Dragons or Kirins.

"...What has god planned, for us unfortunate few?" He dejectedly murmured.

...Then, he felt slight jitters on his bipedally stood hindhooves.

Having already been looking down in silent contemplation, Markos only had to focus to realise the sparse fragments of rocks around his pair of hooves were shaking.

"What the-?"

He heard a distant stampede.

He involuntarily shivered.

His mind found it appropriate to remind him of the Albanian, and later, Serbian Kirins who all, allegedly, like the Bulgarians, had manically charged downhills in literal blazes of glory, crashing into his positions innumerable times and turning his comrades close to him to ash.

The shuddering ground and the thunderous sound of gallop could almost hallucinate Markos into hearing the dreadful war cries of the former Ottoman 'mistresses' and the Serbian 'pushovers' also, returning him to the moment of stinging sweat and unbearable heat.

(("Y'ALL NOT CATCHIN’ ME! DO Y'ALL HEAR ME?! -NEVER!"))

Markos slowly faced, wide-eyed towards the general direction of an unmistakable voice among the orchestra of stamping hooves.

He owed no obligations to help, nor even approach the source of his nightmares.

He swore no oath to protect, and his prior ones to serve were only owed to the Hellenic state, and its glorious people.

So why was he charging?

...

...

...

Melrose tried to lean off her battered hoof.

She definitely did not want to check it now, as the pain she expected to gradually dull had only gotten worse. She swore she could even feel the fractured bones pressing against her flesh within, filling her bruised hoof with blood, which would explain the immense sensitivity, and the sharp pain whenever she applied even the slightest pressure on said hoof.

She was greatly slowed, but thankfully, her light-hoovedness allowed her to trek comparably smoothly on the deep sands than the top-heavy buffaloes who would visibly sink with every trot of their stubby hooves.

But this was only a slight reprieve in the proverbial mountain of trouble she was being bombarded with at this very time.

It may've been a miracle that she had separated herself to the coasts, where the sands were deeper and would supplement her damaged, but still stouter hoof. On top of that, it had seemed that she had diverted the rest of the buffaloes to her lonesome, which provided great relief in her that the rest of the community would be safe from the stampede. However, she knew now, that she would assuredly perish, having been singled-out, isolated and worst-off, injured.

In the bouts of intense pain that would sporadically splay scowls across her face, displacing the bawled tears and river-worth of sweat that caught dirt which would further sting by entering her irritated eyes, she felt insurmountable despair.

Despair, that she would die in a brutish manner, mangled and pressed from all sides, until the loved ones she was absent with from her at the point of departure could only mourn an amalgamation of blood and meat in their return.

A great tiredness was soon to overtake her. She knew it from the signs.

Many deceased relatives and friends, mostly young in a reflection of the cruelty of the lands, told her of how their 'final-moments' were characterised by an unconscious drawl of their motions, as if the body had prepared to give up, while the mind hotly fought to motivate its partner to fight on.

She was definitely feeling it now, as no matter how desperately she ordered her hooves to continue its previous pace, it slowly grew rigid, stuck, yet limp at the same time as her joints pitifully scrunched under her weight, and she felt her head weakly dip and her vision sink towards the ground.

"I thought I had more time..."

Melrose's head finally met the ground, causing her to roll violently forward from the momentum she still had.

At least her pain had also dulled, and the once intense pain all over, concentrated on her left hoof was now nothing but an unpleasant throb.

She peaked an eye from her sprawled position, watching blurrily the approach of those that had taken so much, and would finally extort her of an old life.

Her story wasn't special. Her fate, especially not. So many other Equestrian settlers would meet the same fate on the unforgiving southern deserts, and she definitely wasn't the last.

Most were destined to die young. The majority, with inconsequential lives, but luckily for Melrose, she would fall, knowing she had saved her village, her friends and most importantly, family. It wasn't that bad of an exchange, really. One short life for the continuation of several lives.

...

...

It was then, when someone decided to spit on fate's face.

In a bang, no less.

A thunder broke on the ground.

A buffalo hit the floor.

If there was any reaction among the surrounding buffaloes, they did not audibly show it. But there was a great reaction in movement.

Like a gentle stream, the crude buffalo stampede split in the face of a stalwart rock, this time, in the form of a fallen brethren whose head steadily leaked a faucet of blood and the exit-wound slid a piece of pink cranial matter onto the dirty sands.

Such sight would dishearten any creature, especially when the most likely perpetrator looked positively insane, awkwardly bipedal, fully clothed in an attire most uncommon, and the usual white, blinding smoke not permeating the barrel of the familiar implement held on their forehooves.

A second shot rang out, confirming the buffaloes' instincts to flee.

While first intent on circling around the fallen Merlone and the bipedal newcomer, the streams of stampeding buffalos decided to entirely break off their charge, scattering in every direction. None wished to find out how many more bullets the strange rifle could dispense, much less wanted to be the next one to suffer from it.

So, the relentless, savage buffaloes fled, in the face of two dead.

Very few in the deserts were warriors.

A pursuer's resolve is always strong, only until the runners hold their ground.

Markos was surprised his brief training had served him so well still, as he silently witnessed the source of his repressed fears melt into the dusty clouds from the simple act of holding his ground, relieving him of the sharp stings on his neck and breezing the scalp under his mane.

(("...That, was incredibly stupid of me.")) Markos finally chuckled out, unconsciously inserting two new cartridges to remedy what he had exhausted into his magazine with his overreaching hoof. (("Are you people herding those unwieldy bisons like cattle? -'Cause I definitely saw some with feathered headdresses."))

Markos loosened the sling on his other hoof, while contemplating the answer on his own. (("God be praised that I arrived just in time, though I might've scattered your herd.")) He smiled apologetically, down at the still-sprawled Melrose.

Markos dumbly blinked at the unresponsive mare, (("...Lady?"))

Melrose was pale, eyes weakly shut and her breath short and erratic. If pressed up upon, one would hear the sad flutters of her dying heart, overexerted trying to compensate for her leaking veins.

He momentarily blushed in realisation, but immediately paled as well in horror. (("Christ! -You're in good hands now, lady!"))

Melrose's last clear memory was that of a fellow earth pony, fully clothed in an aged white undershirt with rugged brown coat and a foreign hind-veil loosely covering their cyan flank and coat gently lifting her against his barrel.

She remembered a pristine, warm comfort in the strange stallion's embrace, who kept spouting words she could not comprehend, but were laced with utmost empathy.

Melrose finally allowed herself to sleep.

Author's Note

This chapter is definitely not an excuse to have a translator when the Europeans arrive. Nope! If you think that, you're just delusional, and wrong, and delusional.

It's gonna be real weird when the Europeans land on the seemingly least useful piece of land in Equestria. The foreshadow is black gold.

Also, I'm stuck deciding whether I should do an 'Old Summer Palace' or a 'Tenochtitlanan'.