Undone by the Blood

by Visiden Visidane

Blood Drunk

Undone by the Blood

Chapter 4: Blood Drunk

I'm waking up.

Again, it's without a memory of having gone to sleep. Again, it's to the pungent smell of alcohol and formaldehyde. This time, however, it's mixing with the rotten stench of old blood. As before, it's to the hard sensation of metal to my belly. I'm not as much in the dark this time. I had touched a gravestone, just like that doll told me to. The warm surroundings of Sweet Apple Acres started falling away after that. Then, those little, bizzare creatures grabbed a hold of me, and started to drag me somewhere dark. Now...I'm waking up here.

No delays this time. I don't know why I was sent here, of all places, but if this is the same clinic as before, I might have to deal with that beast again. A quick look around confirms both a familiar sight and a distinct change. This does look like the clinic I first woke up in, but this isn't the exact spot. I'm already in the waiting room below the flight of stairs that led to the room I started in.

The dull thunk of my leather boots hitting the wooden floor brings a brief smile to my lips. My clothes. They're not the flimsy, bloody, easily ripped through clothes I was wearing when I first woke up here. Applejack's tough, leather outfit covers me fully, and the tools she bid me to take from the Hunter's Workshop hung from my sides. I find myself almost...eager to deal with the creature that had sent me running so frantically from this place. Yet, I don't hear any faint crunching or slurping nearby. Some time must have passed after all. The beast must have moved on. I doublecheck my pistol, making sure that it's loaded and secure in its wheel holster. The gears give a satisfying click when I set it in place.

"H-hello?"

I whirl swiftly, my saw cleaver already in my mouth. The voice just came from the room upstairs. This place should be abandoned. Now, I'm starting to doubt myself. Maybe this is a different building, and Ponyville just had uniform designs for its clinics. The door to that room was now closed, but there's a faint orange glow coming from a cracked portion of its glass window.

"Who's there?" I ask. It's hard to talk with a weapon in my mouth, but manageable. I force a slight rumble in my throat to seem gruffer. I hope I sound at least a bit menacing. If it's one of these crazed Ponyvillians, they might back off if I don't seem like easy prey.

"I knew it," the voice replies in a soft, excited tone; a mare's voice by the sound of it. "And you're not one of those wandering ponies afflicted by the beastly scourge!"

I walk slowly up the stairs, replacing my saw cleaver as I did so. Everything looks exactly as I remember it. "Is this your clinic?" I ask. "I thought it was abandoned."

"Yes, it's my clinic," the voice replies. "My name is Red Heart. What about you? Who are you, and why are you in my waiting room?"

She must be lying. This place was empty, and had been broken into by a beast. I may have left in a hurry, but I'm quite sure that nopony was in here. But...did that really happen? Looking back to it feels like trying to remember a bad dream; a bad dream where I'm crushed to death by a giant plant-beast. Maybe it was, or that I'm misremembering details, blending in truth with bits of imagined things. I shake my head. For now, I'm certain that I'm talking to somepony. One who had just asked me for a name.

"I'm..." I falter at this. "I don't know. I'm a hunter, if that helps."

She's silent at first, then Red Heart's tone takes on an even more excited pitch. "A hunter?" she asks. At this point, I'm aleady in front of the door. I try to look past the door, but the glass panel is barely transluscent, and the small crack only affords a glimpse of what looks like a white bit of cloth from Red Heart's cloak. "Then, I am truly fortunate. Brave hunter, I cannot open this door for you. Your moon-lit scent will drive my patients wild. But, please, grant me this small favor. If you find ponies who have not lost their minds to this plague, send them to Red Heart's Clinic. I will provide them with shelter and medical treatment."

I lift a foreleg, and take a sniff. Moon-lit scent? What does that even mean? Do I smell like moon? I fail to catch any particular odor, likely because my nose is still stinging from the pungent smells of this place. "So you won't let me in, but you want me to send ponies here?" I ask.

"Yes," Red Heart replies. "I'm very sorry if it sounds presumptuous. Here, I can offer you this much aid."

The sound of something small and hard rolling on the wooden floor draws my gaze downwards. A couple of vials had rolled from beneath the door and stopped at my hooves. The weak orange light from a nearby lantern reveals that they're filled with a dark red liquid, and capped with a hollow needle attached to a simple pump for injecting. Several more follow them until I have half a dozen. A seventh vial follows; this one is full of transluscent, golden fluid. "What are these?" I ask.

"You don't know?" There's no trace of mockery in Red Heart's voice. "Those are blood vials," she says. "Common tools for hunters such as yourself. If your strength is failing, inject them into yourself. That golden one is a specialty of mine. It's nearly three times as potent as the others. I hope they help you with the Hunt."

If my strength is failing...my brows furrow a bit. "You want me to inject myself with blood whenever I'm hurt?" I ask. That hardly seems a safe way to recover from injuries. For all I know, I'd be trading present relief for future diseases. It's not only that. Red Heart refers to them as common tools for hunters, but Applejack didn't mention them at all.

"You must truly be a new hunter," Red Heart says. "Blood vials are among the most valued tools that the Church of Harmony has created for its hunters. They are nowhere as potent as the Magical Mystery Cure, but they are far easier to produce, and they do the job of healing a hunter in trouble."

Church of Harmony again. I suppose I should expect their influence to reach all sorts of places in Ponyville. Apparently, not even Applejack's Hunter's Workshop is safe. I recall that rather dour look on her face when the subject of the Church of Harmony came up. I stash the vials in one of my coat's many pockets regardless. I'm still not sure about them, but I won't turn down potential help. "Thank you," I say. "I'll see what I can do about bringing others here."

Red Heart lets out a long sigh. Curiously, my heart flutters briefly at the soft exhalation, and the happy reply that follows. "Thank you, kind hunter, be safe in the Hunt."

As I leave the clinic this time, I make sure to familiarize myself with my surroundings. It's much easier now without a beast chasing me. But an extra goal and knowing how to get back to Red Heart's clinic doesn't change my current dilemma. I'm back on square one. I still have to get to the Church of Harmony, but my one method of getting there is gone. For a while, I can only stand there, trying to ponder options that I don't have. I can wander. Eventually, I might get lucky and find some path to take me past that locked door. Or I might die, lost in some backalley in the bowels of this massive city.

I have no choice, then. Like some castaway adrift in a sea, I can only grab a hold of the only available aid. I'll have to see Gilbert.

That's easier said than done. I was being chased by crazed Ponyvillians when I stumbled near his house. I have to retrace my frantic steps. I still remember this starting point, from the direction those three ponies came from, to what direction I ran. I hope to catch some faint trail of my own blood, but no such luck. But, perhaps, I don't even need that luck. The details come surprisingly easy to me as I follow the street.

I turn another corner, quite sure that this was where I stumbled a bit, and I was starting to get breathless. Good. I just have to keep this up. Provided that I'm actually right, that is. Another turn confirms my thoughts these are the right spots, I just...

Another turn brings me just a few feet away from a group of Ponyvillians. Oh, I know the signs. Twigs and leaves where they shouldn't be growing, freakishly elongated legs, and a variety of piecemeal, improvised weapons to rip apart a percieved beast.

I skid to a halt, cursing at my overenthusiasm. I got so elated at encountering a surprisingly easy task that I forgot to proceed cautiously. I shouldn't be surprised that Ponyville is still crawling with these madponies.

They look as surprised as I am. They hastily point their cleavers and pitchforks at me. One of them even fumbles, then drops his knife. I should rush in. Every instinct tells me to rip that Ponyvillian stallion's throat open with my saw before he picks up his weapon again. "Hold on," I say instead. "I'm not a beast."

"Look out!" a mare from their group screams. "It's coming right at us!" She clearly has the fastest reflexes in the group. Unfortunately, she's also the most deformed among them. Half her face had lost its fur, exposing bark-like skin. Those things she's biting down on her nail-covered board with look more like thorns than teeth.

The rest of the group, three stallions and another mare, answer with frenzied snarls before advancing on me. That's it. That's the last time I'm going to talk to these madponies. The lead stallion closes in on me, his pitchfork drawn back for a deep stab. An idiotic move. He'd have been more effective hanging back, and using his reach while his fellows rushed in. I leap in as a response. His weapon's haft is less dangerous than the iron tines on its tip. Up close, he has nothing but a bit of firewood to match against a hunter's weapon. A practiced swing from my saw runs down his neck, from left ear to right collar bone. The serrated teeth easily rip even his woody hide, and a torrent of blood quickly gushes out of the wound.

The sickly, metallic stench stops me briefly. Hold on...that was pretty impressive, if I do say so myself. Practiced swing? How's that possible? Have I done this before? Had I always been capable of this? The image of my "cutie mark" flashes in my mind. This could all just be the Hunter's Mark, but I might be giving myself too little credit. What was I before all this? A military veteran? Did I have a violent past?

The others close in already, forcing me to abandon any more introspection. The mare who had yelled earlier rears up to pound the nails on her board into my skull. My saw finds her exposed belly much faster. The horizontal swing would have sprayed her blood, and some of her entrails, across my eyes, but my newly-acquired tri-corner hat shields them well. Well enough to let me notice that the second stallion was rushing in from her side.

I easily flick my saw to its cleaver form, lengthening my reach while still in the middle of my slash. The teeth bite into the stallion's face, ripping out half an ear, and most of an eyeball. He screams in agony, dropping his cleaver to clutch at his maimed face. That's plenty of time for me to wind up an upward swing with the straight edge. My cleaver catches the stallion's throat, slicing through so cleanly that I barely feel any resistance. The cut is so deep that his head lolls back, attached only by a few sinews, as he crashes to the ground.

That leaves just two: a leafy mare with a notched kitchen knife, and a twig-eared stallion wielding a lit torch in his mouth while brandishing a make-shift wooden shield strapped to his left foreleg. The mare hesitates at the sight of my long weapon. So, they do retain some thinking ability. They should have used it better. This time, the reach advantage is mine. Just as she finally decides to lunge, I had already taken a step back for an overhead slash. The bladed tip of my cleaver splits her muzzle, from the top of her nose to her chin. Her body carries onward, only to collapse in a bloody heap a foot before me.

A look of fear replaces the frenzy on the surviving stallion's face. He backs away slowly, wildly swinging his torch as he did so. "Away!" he yells at me. "Back, foul beast!"

I should let this one go. He clearly has no heart for the fight. I had defended myself, so I should just move on, and leave this madpony to scuttle off somewhere. If I'm lucky, he'll run into more of his fellows, and tell them not to attack me.

A look into his eyes tells me something different. There's no lesson-learning in those maddened, bulging, blood-shot eyes. Once the initial fear goes away, he'll be looking for more "beasts" to slay. There's only instinct. Leave him for now and I'll just encounter him later, probably with another mob. Dealing with him now will reduce the number of potential attackers as I wander this city.

I take a step forward. This is enough to convince him that there is no running away, apparently. He charges at me, hoping to use the same move I used on his pitchfork-wielding friend. I hold my ground, and put a hoof to my wheel holster.

He gets a bullet between his eyes for his trouble.

To my surprise, the quicksilver bullet bites into his skull, but doesn't quite penetrate. The impact sends him reeling several steps, before bringing him to his knees. He looks up in a daze, blood streaming from his forehead. It's over. I have plenty of time for a strike at his exposed neck to end this. But, at the sight of this helplessness, my heart suddenly lurches. I've got him in a good spot, and I can take some leisure in striking in deep. No, not with something impersonal like the unfeeling metal of a long weapon. My front hooves twitch in anticipation. My eyes linger on a spot just below his rib cage, where a hoof driven with enough...intensity can punch through and upwards, reaching into those soft, pulsing, visce...

What?

I shake my head. That's disgusting. Why am I even wasting time on this? My cleaver swiftly cuts him down, neatly separating the head from his body this time. The crimson fountain that spurts out leaves me disgustingly elated. I turn my back without another thought for the incident, and focus on finding Gilbert. It shouldn't be too far now. I hope I don't run into any more of these ponies.

To my relief, I've been on the right track all along. The pointed fences and rooves may all blend into a pony-made forest of darkened spikes, but I recognize this particular twisting alleyway, and the chained coffins. "Gilbert!" I call out. I hope he's still by his window. Then again, he looked like he was confined to that spot.

A long series of hacking coughs answers my call. They sound worse than before. Or had I just imagined that? I follow the sound to the right window,and peer in. It's a bloody-beaked, disheveled griffin that peeks back at me. It's Gilbert alright. "You," he rasps. "Why are you back here? Weren't you off to the Church of Harmony?"

The entrance on the Great Bridge is locked tight," I say. "Gilbert, I still need to get to the Church of Harmony. Do you know of any other way"

Gilbert falls silent, blood-shot eyes staring into space. "Another way..." he mumbles. His silence stretches on into several minutes. In that time, I inspect my outfit. As Applejack boasted, all the blood that had splashed on to me simply ran down my cloak in thin rivulets. Standing in place brought the heady stink of blood to the fore. It's making me dizzy. It's a small miracle that I can even stand straight. I have the swallow again as the drool pools along the sides of my mouth. I don't like this feeling. It's disgust and elation all at once, but rather than fighting, they're melding into some sick amalgamation of sensations.

Then, the light scent of apple blossoms slips through the heavy cloud of gory stench. It brings my mind back to that grove in Sweet Apple Acres; warmth, light, and a welcoming building nearby. That's going to be my anchor. Without any memories that go back before this place, I have to rely on Sweet Apple Acres. That was likely Applejack's plan all along when she came up with this outfit.

Another series of wild coughing draws me back to the present situation. "I..." Gilbert tries to fight past the coughing and fails. I'm tempted to rub a hoof on his back to steady him, but he might recoil, and I don't quite trust my hooves at the moment. "I think I may know another way," Gilbert finally says.

I let out a sigh of relief.

"There's..." Gilbert pauses, his eyes watery from all the coughing. I fear he might get another fit, but he steadies himself. "There's another way...through the aqueducts. It's an old, hidden path that goes into the Ponyville Graveyard, which should connect to the tombs that the Church of Harmony uses."

"Aqueducts," I mutter. "How's sanitation in Ponyville, Gilbert?"

Despite himself, Gilbert cracks a smile. "Hope you're good at holding your breath, outsider," he says. "Then again, not much of a choice you have there. And you'll be doing worse things than wading a river of pony shit before this night's over."

I let out another sigh. Not relief this time. "So tell me the way."

Gilbert explains as best he can. He coughs up a lung and a half before he finishes. At least he sounded like he did. The shortest way to get into the aqueduct meant passing through a local shop that sold hounds, and an enormous boat factory. Once I'm in, it should be easy to follow it to the graveyard.

"This layout is insane," I say after hearing his instructions. "Why design a city so convoluted?"

"Well," Gilbert mutters. "'Design' might be stretching it."

"What do you mean?"

"I've told you before, Ponyville started small; a humble village that fit the name."

I nod at this while Gilbert clears his throat, and wipes off his beak. His blood-stained handkerchief is more crimson now than whatever color it was. "There was no plan, I'm told," he went on. "It was just...a building mania. New structures here and there, piled on top of each other with no sense. Giving directions is a nightmare. Beast plague or not."

"I see," I tell him. I check my gear, then dust off my coat. "Thank you. I'll see you around, Gilbert."

He gives on more wan smile before lying back down. "Doubt it," he mumbles.

With that, I pick the side alley from his house he mentioned, and make my way to the Church of Harmony yet again.

I've been lucky so far in finding Gilbert again. If my luck holds, perhaps I'll run into Ghast Coin again. This time, I won't be hiding behind him . There were also things I wanted to ask. Those things he said as I "died". He knew about Sweet Apple Acres. He's probably a hunter too. He'd know things that Applejack didn't quite explain. And...

I remember his blood-soaked form and his frenzied grin. That moment when he stood in a stupor while the massive beast on the bridge flailed about. I understand that now, in a small way so far, but I know what captivated him until he became heedless of nearby danger. Maybe he has ways to cope that I could learn, or we could help each other out. It's clear that he has it so much worse than me. It must be the years of hunting. The Hunter of Hunters did tell him to retire.

It's exactly as Gilbert described it. I'm moving closer to the source of all the incessant barking. I duck into another sidestreet, descend a brief flight of stone steps, always paying attention to the growing cacophony of barks. Finally, I run into the so-called hound shop.

I don't know what these hounds were supposed to be bred for, but that purpose was clearly gone. The creatures locked up in the many, scattered, metal cages of this area were gaunt, shaggy monstrosities. Each bark opens their jaws at a nearly hundred and eighty degree angle, revealing frightfully sharp, yellowed canines. Their nails are long and jagged, their eyes bloodshot and livid. These hounds are good for nothing but savagely mauling things now. I'm lucky they're in their cages. I can just move past them and get to the boat factory.

Execution's an ugly job, but necessary.

I sigh, and stop, before turning around to face these caged beasts. If they don't get out, they'll starve to death; a lingering, horrible death. If they do, they'll be menaces to be put down. Probably by me if they catch my scent. In any case, there's an ugly job to be done, even if I'm not using a hunter's axe. One of the dogs seems to notice my staring. It falls silent, eyes locked on to mine, thick gobs of bloody drool dripping near its feet. There's a sense of familiarity in its gaze that I can't stand. It's like one blood-soaked savage acknowledging another. If so, it's wrong. My cleaver easily slips through the bars of its cage. There's no escape for the creature, but, to my surprise, it lunges at my strike. The blade cuts deep into its throat, all but flooding its cramped metal cage with its blood. With a snort, I turn to the others. In a short while, there's no more barking.

At least, my ears can have a break, and it should be easier to be alert. Now, if only my nose could be just as lucky. The aqueduct isn't even in sight, but the horrendous stench of raw sewage is already doing its work on me. A river of pony shit sounds about right. And it smells like an old river too. Years upon years of diseased ordure swimming in urine, oozing along an unwashed passage. There's probably clouds of flies, and a carpet of maggots.

An enormous wooden structure looms ahead. The wooden planks of its floor creak with telltale steps of whatever creatures lurking inside. Not good. I'm still sick over all the blood. I don't know what will happen if I keep slaughtering these beasts, even in self-defense. The image of that dead dog, still foaming at the mouth, eyes still livid in death, and Ghast Coin, stupefied by his own carnage, flashes in my mind. I don't want that.

Maybe I can just avoid fighting too much. That factory has a lot of shadows, as does most of Ponyville. I can sneak past these creatures. No more wild running like earlier.

Making my way inside proves harder than expected. It's like penetrating a thick, cloying, almost liquid cloud of hot gas. The stench is viler than even I imagined. I have to hold back a cough and a gag while trying to clear my eyes of tears. I stick to the walls, pressing against them to be sure. The steps are getting louder, but they don't sound much like a pony's. They're heavier, slower, and accompanied by the scrape of claws against wood and some definitely unponylike growls. To make things worse, the dim, orange glow of a torch is following those sounds.

Fortunately, this factory has more than just shadows. I duck behind a jumble of wooden barrels and crates thrown in haphazardly with piles of planks. It's either there was some kind of fight here or these Ponyvillians are the most disorganized workers around. The growls grow even louder, and I catch the stink of sweaty, unwashed fur matted with blood amidst the scents of urine and excrement. I should keep my head low and wait for the torch light to pass by, but there's that damned curiosity again. A quick peep, that's all I need. The steps don't sound like a pony's, the rhythm's from only two legs hitting the ground, and it's all alone. This is something else, and I need to take note.

The thing passes by my hiding spot without even a sidealong glance. I stifle a sharp gasp at the sight. It is a pony. Or was. It's torso is badly deformed, but still recognizable. Its hind legs have become so elongated that they resemble tree branches than anything else. Its "claws" look like hooves caught in mid-transformation. The edges had started splitting into pointed fingers, but the middle is still a hoof. One hoof-claw has a torch, as I assumed, while the other carries what looks like a two-pony saw, the sort meant for felling huge trees. I doubt my torso will prove a tougher challenge. Not that I'm planning to come even close to being hit. The creature's face is a mass of leaves and twigs, worse than any other Ponyvillian I had seen so far. I can barely see the blood-shot eyes or the thorny muzzle. It wears the same clothes as the other Ponyvillians, but its leafy fur and much larger body had torn the outfit into barely clinging shreds.

The creature stops briefly to look around, and I hold my breath. Is it patrolling? It's still smart enough to use a torch. There might be others somewhere waiting for it to come back. I let my breath out when it moves on. The stink is getting worse. This place truly must have been built on a mania. Farther into the factory, I come upon the deeply dug aqueduct. There's wrecked boats along the sides. The greenish brown sludge looks far from inviting. Worse still is the chorus of splashes and squeaks coming from below.

Time to survey my options. "Follow the aqueduct," Gilbert said. I can wade in there. Given what I've seen of Ponyville, I should assume that the rats I just heard are as big as I am. The aqueduct itself goes straight on towards the exit of this factory before turning sharply. I can follow from the elevated sides, which will likely include the nearby streets. That's probably the better idea. I can always jump in there if I run out of street, or if the way to this graveyard really needs me to get down there.

It's settled then. I stick to the walls, and move on. Good move as it turns out. There's a second one of these gangly, two-legged pony-beasts. This one's content just to stand around. It's likely waiting for the other one. We'll, I'm not interested in fighting one of them, let alone two.

I slip out of the factory without further trouble. Good. So far, I am avoiding any more combat. Maybe I can get out of this nightmarish city without too much blood on me.

The muffled cries of what sounds like a foal stops me in my tracks.

Oh no. I look around, desperately hoping that it's actually a trap. Loud grunts follow those cries, then the crack of stone smashing into stone. No...I'm sure to run into a beast if I investigate. It must be a trap. I have to--

Of course I gallop towards the sound. I even have to briefly move away from the aqueduct, and climb a short ladder into a higher level street before I stumble towards its source.

"Somepony...please help!"

There's no mistaking that filly's cry. It's coming from a metal-barred window on the second floor of a house. Unfortunately, beneath that window lies the problem.

It's not a pony this time, deformed or otherwise. It's hard to misplace those long, curving horns, the enormous size, or the bulging shoulder muscles. Minotaur bull. Its coat is shaggy with twigs and leaves, just like the others. So this beastly plague isn't limited to ponies. A mess of bloody bandages cover nearly three quarters of its face, including an eye. What flesh is visible appears mangled, raw, and hairless. It's as if this minotaur's head had already shattered, and somepony had done a crude job of bandaging it back together. Its jaw slings lopsidedly open on one side, revealing broken yellow molars, and a swollen, reddish-purple tongue dripping with drool. I scuff the pavement slightly as I skid to a stop. That's enough to catch its attention.

It seems I also caught the filly's attention as well. The cries stop, and I catch a brief silhouette of somepony small by the window. That's all the attention I can spare for her for now, however. The minotaur lets out something that's between a pained moan and a grunt, then hefts its weapon with both hands. It's one of those life-sized cloaked mare statues all around the city. This minotaur is planning to smash me with a stone pony of my size.

Big mistake.

Despite its horrific injuries, the minotaur displays the incredible strength one would expect of its race. It takes only a couple of seconds for it to wind up its peculiar weapon, and bring it down with bone-smashing force. It takes me half that time to be out of the way. My mane flies up as the statue whiffs just above my head. I duck under the minotaur's left arm as it makes another overhead swing, positioning myself behind it, and running my saw across its side for its trouble.

The jagged, profusely bleeding wound only seems to anger the minotaur. It lets out a bellow and raises the statue high above its head. My heart's beating wildly, instincts screaming that I focus all my efforts into getting away. I fight them back, and wait a few precious seconds. The minotaurs head starts descending along with its swing when I fire my pistol.

The bullet hits the brow of its remaing eye, dragging a deep gouge across its forehead before biting into its right horn. There's a loud, dull crack of thick bone shattering as its horn flies off. The minotaur's eyes widen, and its weapon slips from its fingers.

My heart beats even wilder, and it's not out of trepidation. There's that moment of vulnerability again. The wound to its side beckons me with crimson rivulets. So easy...

My hoof finds its way to that wound before I can--

Ah...I can't help but shudder and gasp as my hoof plunges into the jagged wound, slips past the rib cage, and settles in with the minotaur's innards. They're so soft and so warm. How can any of us be so hard and brutal on the outside, yet so soft and delicate within? The viscera writhe and twitch against my slowly soaking fur. The sickly stench is heady, intoxicating. My lips split into a wide grin on instinct. This fight's mine. Every panicked beat from the minotaur's chest is a loud confirmation. It tries to push me away weakly, but I drive my foreleg even deeper, relishing every squelch, every spurt of thick, warm blood on my coat. Finally, I rip it away in a rush of exultation, dragging out dark red strips of gore and gobs of blood. Blood, warm, sweet-smelling blood splatters across my face and chest.

The minotaur flies backward and onto its back. It groans weakly, hand raised towards me, as if I can hand it back its guts so it can fix itself. A second more, and its dead eyes are staring vacantly at Ponyville's smoky night sky. One more prey for this hunter.

"Hello?" a filly's voice calls out. The silhouette by the window draws the curtains back just slightly, revealing a lone, lavender eye and a quarter of a pink-furred muzzle. "Mister? Are you alright?"

The crimson haze and the intoxicating rush fades from my mind.

I...what have I done?

Comments

[Reader Review]

Listening to the Hunter's inner monologue about enjoying the visceral attacks was interesting to say the least. Sort of got me thinking about my last run through the game. As a player we are incentivized to act on the helplessness of our foes. The bonus of damage, brief invincibility, and in some cases health recovery are highly desirably.

When you think about it's kind of genius game design. It encourages you to be aggressive, while thematically portraying a world where we can see the outcome of such behavior clearly. On some level I wish the game explored these subjects more from a narrative stand point, but I suppose that's just another reason why I'm digging this story.

[stringtheory]

Have I mentioned how good your writing is Visiden? Even if I have, I'll say it again.
Also, HOLY SHIT, you've gone full grimdark, I'm not sure whether I should be enjoying it or be glad that the Upheaval series merely sticks it's leg into the grimdark pool rather than wading right in like Undone.
I can see the Hunter very quickly going full psychopath, he's already halfway there, with plenty of delusions to boot. The increasing disconnect with more, saner, schools of thought, should be interesting to see hopefully with some juxtaposition against saner characters, if that description can really apply in a town like this...

[DannyJ]

This guy got a successful parry on his first try.

I do not understand how this is so.

[Visiden Visidane]

6756356

Obviously, he stole Applejack's insta-stagger gun. No need to wait for an attack, just point, shoot, then stick your hoof in there.

[DannyJ]

6758568

Goddamn hackers.

This pony needs a ledge.

[Silverblade5]

6758629
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Ob0hV4JWonM