After millennia of slumber, the ponies of Tambelon have awoken. For good or ill, they set their sights on the surface.
“We’re here,” Granite announced, stopping by an unmarked hillside a few miles from camp.
“And where is here?” Golden Writ asked, looking around.
“Look around carefully,” came Granite’s cryptic advice.
Writ looked around, taking everything in.
No structures. No ponies. No resources.
“Is this some game?” Writ asked
Granite shook his head, pointing a hoof towards distant mountains shaped vaguely like Saddlehorns, a river that passed between two hills, and a large fissure that ran through a third hill.
“…Nilfort,” Writ muttered, clearly dazed.
“Yeah, I know.”
“But… how long?”
Granite simply shrugged.
“How… *sigh* Keep this to yourself.”
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