We are all born slaves, although few dare admit it, furthering their weakness as they wallow in the wretchedness of denial. Foremost are the fetters of ageing, inescapably fixed to everypony’s hooves as a dead weight. At first we may pay them no heed, having the strength to overcome their limiting grasp, but gradually they grow heavier and drag us downward. Try as we might we will all be forced to bow down to time.

Further chains are of our own choosing, being offered to us adorned with innumerable intoxicating treats. In sampling of these poisoned fruit we bite down on the barbs which lie beneath their inviting skins, driving them deep into every inch of our flesh. In this way we become mere marionettes, to be manipulated on the whims of our addictions.

On top of these well embedded hooks we also choose to fit ourselves with steel nooses, fatally unaware of each knot we tie in their lengths. The gallows is formed of our dependencies, be they on magic, technology or others, lazily taken up to ease our existence. With each new reliance we add fresh strands to thicken the rope, making it ever greater until one day a gun will jam, a machine will fail or we will find ourselves alone and then we are left powerless as we are hoisted into throttled oblivion.

Our last bindings are far more subtle, added by our own volition to strengthen our other shackles and construct a life out of them (hollow and worthless as it may be). This is a nose ring whose pulling chord leads us along a desolate path. Many pave their walkway with the promises of twinkling caps, leading them further into a web of chains as nought else exists in this void. For others the purpose they step towards is settlement and old age in comfort, but this is nothing more than a tepid and cooling sewer in which to decay. In any case our guiding leash is a terminal distraction.

Atop all this there is the servitude imposed upon us by others. They set us in a cage of honeyed words, forming locks from insubstantial principles such as mercy, liberty and morality. Primarily these create boundary limits to our potential, whilst at the same time they fasten us with the leaden weights of the weak and service unto the corrupt vices of the privileged at the top. This is a false hierarchy, serving a select few and maintained through a façade of hopeful possibility. Should anypony somehow breach the bars into these lofty spires they remain trapped, for beyond lies nothingness.

What manner of life may be led when we exist so tightly bound, forced to stoop low by the sheer number of our restraints? I would deny all this and take a different path.

I lift the tent flap, opening into the fading dusk of a dying day. I breathe deeply, letting the cool breeze fill my lungs, whilst the same chilled air plays across my bare form, stripped of all adornment. A red sea parts before me to guide me forward. I step between the rows of armoured ponies and griffins, uniform in their purpose, walking the few strides towards my place of execution. A great fire burns in a pit, the instruments of my death lying in the flames and my killers waiting upon only my arrival. The blaze is all-consuming, devouring the whole world before it in its jaws.

To call the place I come from a tribe is a grave insult to the dissolute, nevertheless it will be remembered as the 90th tribe granted salvation. Equally to recount its true name would mar the present, made brighter by its loss, so it shall remain lost to history. A more accurate term would be to call us a gang, a far more fitting descriptor for those weakly crushed by the profligate hoard and left as scattered pieces. My origins lie in one of these infinitesimal specks, spawned from a creature vile even before its downfall.

Culture is another title which should be abandoned, the word carrying with it connotations of civilisation which we entirely lacked. The features we collectively bore to group us together were nothing more than the scars of desperate survival, entirely devoid of higher meaning. Foremost of these were (and still are for us happy few) our fangs: serrations cut into our teeth as soon as they matured.1 Although effectively intimidating and even aggressive as weapons, these were merely the necessities of a degenerate diet. We were cannibals through our ineptitude to furnish ourselves either by means of production or acquisition. Similarly we wore the hair of our manes and tails in vicious spikes, masquerading it as tradition when in fact the style stemmed from inadequate hygiene. No culture, just a unity in our wretchedness.

We were a small band, the matching stripes I wear and many of my kin wore being testament to the stagnant nature of our gene pool. Home was a cluster of decrepit shacks, unfit for habitation and abandoned by all but our despondent selves. Life was scavenging, sifting the refuse of others or foraging tainted growth for sustenance like rodents, punctuated by raiding. For all our violent reputation and cultivated image our attacks were infrequent, either spurned on by the needs of starvation or the false courage of intoxicants and even then only moving against the helpless without the threat of reprisal. All of our sorrows and the limited prizes of our few successes were drowned in the pursuit of escape through drink and chems, although these were available to only the "best" among us, which excluded myself.

At our head was our chieftain, our solitary unicorn, granted command through his uncontested (if unimpressive) grasp of magic and ownership of our only properly functioning gun. In a way this was a blessing (even if it was not a redeeming one), forcing us to rely on our martial abilities with either our hooves or other brutally basic tools. In spite of this, although we would see ourselves as predators, we were not even threatening enough to be called parasites.

It was from this living (if that can really be used to describe my meagre existence) Tartarus that I was saved.

They came in the day, surprising our limited sentries who could not comprehend anypony brave enough to act without the cover of darkness. We happy few of us fought, acting instinctively, but nonetheless expecting only death. Of course our defeat was swift, particularly with most choosing to cower in abject surrender with the one who had led us, but in those briefest of moments everything fell into focus. The bitter reality of what little would end or disappear in my death was chilling, bringing pains far greater than all the lacerations, punctures and blows I received combined. I had done nothing, I had achieved nothing, I was nothing.

In the aftermath I would remain alive, much to my own surprise. Only later did I learn that they came seeking captures and that our insignificant battle was part of a larger campaign against our entire "tribe". Our chieftain and our other "best" who had grovelled in the dirt seeking mercy received what was deserved, being nailed screaming to crossed planks. These were set on a nearby hill, as those they bore slowly bled out, and stood as beacons to the surrounding wastes. Meanwhile below, the hovels we had called home were stripped and set alight, whilst all of us who remained were set in shackles. In time all that would remain of the damned place would be blackened earth, watched over by festering corpses. There could not have been a more fitting tombstone.

As we were marched away, laden with our few worthwhile possessions, some cried and others just stared in a stunned silence. My eyes spilled no tears; they had never been more open.

I slip from the fires of cadaverous memory. The past is dead and deserves no exhumation.

In the old world they had six elements to bind them. We require only two, raised anew in a refined form. We are honest, but not through the vapid sincerity of words, rather our honesty is in our actions and outlook. Our victories are seized through sweat and blood, not purchased by lies, whilst we do not flinch at the corpse-littered truth of what our world now is. We are loyal, not to a land or a ruler, but an ideal and those we share it with.

We strive to go beyond what we are, pledging our minds and bodies to this project of absolute self-improvement. As individuals we stand together in this quest, leadership a mark of merit as opposed to unimpeachable false hierarchy. All are slaves tethered to the weighty tyranny of this ideal, but made more in our choice to pull it with us. Nothing is given, everything must be earned. We are all born slaves, but we few dare face it and take up pure chains which cleanse all others.

The tools of my destruction are brought from the fire, tightly gripped by the jaws of my two saviours, ends aglow. My previous self lies afraid at the back of my mind. Most of him just quakes in terror, whilst a small part is relieved that we are not a unicorn, which would have called for a third sharper implement as well. I slash my machete across his stomach, explosively spilling his guts so that I may bask in the warmth of his entrails. Darkening sets of eyes meet and my blade goes to work putting his out, sending jets of white and crimson fluid spraying across my face. He had no need of them, he was already blind. He coughs, covering me in yet more blood, as his body sags, too weak to even support itself. I do not feel pity for the creature, but rather disgust, as I bath myself clean.

The two cross-shaped brands, pure white from their heat, progress towards me, their wielders’ movements perfectly mirrored as they approach my flanks. Fire has a special form of magic all its own, clean and unsullied. It consumes and it destroys, but in so doing is wipes any slate clean, creating the possibility for new growth, unmarred by what came before. Put simply: it is beautiful. My marks were formed in a debased existence. I do not sacrifice them, but rather discard them willingly, as I would my horn if I had one and far more if required. My fangs I shall keep as indispensable, but they shall also serve as a constant reminder of what I was, acting as a focus for my hate.

The crosses press into me. There is only pain, drowning out all the world in purifying white. I am born roaring my loathing against the Wasteland.

I will not fear pain or strife for they only make me stronger. I will not fear war for through conflict I am tested, whilst I will shun stagnation through settled comfort. I will not fear death for it is inevitable, but instead I embrace my glorious immolation rather than slow extinguishment. I am Legion.