.

Roving under the once clear and beautiful skies now blanketed in endless gray, the ponies who once were absolute masters of their world struggle just to carry on. Survival is the only order of the day. The one time gorgeous landscapes from forests to lakes and lush valleys now lay blasted, dead. Any glimpse of beauty a pale and sickly mirror of what was. Looking to the forever hazy horizon there is no trace of the former glory the land enjoyed. Everything ends, even the infinite which must inevitably circle back to wherever it started from. The end of the shining age of Equestria was instigated by jaded hearts driven by even more jaded souls.

The trackless, open wilderness which once stood an uninviting place is infinitely worse now, only able to engender fearful feelings. Nothing left to stir the hearts and minds of those just brave enough to take a fleeting look. The many in and around the great gilded capital city suffered most when it fell. Ages later, atop the crumbling remains of grand towers, a single tattered flag, once flowing proudly in announcement of the city's glory to an adoring populace, still somehow hangs, frayed strands of fabric left static in mute monument to the distant past. From afar the bold city, once the truest emblem of hope sits silent and still. Only an embittered memory of a ruin as even it succumbs to age and decay. Hope itself died here.

The leaden heavy weight of this creeping decay rises upon the battlements of this bastion. Glancing at it sidelong, this bejeweled spectacle of a city could almost be imagined to still stand proud and defiant. The quiet city just sleeping, almost. Reality soon reasserts itself. Even the light fled this place, keenly aware of what was being lost. The very heart of their society left to crumble. Some might dream of looking down from the lofty heights afforded the city. Only a dream, one which cannot be. The sun nor moon can never again look upon this affront to the light, if they could indeed look at all. No peace can be granted to the slumbering city, stark and dim it remains.

One of the glamorous palace rooms still decorated as if awaiting to host the next party, one which was to play host to a wedding. The table is set with all manner of exquisite adornment, fitting for the grandeur the city enjoyed. The kitchens, once a lively place full of banter stand ready for the master chef and the myriad cooks under their expert direction to prepare a fine meal for their guests. No guests will set hoof here anymore. The city, long an anchor, a central stronghold against the storm of conflict ever spiraling out of control became a victim of its own success. The very central target of all whose hearts turned to hatred, a prize so far beyond claim it had to be destroyed.

The bustling daughter town of Ponyville many miles away yet still barely within sight of the enormous glimmering capital fell to its own ruination. Many a hapless citizen fell victim here, both during and after war came straight to them. The Golden Oaks library which once served as a beacon in the darkest night turned to a twisted shell of its former self, a place of misery and death. The few remaining buildings torn and weary of bothering to remain upright in this oppressive atmosphere full of pain sit idle, waiting for the first dim rays of dawn which never come. The land sits in gloom, empty and waiting. The quiet whispers of happy times now even less than a distant forgotten memory.

There was hope here too, a hope that dwindled to a dying ember until the light finally gave out. This dying light gave way to an unending mockery of life. The great war brought fear which could only be followed by defeat. Nowhere could the sting of this defeat be felt more strongly than in looking upon these two hapless, once joyful places of old. Approaching either now could only be considered the thought of a suicidal mind. There are quite a few now, left wandering aimlessly through the wastes with no reason, no feeling and no greater goals. Aspiration to loftier heights is a thing left to the past. Nowhere fared well, that which is great does not discriminate between what it strikes down.

War was thought to be a trivial nuisance, albeit horrible. Nothing that would ever touch the very hearts of the ponies great works, their cities and towns for a time thought immune to the ravages of war. On the very edge of final victory one fell, then another at the end of this sickening game of dominoes. All they could do was run in terror as their proud army, the great defenders of the common good were swept away along with everything else to leave only suffering in place of pride. Suffering is the name of that day, that day when life stopped, and all days after. The tumbledown patches of civilization barely clinging to existence rapidly dispersed.

Any hint of true leadership vanished with the howling wind of destruction. How it came to be this way ceased to matter. The very instant the first megaspell was initiated the world itself almost seemed to tremble in fear. It took a ridiculously short span to reduce life to this cycle of constant misery. Taken for granted, the luxuries of the old world were reduced to rubble, the playthings of the past sometimes hanging on just long enough to cause some new terror to arise. On that day when hope met its end, somewhere one of great burden finally emerged from a very dusty cave to find his world gone. Shattered like so much glass, his heart and soul grew cold.

Just another embittered spirit left reeling in the aftermath. Choosing a new path he wandered forth into the dark and misery, his own suffering just begun.

- - -

Some choices hurt much more than others, how painful will this one be?