Fo:E Xenophobia

Prologue: Glyphs

Hello and welcome honored friends
Gather 'round and your ears do lend
An epic tale. That I must tell
Of my journey through living hell
Before I speak of friends and foes
There are some things you first must know

It would not be accurate to say I grew up in the Stable. Likewise, it would not be true to say that I did not either. I was born in Stable Forty-Seven. I was still a very young colt when its door was first opened and my tribe had our first exposure to the outside world. Therefore, most of my life was spent on both in Stable Forty-Seven and in the village we had built in the grove outside. When we were old enough to begin work for the tribe we were given a foreleg mounted fusion of magic and technology known as a PipBuck. A PipBuck is a fascinating tool that does everything from mundane tasks like data storage and inventory management to its E.F.S. (Eyes Forward Sparkle) which helps determine the hostility and position of those around you. PipBucks can even aid in combat with its S.A.T.S. (Stable-Tec Arcane Targeting System). They possess a range of other features and modifications as well but I digress, those details will come in time. In the Stable an adolescent pony would be given their PipBuck when they earn what is called a cutie mark. Cutie marks are magical symbols that appeared on a young pony’s flank which, for better or worse, identified his or her special talent.

However the denizens of Stable Forty-Seven did not have cutie marks. Stable Forty-Seven was after all, one of a select few Sables that were built to house the zebra population who had taken refuge in Equestria.

Similar to a pony's cutie mark a young zebra obtains what we call a 'glyph' on their flank at their coming of age. Unlike a cutie mark, which comes in all manners of images and colors a zebra glyph matches our stripes - black and white.

I had always found the idea of a cutie mark unsettling. We learned about them in our school during a lesson about ponies. A pony's destiny felt so openly pronounced and defined. To a zebra it was harrowing thought. Earning a cutie mark did not seem so much as finding out what made you special but confining you into a specific role in life. Take a pony with a donut cutie mark - her destiny was making donuts. If you had a silver ring cutie mark you were sure to be a jewelry maker. Even something as absurd as having the letter "O" emerge on your flank would cause your special talent to be spelling. A pony’s destiny seemed so rigid and identified.

However, there is mysticism to a zebra glyph. Concentric circles, waving lines, spiraling galaxies, and manners of geometric patterns come together to form a zebra glyph. Like the snowflake, no two glyphs are exactly alike. Because of this our glyph told us we had been given a destiny without explicitly telling us what it was to be. A glyph is not the end of a zebra discovering themselves: it is the beginning.

My glyph appeared around the same time many of my fellow youths discovered theirs as well. The stripes on my flank twisted and contorted one morning into the shape reminiscent of a tear drop. This did prove unfortunate for me as I had developed a reputation as a frequent crier. Had I been born a pony, the other colts would tease, my special talent would have been crying.

"You must not let them bother you," a gentle and demure filly in my class would say wiping a trickle from my eye, "We define our glyph for ourselves, they do not define us."

Xanthe was her name. The white of her stripes carried the faintest hint of yellow hue. Her parents built a small meadery in what was once an old storage facility within the Stable. I mused that the honey had permanently stained her coat and always caused her to smell as sweet.

My own parents were usually anything but sweet. They rarely had time for me since they were very important members of the tribe. Father was the head medical doctor and chief scientist for our village. Mother was one of his assistants specializing in the alchemy from zebra olden times. The numerous dangers of venturing into the woods surrounding our village made them an invaluable asset to the tribe but also left them distant from me. I scarcely even knew them. Father and mother would often substitute real parenting with gifts and favors. Father liked to tinker with my PipBuck enhancing its innate capabilities. Mother discovered a centuries old design in the Stable archives. She used her alchemy to weave me a highly sophisticated invisibility cloak that makes for easy evasion of some of the less friendly zebras who wandered the Stable halls. Both were definitely extravagant treasures to possess, but they served as constant reminders of the emptiness my parents left me with.

Xanthe's parents were usually tasked to watch over me on account of how routinely inundated my own were. Xanthe and I attended school together played together and grew up together. I was eventually allowed by the High Priestess, formerly known as our 'Overmare,' to work in Xanthe's family’s honeywine brewery alongside her.

The zebras who ventured into Whitetail Woods brought back the honeycombs of the menacing Rad-Bees which lived therein. We used the irradiated honey collected from the woods and the pure water from the Stable’s still functioning water talisman to brew sweet meads for our fellow tribesmares. We brewers were not doctors, scientists, or warriors but the modest happiness and cheer we brought to our people were priceless to us. Honey provided us with a renewable food source. Any type of reliable provisions are nearly impossible to find anywhere else in the wasteland. The wax could be used to craft candles, soaps, and balms. It was a common reagent in traditional alchemy recipes as well. Zebras also believed that honey could encourage 'romantic' relations amongst young stallions and mares. It was not to anyone's surprise that once we reached adulthood Xanthe and I fell in love and I took her as my wife.

Since then Xanthe and I have had two foals. We were given two sons only a year and a few months apart. All things considered life was a simple in the housing dormitories of Stable Forty-Seven. These rooms were reserved for tribe elders and families with small foals. Since the Stable door opened so many years ago not one from our tribe has seen any signs of life aside from the mutated horrors of Whitetail. Some among us believe we are the only remaining survivors of the war. Sadly Whitetail is so toxic even our most advanced radiation suits allow our scouts to venture only so deep. Buried in the back of our minds and history we knew if there were other survivors left in this world we were in pony lands and ponies were not to be trusted.

My name is Zythus and this is my story.