//------------------------------//
// Beginning at the End of All Things 
// Story: The Most Dangerous Game 
// by uberPhoenix 
//------------------------------//

Years in the future, but not many:

A DISTINGUISHED DERELICT wanders through through the eroded wasteland of a once great principality.  His destination: unforseeable.  His countenance: unperturbed.  He has time.  He has always had time.  Time is not something that stopped being a thing, and this gentleman has it in abundance.

He has spent his time learning the history of this land through its scant remaining documents, but he has yet to encounter any life.  Not that he minded.  Company could be pleasant, but it wasn't critical, and he didn't care too much one way or the other.

He crested a hill and consulted his map.

Canterlot.  Or what is left of it.  Hadn't the witch said something about Canterlot?  He tried to remember.  The witch said a lot of things, although not as much as the bard.  Unlike the bard, the witch's company was actually enjoyable, their conversations engaging.  He almost missed her.  Fortunately, he was above such base desires as friendship.  All of his allegiances were professional, save one.

The city might have been beautiful once, the Derelict finds himself thinking as he passes the remains of a tower spire sticking out of the sand.  Just because he does not appreciate beauty does not mean he is unable to recognize it.  The natives, however, must have liked beauty a lot.

It didn't seem to have done them much good though.  It occurs to the Derelict that a weaker man might let himself feel superior.  His pragmatism strives where their artistry failed.  But the Derelict is not one to feel superior.  In fact, he isn't one to feel much of anything.

He stops walking as he steps on something hard and unyielding.  Looking down, he discovers that the sand has ended and he is walking on a smooth white metal.  He allows himself the briefest moment of excitement as he recognizes what he is standing on.

Finally.  Took him long enough.  He gets down on his knees and brushes away the lingering sand, revealing a symbol in old and weathered green paint.  It's a spirograph, the symbol of his people and his homeland.

He smiles.  The wait is over.  Things are about to get interesting.

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