Fallout Equestria: The Kingdom

Death is only the beginning.
In my everlasting life, I learned a great many things about death. Some may say I became obsessed with it, consumed in all that it was and will be. I prefer to think of it, not as an obsession, but as a profession. Now, it's true that after the bombs fell and the world was bathed in the Emerald Fire of those who I once called brother and sister, death was the only profession that seemed to matter. If you could kill, you could survive. If you couldn't, you best find a friend that could. But I took a different look at what exactly death was, after all it was, and still is, the only guarantee we have in life. I wanted to know how it became more than that though.
It was always an end, that much is certain, but I needed to find the point where it turned into an object, something to be feared or accepted depending on the individual. It was given a face at some point, a skeletal phantom who would ride from the shadows to claim those that had finally reached the end of their line. But even then it changed. This phantom became an object of fear, something that most believed had to be avoided at all costs, yet they must have known that at some point everyone must be claimed? Ponies, zebras, griffins; they all spent their entire lives running from death, delaying the inevitable until they were dragging themselves away shamefully rather than accepting the end.
There were those few who broke this cycle however, and embraced death; and suddenly the phantom disappeared for those few. Death was no longer a pale strider, instead it became a doorway. But even those who chose this way of thought didn't know what lay through that door. So they filled it with something more glorious than the material world could ever hope to be. Not surprisingly, this path was chosen mostly by warriors; those who had given their lives up to the possibility that they may very well be snuffed out at any moment. The doorway became a refuge for them, something to light up the darkness that was their eventual fate on the battlefield; banquets, singing, eternal honor, mares; it was all waiting for them through that door. Soon, everyone started finding keys to this door, not just the warriors. All they had to do to reach it was live a 'good' life, one free of sin and evil; but the best part is what they defined those sins by. Everything those warriors so dearly looked forward to, what they waited to reach through their door, was carved out as something inequine; those treats were only consumed by the 'evil' and 'sinners'.
But then, if they were not allowed through that door, they must be destined for another? And so death was given two paths, rather than one; that of the 'righteous', and that of the 'damned'. And along with this the world welcomed that phantom back into their minds, for only an immaterial force could possibly decide their fate. And once again, the citizens of the world feared and ran from death, frightened that they were wrong in their lifestyle, and that they would be taken to the black door, rather than the hall of the righteous.
I learned all of this, yet for some reason I could never fathom what must have happened when the world ended. There is a fear of death here in the Wasteland, but only when that phantom is standing right in front of us. Equines constantly fight, throw themselves into possible death, pump themselves with radiation and chemicals that only bring death closer, and yet when their time finally comes, they beg for life. No matter how many times I have carried death on my back to those who were not as efficient as myself, I have never found one soul that didn't at least somewhat fear what was about to happen. Even if they didn't show it on the outside, and remained defiant, their soul said otherwise. I could see the fear in their eyes, hidden deep down, begging for me to take the phantom away and leave them be.
And eventually, I learned something. Yes, the end of the world changed death, but it changed with everything else around it. The burning of our world overshadowed what death had done, and foolishly we placed blame where it didn't belong. Ponies blamed zebras, zebras blamed ponies; it was all a misunderstanding. But I found the true culprit, the one that caused all of this and is still playing their sick game with everyone who now calls the Wasteland home.
You see, Death was always the pale strider, not the door, not the banquets or the damnation. No, Death is alive and well, and now our world is his. He got most of us with the fire, the bombs, the war; now he's just picking us off one at a time until every one of us is forced into his thrall. So I made a decision, and a pact. Death had spared me on the day the bombs fell, and trapped me in his new kingdom; half-dead, half-living. At first it was a nightmare come true, something that I resented and wanted to end, but I grew accustomed to it. I thrive in Death's world, the one he created for my kind, not those foolish smooth-coats who think they own this world still. They wither and die, unable to thrive in the radiation and disease all around them, while me and my kind live on eternally. Death offered me a contract long ago, and I've finally signed; I live in his world under his rule, and all I have to do is cleanse his Kingdom of those who are not welcome.

Fallout Equestria: The Kingdom

"Welcome to Fiddler's Hoof!" read the large sign swinging on rotted ropes from the archway, the one and only entrance to the almost-safe outpost of the Appleloosian Desert. It isn't much, but it's a tarp over your head, a warm fire for cooking, and it's heavily guarded; all for just a little fee of 20 caps per pony, zebra, brahmin, or whatever you happen to be.
As you enter, a griffin guard shakes down your bags for the fee required to get in, all while his friend Wingblade wiggles his shotgun a few feet from your head just in case you try something. Unfortunately for some, there is no charity in the Wasteland, and if you don't have 20 caps they'll take whatever you have that they deem is equal to 20 caps. After all, kicking out a poor traveler who just needs a little rest would be uncivil, and the owner of Fiddler's despises the uncivil.
Silver Star founded the outpost a few years back, deciding that with all the traffic flowing through the desert between Old and New Appleloosa, there ought to be a safe place for travelers, traders, and caravans to stop and rest for the night. Of course he couldn't just set up that camp without protection, so the old unicorn struck up a deal with a rather effective group of mercenaries; the Talons. He would feed them, pay them each one cap per customer, and all they had to do was collect the toll to stay and shoot any raiders that tried something stupid. Now if that raider were to be a paying customer, he was more than welcome to stay; after all, their caps are just as good as anypony else's.

The camp is made up of a long strip of tents along the north side, just opposite from the entryway which sits only a few feet from the highway. Of course there aren't enough to let everyone get their own, but Silver Star wouldn't force you to sleep near anyone you don't want to, and he allows you to pick a partner or two for the night, doesn't matter how close you sleep when you decide, just as long as everyone who can fit in a tent is in a tent. A collage of metal and stone makes up a five foot tall wall all around the camp, just tall enough to hide behind and keep the light from the fire to a minimum. In each corner sits a platform that rises a few feet over the wall, granting the Talon guards a wide view of the desert all around them, and a perfect position to watch over the activity in the camp; just in case someone tries something stupid. At the center of it all sits a firepit large enough to cook a full brahmin. Each night, one of the guards lights up the pit for the use of anyone that paid to get in; cooking, warmth, a cozy spot to cuddle with that mare you saved from a bloatsprite a few hours ago who really really wants to return the favor; whatever you want.

The sickly grey light of day is slowly beginning to fade away in the Wasteland that was once Equestria, and a young looking guard has just finished lighting the firepit for the night. After looking over the number of customers they've already got, the captain of the guard; a large, black griffin named Darkwing; orders that the gate is closed off to anyone that might arrive in the night.

"Already got too many heads and not enough beds, lock it up," he orders around the cigarette that hung limply at the end of his beak.

His guards quickly comply, and the doors of Fiddler's Hoof swing shut with a loud whine of rusted hinges. Just to be courteous and to let any potential customers know why the doors are shut, Darkwing quickly flaps over the walls to hang a small "No Vacancy" sign on the door.

Civil.

((Let the game begin folks. All of your characters have made your payment to stay in this wonderful camp (even if it left you with no caps at all) and you are now free to mingle with the other characters if you feel so inclined. Just remember, this is a classy establishment, and Silver Star doesn't appreciate his customers acting uncivil inside his camp.))

[Redacted]

"...and then this one was like 'You will pay for what your kin did to ponies!' And I was like 'Whatever you say, but I'm not responsible.' And he was---" Rather young looking zebra mare with large lush mane were 'dancing' around large brown griffon. They both were near fire pit. Waiting till their cram will cook a little.
"Novae." Said griffon. "I know, I was there." He sighs. "Remind me, why I'm keeping you around?"

She brought hoof to her chin. "Well, where should I start? This way I can repair your stuff not only, when you visit me at grandma's place. I can make some 'boom stuff' for you right away...and you can't pay for me anymore. Oh and you worry about me, ain't it right, daddy?" She grins.
Frowns at last zebra's words. "Didn't I've asked you NOT to call me like that...when we're around others?"
Giggles. "Like it would change something."

Sitting about as far away as he can, a startlingly white Unicorn with a orangish-brown mane sits awkwardly on a large wooden chest, looking around with a slight bite to his lip at the different types of resting travelers. He keeps a close eye on anyone who looks remotely like they would cut him in his sleep.

The chest looks very out of place, being rarely seen any more. Large oak-wood held together by shining clean strips of metal was well kept compared to anything left in the wasteland, let alone a container that wasn't even in popular use BEFORE the war.

Nervously, he slides off the chest, whispering something to it before walking over to the fire and sitting down next to it, his eyes darting to the nearby company.

A masked pony sits at the firepit, her eyes cautious of anyone and everything in the camp. She turned her nose up at the smell of food cooking, having lost her appetite for what most ponies would consider 'normal food' years ago. Looking around, there was no shortage of 'food' available to her, even if most of it was still alive. She considered making a move, but noticed how many guards there were. Wasn't worth it, and there was no way she could pin the blame on someone else. Sighing quietly at the prospect of another day without food, she returned her gaze to the fire, finding it more interesting than anyone and anything else around her.

"Uhm." He looks at the bird perched on Charcoal's back. "Is your... uh... bird okay?"

The masked mare continues to look into the fire. "Maybe I'm hungry, maybe I'm not. Keep talking and you'll be dinner."

"I was just curious," He says, thoughtfully, "It's rare you see birds that aren't mutated creatures trying to rip your eyes out. Especially..." He looks back at the fire, "One so, er, colorful."

His mane stands on end when he hears the masked mare, and he sidles closer to Charcoal.

Yawns. "Is it ready yet?"
"It was ready even before we opened it. We just warm it up."
Takes can with Cram. "You know...I'd prefer something...more equine-friendly."
"Sorry to hear that. All daisies are gone..like 200 years gone." Jay said with a laugh.
"It's less than 200 years. And I'd prefer something else, like sugar apples, that I have in my bags."
"Well, shame for you. Now eat it, I know you can eat it and it's not that bad. Unless you're willing to throw away this food and eat yours"
"Or give it to someone else..." Novae scanned ponies nearby, deciding should she eat it or trade it with someone.

She nods slowly, not expecting a response. That was usually where most conversations stopped as other ponies suddenly 'had other things to do.' She remained silent, not dignifying the mare with a response. Looking at the filly, she frowned behind her mask, unsure of what to say. She was never any good with children. Or anyone in general.

Novae walked towards few ponies holding can of Cram with her muzzle and witnessed the moment, when bird burned to ashes.

"Oh." He says, staring at the ashes, "That's... oh! I know what that is!"

He frowns, "Aren't they, er, dangerous?" He eyes the ash suspicously.

Novae looks at pile of ashes, then sets can with Cram on the ground. "Does anyone wants some cooked Cram?"

"Like I said," He mutters, pretending to take the pill but instead slipping it in his bag. "Dangerous." He follows Charcoal back and watches.

She nods dismissively, the thought never having crossed her mind. Looking back to the filly, she thought about simply showing her what was behind the mask, but decided against it. "What do you think is under there?"