Chapters In Victory, We Are the Losers
Rockhoof was in a small lodge in the center of the village. A fire crackled in the most central point of the house, the light casting the shadows into sharp relief. Worn furniture, the kind many others would have seen as cozy, carried an aura of intimidation in this darkly lit place.
Those others would never feel as unwelcome as Rockhoof did in his own father’s home.
Vigour towered over him, the sharp angles of his mountainous body highlighted by the glow of the flames. A heavyset stallion with stone-like features and a stoic disposition. He was considered the strongest warrior in the village, yet one of the unluckiest for the misfortunes of Rockhoof’s continued existence.
“Tell me, Rockhoof ,” Vigour started, emphasizing, as always, the absence of the word son . He paced back and forth, each heavy hooffall a hard thump that echoed inside of Vigour’s home. “What is strength?”
“The power to protect those you care about,” Rockhoof muttered.
Considered a runt by his peers, his small stature emphasized by how he scrunched in on himself under the withering gaze of Vigour’s contempt, it was a difficult task for Rockhoof to keep his eyes affixed upon his father. His only motivation to do so was the knowledge that things would be so much worse if he failed to keep it up.
Vigour nodded. Momentary satisfaction at Rockhoof’s answer. “The warriors of the village,” he continued. “What do they need to be to do that?”
Rockhoof gulped. “The strongest of the strong.”
“Good.” Vigour stopped his pacing. “Now. What are you?”
“I-I’ll try harder!” Rockhoof scrambled. “I’ll—!”
His father whirled on him, a mighty stomp of his hoof stopping Rockhoof’s babbling. Cold fury was etched into his face. The craggy detachment of a mountain. He intruded into Rockhoof’s face, the latter powerless to enforce his boundaries.
“I didn’t ask for your excuses ,” Vigour said. A quiet, forceful sound. “I asked about what. You. Are .”
“W-weak, sir,” Rockhoof replied, his voice a meek whisper.
“What is the role of every able-bodied pony in the village?”
“To be a warrior.”
“Yes. Warriors who are strong. Warriors who can defend themselves and others. Warriors who are capable of carrying something heavier than a single bale of hay !” Vigour screamed the last word into Rockhoof’s face.
Rockhoof flinched.
“...What did I do to deserve to be burdened with a foal as pathetic as you,” Vigour muttered darkly, pulling back to his full height.
Rockhoof stayed quiet. He hung his head, curling further into himself from the shame that burned within.
“You have proven incapable of even the most basic tasks required of you,” Vigour said, disappointment clear in his voice. “... You will join the Trench tomorrow.”
Fear stabbed into Rockhoof’s heart. The Trench was the most dangerous job in the village. Those ponies took upon the arduous task of redirecting the lava that spewed from the volcano to keep the village safe. It was a task reserved for criminals.
“N-no, please!” Rockhoof pleaded, a desperate quiver to his voice. “Don’t send me to the Trench! I’ll do better, just—”
Vigour rounded on him. “You will do as you’re told!” he shouted. “You have shown no worth to the village as a proper member of its community, so you will do so as one of its disgraced!”
“Please, any other task, just not that one. What if I can’t escape from the lava?”
“Then we will have not lost anything of importance,” Vigour replied.
His piece said, Vigour turned away from his son and laid down on his bed. Rockhoof remained where he was. His body shook as silent tears fell from his eyes. Terror gripped his body as he dreaded the possibilities of tomorrow and all the tomorrows afterward.
He didn’t feel that he had many more tomorrows left.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
Rockhoof listened. Small animals ran about in the undergrowth. Wind rustled the leaves overhead. He breathed deeply, in and out.
“There’s someone out there. Listen harder.”
“Gimme time, Nike,” Rockhoof said.
“You might not have it, Rockhoof.” A small yellow Breezie zipped to his other ear. Nike was all sharp angles, an oddity of her race. “If you don’t hear them before they appear, then it might be the last thing you hear.”
A grunt. “I know.”
“If you knew, then you would have already heard it.”
Refocusing his efforts to his task, he perked his ears and strained to listen for the telltale notes that went against the natural cadence of the forest.
The unnatural crunch of leaves under too heavy a weight. The sound of a bowstring being pulled taut. The rattle of unsteady, nervous breathing as someone prepared to attack.
“There’s the rat ,” Nike hissed, a gleeful note in her voice.
Rockhoof lifted himself off the ground. A massive frame of corded muscle protected by slabs of jagged rock that grew from his body naturally. Laurel was entangled within his braided mane. Scars of battles past and scorch marks from long ago injuries littered patches of bare skin, bright white against short-cut grey fur.
He pulled his mighty shovel back, an instrument of death blessed to be at a size best suited for him to use, then forward in a sweeping motion toward his unknown assailant.
An arrow pierced between the gaps in his rocky armour. He barely felt it.
The sharp edge of his shovel sliced through the trees. A scream, then spurts of blood splattered the landscape, bringing about an early red autumn.
A quick inspection of the aftermath found the bisected corpse of a mare in armour of grey and green colours. Her heraldry was that of a black sun upon an open book.
“This one is dressed the same as the last three,” Rockhoof remarked. “Mayhaps I have made an enemy.”
“All of the greats do so,” Nike replied.
“I donnae recall who would garner such hatred for me. I am no one.”
“You are someone ,” Nike corrected. “A champion, and one that demands respect and fear in equal measure. These attackers are just more losers that are jealous of your strength. Unimportant in the grand scheme of things, especially since we need to deal with the important thing.” She flitted in front of Rockhoof, a wide sharp-toothed grin on her face. “You have won, therefore, you will now receive your reward.”
Rockhoof had become accustomed to Nike’s blessings. What was once burning agony, as muscle snapped and rebuilt itself, was now nothing more than a smouldering heat that coursed through his frame as more strength was piled onto his massive body. After so many blessings, the uncomfortableness had almost become enjoyable. A welcome sign that he had continued to fulfill his purpose.
He meandered back to his post before the cave entrance. His village’s heraldry, faded but still strong, remained propped up against a nearby rock, signifying who controlled this territory.
“Guard the entrance,” Rockhoof intoned. “None shall pass.”
“None shall pass,” Nike agreed.
She settled into his mane, content for now with the bloody violence that had occurred.
He flopped onto the ground with a loud resounding thump that shook the trees. He was nearly larger than the cave entrance itself, after so many blessings. Victory had given him what he wanted for so long, but it was secondary to what he needed.
Rockhoof had a purpose. And he would fulfill it.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
“Git, you blasted vermin!” Rockhoof yelled, waving his shovel threateningly at the trespasser.
The brown fox swiped at Rockhoof with a claw, drawing three thin lines of red across his chest. He swung his shovel, wincing from the pain as he did. The fox jumped back and hissed at him.
“Go bother someone else, you infernal creature!” Rockhoof shouted.
He took another swing with the blunt side of his shovel. It connected against the fox’s head with a satisfying thunk . The fox leapt away, shook its head, then hissed at Rockhoof again.
“Hah!” Rockhoof called out triumphantly. “More of that to follow if you don’t scamper off, ya blight!”
The fox angrily barked at him, then dashed off into the underbrush, leaving a victorious Rockhoof.
“Teach’em for messing with me,” Rockhoof said. “Darn thing comin’ back again and again… and again.” He felt himself slump as he realized that his opponent was completely undeterred by Rockhoof’s defense. “Even vermin don’t think I’m strong.” He drew himself back up then called out, “Well, if it comes back, I’ll just chase’em off again!”
He trotted back to the deep groove in the dirt he slept in. It was situated before a large cave with his village’s heraldry raised next to it. Placed nearby was an overflowing stockpile of food that, with careful rationing, would hopefully last him until his people inside the cave had recovered from what had afflicted them.
The plague had happened suddenly and rapidly. One of his clanstallions had returned from a nearby settlement with the affliction, which quickly spread through the village. Rockhoof was the only one not to catch it and, as the only able-bodied pony left, was left to guard the cave entrance to ensure no one would interrupt the healing rite his village was performing inside.
Rockhoof couldn’t understand the glyphs used to perform the rite (amongst many things in his village), but he could at least make sure no one interrupted them.
Laying down in his ditch, Rockhoof winced. Dirt had grazed his new wounds, and he lacked any type of bandages to remedy the situation. It would most likely become yet another scar, but was another amongst the myriad of burn marks that crisscrossed his body from working the Trench.
Despite the pain, and the loneliness, and the weather that seemed to want to drench him with rain every other day, he would persevere. This was his duty. His purpose. He would succeed. He would—
“Heyo!”
He shot into an upright position with a scream. He levelled his shovel in the direction of the voice and hoped he looked intimidating, not on the verge of wetting himself.
“Good reaction time,” the voice remarked. “Many aren’t as quick as you.”
On inspection, Rockhoof was surprised to find the trespasser to be a Breezie, of all things. Diminutive in size with small insectoid wings, two antennae on her head, and a puff of golden mane that ringed her head like a halo. She had incredibly angular features, like the sharp side of a knife, and was dressed in heavy plate mail (for her size), wearing a crown of laurel around her head.
“Why are you here?” Rockhoof demanded, calming down significantly at finding one who belonged to a famously docile race. “Aye thought Breezies preferred to keep to themselves.”
“Glad you asked,” the new face replied. “My name is Nike, and I’m here to see you.”
“Why would you be here for me?” Rockhoof asked, suspicious. “Is this some kinda trick to reach my clan?”
“I could care less about those bunch of dullards .” Nike rolled her eyes. “No, I’m just here to see you. I have a proposition. One I’m sure you’ll be very interested in.”
“I find your words hard to believe.” Rockhoof narrowed his eyes.
“Look, I get it. Some stranger appears out of nowhere and offers you a random deal out of the blue.” She flitted in close to Rockhoof’s face, startling him. “But what’s more important? Your distrust?” She leaned in closer to his ear, her next words sweet as honey. “Or strength ?”
Despite his apprehension, yearning grew within him. A tantalizing promise of what he lacked, what he was supposed to have, yet never got. “What’s your proposition?”
Nike grinned, revealing far too many sharp teeth.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
“It’s simple,” Nike said as she flitted around Rockhoof. “All you need to do is exactly what you’ve been doing. Defeat anyone that tries to enter that cave—” She pointed toward his clan’s refuge with a wing “—and I’ll give you a blessing as a reward for your success!”
“... I have a few questions,” Rockhoof said as he lowered his shovel.
“Sure. Ask away.” Nike waved a wing nonchalantly.
“Whaddya mean by defeat? Do I need to kill’em?”
“No, just defeat ,” Nike emphasized. “Killing works, sure, but if your opponent runs away or admits defeat, that works just as well.”
“Kay. What kinda blessings do you grant?”
“Depends on the circumstance.”
“Like?”
“The most common is increased strength,” Nike provided. “But, if you say, triumph against an enemy that poisoned you, I would instead give you a blessing that would make you resistant to that poison.”
“So, I would adapt to whomever I last fought?”
“Exactly!” Nike snapped a wing. It was a surprisingly sharp sound. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger! The best way to improve.”
Rockhoof furrowed his brow, uncertain. “I’m not so sure—”
“How about this?” Nike interrupted. “I’ll give you one blessing after your next win as a test run. If you don’t like it, I’ll flutter off and you get to keep the blessing. But if you do like it, we establish a working relationship.”
“... That sounds reasonable,” Rockhoof relented.
“Great! So, you have your shovel ready, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Then duck.”
“What do you—”
Rockhoof crashed into the ground. The same fox from before snarled in his face as it snapped at him with its teeth.
“You blasted Tartarus-sent spawn of Grogar!” Rockhoof shouted.
He used his weight to roll the fox to the ground with him on top, pinning the pest by its throat with the handle of his shovel. It squirmed underneath him, snapping and biting, its legs trying to gain purchase on his weapon to shove him off.
Rockhoof would normally whack the foul creature upside the head and be done with it, but this vermin had been bothering him for days, and he was well beyond sick of its presence.
“What are you gonna do?” Nike asked, hovering nearby.
A ragged breath. Rockhoof weighed his conscience. He was in the perfect position to end the creature’s life. Press down a little harder and the fox would suffocate within minutes. He watched it struggle, helpless against him. He felt a wave of sympathy for it.
Instead of ending its life, he slashed the fox’s face with the sharp edge of his shovel in one quick motion. The animal yipped and scampered off into the underbrush. The look of fear on the creature’s face settled uncomfortably over Rockhoof, but at least he wouldn’t have to deal with it again. He was almost certain of that fact.
“I kind of expected you to kill it, but, hey, a win is a win.” Nike shrugged. She grinned widely at Rockhoof. He felt apprehension at her smile. “Ready for your reward?”
Before Rockhoof could reply, he felt his body break. He screamed. Muscle, bone, and sinew snapped into pieces as they rebuilt themselves, bigger and stronger than before. Heat radiated through him as the pain intensified, until he blacked out.
He opened his eyes to realize that he had collapsed onto the ground. He stood back up, nearly stumbling over his own hooves at his new height. He was now a good full inch taller than before.
A quick test of the muscles in his body proved that they were fully recovered and, more importantly, thicker and stronger than before. He felt that he could do more, push himself harder. A far cry from before, when he thought a mere breeze could topple him if it blew hard enough.
“How does it feel?” Nike asked.
Painful. Exhilarating. Agonizing. Powerful. Intoxicating. Like having been burned by the hottest flames as an ingot of iron to emerge strong as steel. He wanted to tell Nike no, that this was too much. That it would cause him to lose his way, but… if he kept winning…
His father’s words echoed in his mind. If he defeated just a few more opponents, if he pushed himself just a bit harder… he could be someone his father would call ‘son’.
A horrible aching wound in his heart throbbed in hope at the thought.
“... Where’s my next opponent?” Rockhoof asked.
Nike grinned wider. It nearly split her face in two.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
“Another one is approaching,” Nike remarked. “Maybe this one will put up a better fight than the last dozen or so.”
Rockhoof grunted. He stood up, his bulk causing the ground to tremble, shovel at the ready. His next opponent emerged from the wreckage of the forest that surrounded him, a tangle of broken trees and flattened undergrowth.
They were a unicorn. Stallion, if Rockhoof had to guess. Short, lean and wiry. A cloak covered most of their prominent features, but Rockhoof still caught the glint of steel armour underneath. Their heraldry was of a black sun over a book. Another of one of those knights that regularly showed up.
“Good morrow,” the stranger greeted, waving a hoof. “And to you as well, Nike .” The second greeting had an undertone of disdain.
“You sound like you don’t like me. Have we met?” Nike asked.
“No, but I’m familiar with how you operate.” The stranger stopped just past the edge of clearing where wood gave way to hard-packed dirt. “I have come to do battle with you.”
“... Not many ask before they try to attack,” Rockhoof muttered. He jerked his head up. “Have at’er, then.”
“With pleasure.”
A dark clear aura of magic encompassed his horn, then the stranger launched a burst of black flames at him.
Acting quickly, Rockhoof swatted the flames away with his shovel. They burned away dead foliage in the distance. The stranger appeared before him with a second spell at the ready, faster than what Rockhoof had presumed he was able to move.
Rockhoof slammed the blunt end of the shovel into the side of the stranger’s head. They teleported in a burst of magic before impact, then fired several arcane arrows into Rockhoof’s side. Rockhoof ignored the pain and swept his shovel along the ground, blasting a cloud of dirt toward the stranger.
“Durable. A different tactic, then.”
Rockhoof whipped toward the source of the voice in time for acid to splash his face. It hissed and crackled along his fur, the chemical burning his skin. He bit back the urge to scream and charged forward, quickly eating up the distance between himself and the stranger.
Several volleys of different elements bombarded him. He pushed through the onslaught and swung his shovel, slicing empty air as the stranger teleported onto his back.
“Well, that was quite close. You certainly—”
Rockhoof tensed, biting his lower lip in preparation for the pain. Jagged rocks burst from his back, piercing into the stranger’s body. A trick granted to him after a rather acrobatic duelist from several mornings back. Sure, it tore through his body, but the pain was worth the surprise attack.
A gasp of pain. Flecks of cold liquid dripped onto Rockhoof’s back.
“T-that was unexpected,” the stranger gasped out.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, Rockhoof reared up and fell backward onto his back. He frowned at the lack of bone crunching that should have followed that maneuver. He rolled back onto his back, wildly searching for the stranger.
“How utterly embarrassing to act so confident, only to be bested so easily.” Rockhoof turned toward the voice to find the stranger, clutching their side. Presumably from an injury sustained from their earlier tussle. “I admit defeat.”
Another blessing quickly flowed into him. Flesh cracked and reformed, increasing his durability. He barely felt it.
“I’ll have to try again another time, but, if I may be so bold, why are you here?” the stranger asked.
“No one can enter the cave,” Rockhoof answered.
“Why not?”
“Because no one can enter the cave,” Rockhoof repeated.
“Really? Based on the heraldry by the entrance, I had presumed it was because your clan was performing a healing rite inside.”
A sharp intake of breath. “They are—” Fragments of memories filtered into Rockhoof’s mind “—No, my only purpose is to… its to…”
“... Have you checked on them? Even once?” The stranger tilted their head to one side. Rockhoof couldn’t read their expression within the shade of their hood. “How long has it been since they began the rite?”
Rockhoof was silent. He could hear the thumping of his heart in his ears.
“... I’ll take it you don’t know. Well, I’ll leave you to do your duties then. However, I would suggest that you check on them before you can’t.”
The stranger disappeared in a puff of magic.
“Ignore him,” Nike said as she flitted next to his ear. “Why listen— Hey!”
Rockhoof was already trotting toward the cave.
“You’re not even gonna fit!” Nike exclaimed.
He hung his head low, just barely going below the ceiling of the interior. He pushed forward, his back scraping along the rocky walls. He could feel fur and skin tear on the rough surface, but such pain barely bothered him anymore.
Whispers of the past roared in his ear louder than the angry rationality of Nike. They propelled him onward, a growing need to see his clan enveloping him.
All the while, he couldn’t help but feel failure dogging his every step.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
Rockhoof perked his ears. Heavy hooffalls on undergrowth. He readied his shovel.
Two stallions entered the grove. Both of them were earth ponies, covered in heavy fabric with knives in their mouths.
Nike tsked. “Not a good second bout for you,” She whispered into his ear.
“You can’t be here,” Rockhoof informed his new opponents.
The first stallion lunged, slashing his dagger at Rockhoof’s face. Rockhoof took a step back, swinging his shovel up to deflect the blow. The second came at him from the side. He winced from the cut along his flank.
Rockhoof, in a desperate bid to shove his way out of the situation, tackled the first stallion. Normally, he wouldn’t have been able to do so, but his increased strength from his battle with the fox allowed him to stagger the stallion and knock him down to the ground. The stallion wheezed, his knife dropping, the wind knocked out of him.
He heard the second rush at him. Rockhoof lifted his shovel quickly to deflect the incoming knife. They both moved away from the first stallion, a flurry of blows exchanged between them.
“There’s a way through,” Nike whispered into his ear. “A way to overcome someone more experienced than you. Something only you can do.”
Another cut got through. He hissed back the pain and continued to keep blocking the assailant’s attacks. Each swipe was quick, a single mess up resulting in another cut. He could feel himself getting tired from the loss of blood and continued defense.
“You’re no stranger to pain,” Nike added. “Take it. Then kill him .”
Close calls were indeed something he was familiar with. But lava and knife wounds were two different things, and he wasn’t so sure he would come out of this alive.
Besides that, he’d never killed another pony before. It was a line he had yet to cross, and was unsure whether he wanted to.
“Unless, of course, you want to stay weak forever,” Nike mused in his ear once more.
Something snapped inside of him at Nike’s words. He rushed forward, the assailant stumbling forward in surprise as his knife cut a long line along his torso.
He pulled his shovel back. Then pushed forward, sharp tip in front, falling momentum skewering the stallion upon it.
He never knew flesh could yield so easily. Blood and gore spewed from the open wound, spilling across him, his weapon and the ground. The stallion went slack. Rockhoof removed his shovel, and the new corpse fell to the ground.
He’d killed. The stallion had been alive and now he was dead. He’d killed. There was so much blood. He’d killed . He was a killer. He’D kIlLeD . Panic shot through his mind as he tried to process the ramifications of what he’d done. HE—
Agony shot through him. He cried out. His body snapped. It cracked and reformed itself, stronger than before. He was left in a panting heap, becoming quickly accustomed to his newly strengthened body. It had been easier that time, a bit more pleasure, a bit less pain.
“Your reward,” Nike stated.
Rockhoof stared at himself. He was taller. At his new perspective, the clan couldn’t look down on him anymore. But… maybe if he won a few more times… he could look down on them?
Nike gestured toward the other stallion trying to get up. “If you kill’em, I’ll give you another blessing.”
Ignoring the change in wording from their original pact, Rockhoof grabbed his shovel and swung the sharp edge at the dazed stallion’s neck. He was decapitated in one clean sweep. As the splatter of gore settled over him, he felt less disturbed by the act. It was necessary. They were trying to enter the cave. They were trying to kill him.
They were in the way of him becoming strong.
Yet again, agonizing victory broke his body, and remade it into what it should be.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
Many challengers had already come and been brought down by his shovel. Each had been tougher than the last, with Nike’s blessings fueling his strength and growth. He could feel the itch of leaves in his braided mane. His fur felt wrong, rocky. It was being replaced by something rough and textured that he couldn’t figure out. Scars had multiplied and spread, his body becoming a canvas of dull red lines.
Pain was second nature to him. Physical. Mental. Emotional. All of it. It was a burden he had been given by his clan, and now the load felt lighter with each victory under his belt. It made him strong, and soon he would be strong enough to never have to worry about the pain again.
He protected the cave. That was what mattered. He had to keep others out so his clan could… rest? The details had become fuzzy, but he still knew it was important. Well, secondly important. Victory became him, and he needed a body to match that ideal, which meant winning was his first priority.
A horde of monsters approached. A tangled mass of roaring, screeching, and hissing.
He readied his shovel.
The world became a flurry of blood and death as he sliced his way through their ranks. He took hit after hit from the horde, uncaring of the damage he sustained. What were a few more scars? Nike would just give him enough strength to overcome these injuries, he just needed to kill off the intruders.
His shovel sang . The ting of metal as it made short work of his opponents. A well-maintained instrument of war that had changed to keep up with him. Bigger. Sharper. Stained with the blood of his enemies instead of the dirt his clan's people had presumed him to be equal to.
Soon, the battle was done, and Rockhoof stood atop a mountain of corpses that would quickly be swallowed by the earth. He didn’t know how or why, but it hardly mattered, as it meant he would have a clear battlefield to fight in afterwards.
He preferred quick fights. Overwhelming victory. No room to question his prowess, a beautiful canvas painted with his dismembered conquests.
He was strong. He was a warrior. He was no longer weak. He never would be again. The battle was concluded. He’d won. Nike had granted him his blessings.
The pain felt like glory.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
His clan trotted into the cave, a somber air about them. Some were tied to makeshift stretchers. Others, already beginning to show signs of the plague, dragged the bedridden behind them. Carts of herbs and runic stones were being brought in, stern expressions on the majority of his clan.
“Pay attention , Rockhoof.”
Rockhoof renewed his focus on his father. The stallion towered over him, he a mere shadow encompassed by the colossus that was Vigour.
“I’m gonna repeat myself. Once ,” Vigour stressed. “You are the only one not infected by the disease. Which means—” he coughed. It sounded… bad. Like something deep inside of him had dislodged and was crawling up his throat “—you need to ensure that no one interrupts us as we perform the healing rite.”
“I’ll be sure to guard the entrance properly,” Rockhoof replied, eager to prove himself.
“... We don’t really have another option,” Vigour muttered under his breath. Louder, he added, “there is a stockpile of food by the entrance. If you eat responsibly, it should last you several months. Now, listen .”
Vigour leaned in close, face inches from Rockhoof’s with an expression that sent a cord of fear through his being.
“No one is to enter this cave. Ever . No matter who they are or what they want. Especially you. These rites cannot be interrupted, or they will fail. We only get one shot at this, and I need you to fulfill your duties.”
Rockhoof could hear the implied ‘for once’.
“Understood!” Rockhoof saluted, a wide grin on his face.
Vigour grabbed him roughly by his chest, tearing at fur. Rockhoof held back a yelp of pain.
“This isn’t a joke!” Vigour shouted.
“I wasn’t—!”
“Your clan needs you,” Vigour interrupted. “You will perform your duties perfectly and not screw them up like everything else you do. Fulfill your obligations to your clan .” He growled the last word.
“I-I understand,” Rockhoof said, trying to keep the quiver of fear out of his voice.
He was thrown to the ground. Vigour shot him a look of disdain and followed after the rest of the clan into the cave. Rockhoof just barely managed to catch his father’s last words.
“Even you can stand in front of a cave and tell people no.”
Rockhoof took a moment to breathe and still his racing heart. When he felt sufficiently calmed down, he stood up and situated himself in the most central location before the entrance. The remainder of his clan trotted past with looks of pity and contempt in equal measure.
After a time, the cave was secured and filled with his clan. The rite was underway, and it was time to fulfill his duties.
Rockhoof had his purpose.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
Brittle skin pulled taut over bone. Ghastly contour formed from where the skin sagged between. Their strength. Their power. Reduced to bags of skin. Flies flitted about the cave, feasting upon the long-dead remains of what was once “his” people.
They huddled in groups. Many hugged each other, seeking the comfort of another’s embrace. That was what drove a spike into Rockhoof’s heart. They were all covered with dried blood mixed with unmentionable fluids. That was preferred over the mere company of him.
He could see their fear on clear display. Their defeat. Their weakness . His great clan had died, beaten by a plague.
Amongst the huddles, he could pick out the lone corpse of his father. The giant in his mind was hunched over, hooves wrapped around his body. He could imagine the stallion crying as he wasted away with no way to stop it. This was who had pushed him to be strong. Who made him endure the Trench. Who could care less about what happened to his pathetic son.
That last thought was further emphasized as Rockhoof realized that, in his final moments, it had never even occurred to his father to say goodbye to him, or let him know that they couldn’t heal themselves.
This was his purpose. To shield these cowards from the outside world so they could waste away in peace.
Within the wreckage of the makeshift hospice, Rockhoof was caught in the turmoil of his emotions. He didn’t know whether to scream or cry or rage. A combination might have been the best option.
“This might be a good thing for you,” Nike remarked.
Rockhoof spun toward her, his mind settling for indignant rage. “How?!” He shouted, the cave rumbling from the sheer force of his voice.
“There’s nothing to tie you down here anymore. They’re dead. There’s nothing to protect.”
Ragged breaths. Implications sunk into his mind as he processed Nike’s words.
“You know.” A wide grin, toothy with a malicious glint. “You could leave and seek out new challenges. Change your initial goal toward just becoming the strongest, instead of guarding these pathetic losers.”
“I-I—” Rockhoof struggled to formulate a response, still caught up in the wreckage of his clan.
“You have no more ties here, Rockhoof. Vigour made you feel small all your life. Weak .” Nike whispered into his ear once more, bearing sweet words of honey. Tantalizing, addicting. “He’s gone, and with my help, no one will ever be able to make you feel like that again.”
“... You knew since the first day you met me,” Rockhoof said. “You sought me out because you knew.”
“I want someone who will win ,” Nike hissed. “I need someone who would get just a taste of winning and be hooked. You’re strong. You have the drive to be stronger . Choose victory. Be my champion, Rockhoof. Leave this all behind you. Be better than everyone .”
He had caved before Nike had even finished talking. He already knew subconsciously that this was what he would find. That he would agree to whatever Nike told him, because he was hooked. He was strong, and he would stay that way. Besides that, she offered him the one thing he needed more than anything.
Purpose.
“Let us seek new shores,” Rockhoof announced.
He left and with that, Nike had exactly what she wanted.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
Captain Brick Wall stood resolute on the town ramparts. His city was to be assaulted by a monstrous pony, nearly the height of the walls. His second joined him, breathing heavily from racing across town after Brick had sent a messenger to fetch him.
“What are your orders, Sir?” his Second asked.
“... The walls will not hold,” Brick declared morosely. “Gather the entire garrison and charge at the beast in the field. We will stop him before he reaches us.”
“But what if we fail? The town will be unprotected!”
Brick Wall looked at his Second. Desperation and hopelessness clouded his expression. They were defeated. He knew that, his second now knew that. They did not go out to win. They went out to stall the monster to give the town time to flee.
“... I will gather the soldiers.” A salute, and his Second was gone.
He returned his focus to the monstrosity that approached them. A lumbering titan of jagged stone and scarred skin. Laurel entwined his braided mane and head in the shape of a crown. Arcs of magic raced across his body, spelling out glyphs of unknown origin. A small impish creature flitted about his head doing… something. Brick couldn’t discern its purpose or intentions.
They would all die. There was no doubt in Brick’s mind. They would act as the shields they were sworn to be and hopefully delay the inevitable advance of the sheer force of nature that had unfortunately cast its gaze upon them.
Reading his rites, he hefted his spear and made his way down the ramparts to join the assault from the front. Captain Brick Wall would die.
But he wouldn’t die without a fight.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
Glory. Achieved through distinguished victory. Desired in competition, war, and even life itself. Many seek it out, and, for those that manage to achieve it, thousands more fail. They try to find shortcuts, hoping there is a way to circumnavigate sheer effort, but it is impossible. Only practice, luck, hard work, and natural talent will garner an individual that sweet, intoxicating success.
Unless, of course, one is privy to the whispers of Nike.
Belonging to the rarely seen race of Breezies, Nike is Athena’s secret to her overwhelming success. A powerful goddess capable of granting unending victory to those that garner her attention.
She is prayed often to. Begged to. Sought out by many on their journey to acquire that coveted glory. But she only grants her blessings to those select few she favours.
And Nike is a very particular patron.
In temples dedicated to the Goddess of Wisdom herself, there are scrolls that describe those whom Nike prefers. The underdogs. The downtrodden. The weak. These scrolls grant her an air of altruism as one who grants blessings only to those that truly need it. That deserve it. But it is not the truth, simply the fabrication Wisdom has created to hide Nike’s ugly personality.
For you see, Nike does not seek out these beggars out of pity or for their potential. She seeks them out for their obsession. That ingrained dark desire to win at any cost found only in those that have never, or will never, achieve it.
Nike seeks out monsters. She cultivates them, nurtures them, then enjoys the horrific result as she unleashes them upon the world.
Mercy to any who crosses paths with them.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
The morning after the bow knight attacked, a purple unicorn came. She wore a cloak that obscured her features and had a tendency to cackle. She primarily assaulted him with bottles of Alchemist’s Fire, explosive arcane flames.
Rockhoof was burned several times, which was paltry compared to the burns he acquired from working the Trench. He cleaved her in two with his shovel.
Nike blessed him with magic resistant skin.
Two mornings after, another knight wearing the same heraldry as the bow knight appeared. He was a large black pegasus with small dextrous wings that held onto a greatsword nearly double his size. He was a berserker type with a massive amount of stamina, and liked to yell a lot.
Rockhoof managed to crush his head underneath his hooves after the pegasus became worn down. He’d taken several heavy cuts, including one along his neck due to sloppy maneuvering from fatigue.
Nike blessed him with better stamina.
Three mornings after. Four earth pony brigands. They wielded poison-laced knives and worked in tandem with each other.
Rockhoof, despite being slowed by poison, managed to stab each of them with his shovel through the heart.
Nike blessed him with poison resistance.
Four mornings after, a group of desperate refugees appeared begging to be included in his clan’s healing rite. Five mornings after, a narcissistic minotaur skilled in mechanical weaponry demanded to be let in to scavenge for loot. Six mornings after, a pompous griffin and his retinue charged at the cave with cries of gold.
Rockhoof crushed the refugees into pulp. Rockhoof rammed the minotaur through the sharpened ends of broken trees. Rockhoof sliced through the griffins with the sharp edge of his shovel.
Nike blessed him with tougher muscles. Nike blessed him with greater strength. Nike blessed him with improved flexibility.
Seven mornings after. New opponent. Dead. Fourteen mornings after. New opponent. Dead. Twenty-eight mornings after. New opponent. Dead. Another blessing. Another blessing. Another blessing .
Protect the cave. No one goes in. Why? Rockhoof couldn’t remember. All that mattered was that no one got past him. Nothing else was important. He was strong. He was a warrior . He would fulfill his purpose. What was his purpose? To win. That was his purpose. Nothing else.
An uncountable number of days after, a new opponent appeared.
Rockhoof would kill whomever they were.
Nike would bless him.
That was how it would always be.
In Victory, We Are the Losers
“You should turn back,” Nike said.
He ignored her, pushing onward. His skin scraped along the rock, causing a horrible tearing sound to echo through the tunnel. Blood trickled from his open wounds and onto the cave floor, leaving a splatter trail behind himself.
“This isn’t what you were told to do, remember?”
Guard the entrance. No one can pass. Memories buried under his desire to win at any cost began to surface. Memories eclipsed by his need to become stronger from Nike’s blessings. To live up to expectations. To not be weak anymore.
“What if someone enters the cave while you’re not there? You’ll have failed your purpose.”
His purpose. He needed one. He needed to be needed . He needed to know he wasn’t worthless. That he was a warrior. Like… like his father. He was told to watch the cave, but that had been… he didn’t know how long ago it had been. He knew he was doing something wrong, but he felt it was warranted to check on them.
“They’ll be mad that you left your post. That you couldn’t even do the most basic task. Healing rites take time. More time than the food you had stockpiled.”
Food. He hadn’t needed it anymore. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had ate something. Days? Weeks? He didn’t know. Only new enemies had marked the passage of time, and somewhere during that period he had stopped needing to consume.
“You should turn back.”
Rockhoof wanted to. The urge was so strong, to forget about his clan and perform the duty he was assigned, but the knight had awakened a dread in him. It ate away at his insides and he knew that if he let it be, it would consume him. He needed to know. He needed to know that he had purpose .
The tunnel opened up.
Rockhoof stopped.
“... I take it back.” There was no point to looking back; he could hear that Nike was grinning. “This is exactly what you needed to see.”
