• Published 18th Jun 2017
  • 448 Views, 4 Comments

Fallout Equestria: Dance with the Devil - count of hollow shades



Long ago the bombs rocked equestria, most died. most but not all. In vault 54 the historians and reenactors made a home for themselves trying to create an idealized version of the past. They all died but one, alden moonlight, the voice of history.

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Prologue

“On the backs of angels come the light of the world, a world reborn, kingdoms forged, tribes rise from ashes, and nations created in the wake of the day. The Day of Sunshine and Rainbows.” unknown ncr chronicler

Stable 54, vanhoover

Stable 54 was designed to test the old adage, it was better back then. Filled with historians, reenactors, and archaeologists. The overmare was instructed to indulge their eccentricities, the stable was equipped with all the period clothing, old fashioned furniture, and pointed blady bits they could ever hope for. Just one problem, the inhabitants, and the builders for that matter, didn’t know what “then” was “best”. Waistcoats next to togas, tricorns next to bowlers, it drove some of the purists absolutely crackers. Over time most got used to the anachronisms, and a new society was created from all the best parts of the ponies past. Chivalry and friendship, knighthood and equality before the law. It was hardly perfect, few things are, but it was relatively peaceful… until the changelings arrived after 5 years.

A bat stallion awakens in his cocoon, he has spent countless days in it. For the first week he screamed his rage and vengeance silently, plotting his escape and retribution. In the second week he started to count rivets in the walls, then the square feet in the room. After a month and there was nothing left to count, he looked every memory, every feeling, every sensation he ever had. That lasted him a few years. He then memorised all he had ever learned, growing his mind in ways he had never thought possible, that took a decade. He then fantasized about every single mare he had ever met or heard of, it took him a while to run out of ideas. He crafted stories in his head, surreal and fantastic, then his imagination dried up. He went insane, thrashing and writhing. He went sane, still and impassive. Then he returned to normal, and slept. In his 200th year of unceasing torment, he realised something. He really, REALLY!!! Needed to piss

On the outside of the room that make up the entire world of the slumbering pony, things change. Outside the stable thing change even more. Vanhoover was an isolated agrarian province, so the mega-spells really had no reason to land here outside one or two of the major cities, and even those didn’t really warrant a carpet bombing. Death came more slowly, the supplies of food, water, and all the other goods necessary for modern life dried up, the few resources that remained were fought over. Families, towns, gangs, and cults fighting to survive in a world that just does not have enough for them all. If that was not enough, the populace from the surrounding areas heard of an area untouched by the bombs. They flooded in, collapsing what little government still remained. Tribes, city (or more accurately town) states, raider gangs, and petty principalities sprouted up like like weeds in the spring day sun. a land in chaos.

A rumbling echoed through the his little room.


what… is happening. *clank, clop, clank, clop* hoof steps… someone is here!!! Rusty clicks and the swing of hinges get closer and closer. Who are they, oh i wish i could go and greet them! I have not heard hoofsteps in a long time. Here they come!

“boss , we found another one, get the spear!” raiders leave no survivors.

These ponies seem a bit scruffy, the armor they wear looks more like bits of kitchen wear and road signs haphazardly strapped onto their bodies. Nothing like the combat barding in my wardrobe, at the very least it looks like what it is supposed to be. That must be the boss walking in, after all he is the only one wearing a GUN! Is that suppose to be a spear, it is just a pool cue with a knife strapped to it! I have to get out of here, i am not going to die like this! Then came the thrust, and a scream.

Thestrals are a unique type of pony, scientists and magicians were unsure whether they were a completely separate subspecies of pony, or a breed of pegasi that adapted to live in caves. Either way they have abilities that no other ponies have, night vision from their cat eyes (which were studied by alchemists to create the drug also called cat-eyes), fangs capable of rending flesh, wings that can navigate the tight spaces of their cavern home, and the scream. The scream was first evolved to act in conjunction with their stellar hearing to help navigate in the dark, it then got stronger to act as a sonic defense mechanism. It then grew from a diversionary tactic to a natural weapon. A yell so loud that it could shatter glass, and for especially powerful thestals fracture bone. There is even a magic system that makes use of their unique voices. The only reason he had not used it until this point is that the sound had nowhere to go without killing him. That is no longer the case.

The viscous fluid that he cursed for preventing his limbs getting the speed to break the outer shell became his salvation, slowing the blade just enough to keep it away from his flesh. The thug tries to thrust again, but he didn’t get the chance. The outer shell cracked and broke, the fluid became a bubble that grew bigger and bigger until finally *POP*.

The raiders were mostly dead at this point, all but one, “who are you”

And came a voice, a voice rendered hoarse by a great scream, a voice from a throat that nearly forgot how to speak. “My...name...is… Sir Alden Moonlight”.

Fangs that can rend flesh, exposed throat. I will spare you the gory details, but let's just say it took awhile to clean the blood out of his mane and coat.

I am free. why was i forgotten here? where did the others go? Where did the changelings go? How LONG HAVE I BEEN HERE?