art by Sushimytaco

Previously in Beyond Equestria... Beyond the crenelated walls, the Luna Academy for Young Unicorns was one a beautiful, almost monastic village with cobblestone streets, academic towers, and a central courtyard lined with trees, boxed plants and benches facing towards an open yard with a simple yet elegant crescent moon mosaic. Now, a soft pink haze drifts over the rubble and across the broken walls, catching the light as the setting sun breaks through thin fissures in the clouds. Golden_Dream was led into this place, her friends following, by a reaper pony who folded in its wings, wrapping them about it like a black cloak, beckoned towards the school, and hopped down into the cobblestone walkways between the crumbling and Pink-infused structures. The group became separated from their spectral guide for a while. In their attempts to follow, they came across several audio recordings by a griffin -- once the chaplin of Shatara's Stable -- who had come here years ago in an attempt to make contact with the mysterious entities known as the reapers.

Those who read my blogs are familiar with Beyond Equestria, the Fallout: Equestria tabletop roleplaying campaign that I have been running for a bit over a year now, based on one of the story ideas detailed in my blog The Ones That Stick With Me. In that game, as well as my (now over) Stalliongrad game, I've continued building and developing the lands and history of the world of Fallout: Equestria. (These developments and additions are, of course, only headcanon.)

Most recently, as of the writing of this blog, the group which you met in my Crystal Empire Blues blog entries have made their way to Crescent Moon Canyon, at the edge of the isthmus into the zebra lands. There, in Littlehorn Valley, they have found the ruins of the Luna Academy for Young Unicorns, and have encountered something most rare and terrifying: reapers.

from Pink Eyes by mimezinga:

Warning: SPOILER

“—really, really late and I know I actually have all the time in the universe, but I hate these kinds of anomalies and this one has been going on for two hundred years! I’m beginning to lose my cool, there are a lot of better places I’d like to be rather than here!” A skeleton wearing a black hood was talking in Puppy’s direction, but he seemed to talk to himself more than the foal. The little filly smiled. That skelly pony was funny, he was talking like those grumpy ponies at the veteran retirement house! “Hi, I’m Puppysmiles! Have you seen my mom?” “Oh, please! Not that litany again! I’m going to resign, or strike! Or strike and then resign!” The skeleton pony was interrupted by the giggling filly. “Tee-hee, skelly pony is funny!” Stopping his monologue, the grim reaper finally noticed that the foal was looking at him. “You... can you see me? Is this some sort of prank? Because if this is a prank I’m going to give up for real, this time...” Puppy tilted her head. “A prank? I hope not! Last time I made a prank I was spanked ultra hard!” The pony paused for a long moment before falling down on his haunches, with a ghostly sigh. “At last...” Puppy trotted near to the weird looking stallion and sniffed his clothes. “Ah, who are you, pretty skelly pony?” “Me? I’m the Grim Reaper, Death, the Inevitable End, the Black Stallion...” From the foal’s blank stare, the skeleton realized that he was just wasting good words. ”But my colleagues call me Mort. Long story short, I’m the guy that shows the deceased how to reach their afterlife.” Puppy tilted her head, confused. “So... Have you seen my mom, or not?”

Reapers, or "reaper ponies", were only vaguely mentioned in Fallout: Equestria, but have been utilized in several other tales since.

art by SlashySmiley

Now, I present to you the Littlehorn Valley Recordings: a series of audio logs found in the ruins of Luna's Academy.

(As a special treat, as with the Gaia Valley Recordings, these recordings are also available as readings by the marvelous Scorch Mechanic! )

art by Sushimytaco

The first recording that the Beyond Equestria group found was this, discovered by the body of a dead griffin beneath an eerie rune drawn in chalk made from the bones of dead children.

----- OOO ----- (…ungff…) I know I said the last one was the last, but I lied. Need to keep talking. (…huuuuuff…) If I pass out, or fall asleep, I’m dead. Several of the ponies that I’ve met out here have told me that I need to find my virtue if I hope to survive in the wastes of their former homeland. (…unngh…) Well, I don’t know about a virtue, but I have certainly found my vice. (…uuugh…) Envy is one of the oldest sins, but few can grip a heart like it can. What else but such a severe character flaw could bring me to an end in such a horrid place? (…hunnnnn…) I’m beginning to regret not having numbered these. My pack… tore open in the fight last night, and my meager remaining belongings, including the recordings before this, were scattered through the buildings and streets as I fled the abominations that wear the faces of children. (…huggf…huggf…) If they are not devoured by the Pink Mist, whatever damned explorer finds them will be hard put to piece them together in any order. It would make for a poor final struggle. Still (…hnnngh…), I would like to be remembered. My name (…unnnph…) is Bonaparte. I was the chaplain in my Stable – an odd job for a griffin, I know, playing intercessor between the Stable flock and those we believed watched over us. But I was more than naturally adept at the role. Perhaps, if I had been born a pony, it would have been my cutie mark. (…hunff…) …was that? No. (…hunff…) Anyway… …the Wasteland has little regard for chaplains, and the Talons little use for a griffin with no skills in fighting. I had no place here and even less power, forced to rely on the expertise of others to survive. And worse, observing that even should I attempt to master a skill, I could not hope to match those about me – griffins who had been training since childhood, ponies whose talents and inherent magic gave them an entirely unfair edge. (…huuuh... huuuh… huunh…) To be mediocre was the best I could hope for. And I envied them. Enough that I was willing to risk life and feather to come to this accursed place in the vain hope that here I would find a power that could make me their equal. And indeed, I suppose I have. For we are all (…unngh…) equal in the power to perish. ----- OOO -----

The remainder of Bonaparte's recovered audio logs were discovered randomly, but have been put into chronological order for your reading (and listening) pleasure below:

----- OOO ----- I see dead people. I presume I have always been able to, but that the Stable afforded a dearth of ghosts. I have always felt as if I was somehow connected (in tune, I suppose) with the other side. The supposition certainly facilitated my career in the Stable. Not as useful, I must say, as the not entirely dissimilar ability of some zebras to see into the realm of the spirits. True ghosts are not only exceptionally rare, but the few that can affect anything on this side of the veil are even moreso. And those that can appear severely disinterested in lending their services to the living. So much so that I have questioned whether doing so is taboo for them (although I find it hard to believe that ghosts can even form a culture)… or perhaps dangerous, although that would require there be something that can harm that which is already dead and departed. I finally found a ghost – a little filly in the ruins of a farmhouse along the old zebra incursion line – who was willing to provide an answer to my query. One word: reapers. ----- OOO -----

----- OOO ----- If all I am good for is to barter with those beyond this life – those above or below us – then perhaps I can barter for the skills to be a force in this wasted world rather than just a shadow. Ghosts do not bargain, and unlike the zebras, I cannot touch the world of spirits within the realm of life. But… what if there were spirits in the realm of death? The zebras traffic with spirits of life; could there not be spirits of death as well? Just because the zebras know of no such things does not mean they are not real – perhaps they merely exist in the realm that zebras cannot touch, but that I can? Wouldn’t that be part and partial of their very nature? I intend to discover if my suspicions are true. And, if so, to make contact. My new obsession is more than fancy; it is grounded in the religion and mythology of every known sentient species. All have their tails of reapers – reaper ponies, reaper zebras… even we have our tales of skeletal guides to the afterlife, dark wings in the final night. And there is something out there that ghosts are afraid of. But where to look? I reason that the most qualified to inform and guide me would be the ghost of a zebra shaman. Who else has touched both worlds as fully? Granted, I have not encountered any such ghost before, but I know where I might look. The Lunar Military established several internment camps for zebra prisoners of war. I have learned that such “social re-adjustment” camps existed in Stalliongrad and in Froggy Bottom Bog… and, supposedly, in the fabled city of the Crystal Empire. One is considerably closer than the others. ----- OOO -----

----- OOO ----- Out of that swamp! At last, the light guides me true! Never again will I step foot or talon into that wretched, cursed place. And take my words to heart, anyone who hears this: neither should you. The name Froggy Bottom Bog does not strike terror as does Splendid Valley or The Everfree Forest, much less the sinister reputation that the Ruins of Canterlot once had. But I am convinced that is only because too few have escaped, and those who did failed to survive long enough to spread the warning. (True, there are those who make frequent passage into the bayou. Do. Not. Trust. Them!) Suffice it to say that feuding tribes of zebra necromancers is far from the only danger to your body and soul that infests the darkest stretch of the Ponytomic. Nor the worst. Still, I leave the swamp with more than I entered (not counting the wounds which will never heal) – the reapers are real! And it is possible to bargain with them. ----- OOO -----

----- OOO ----- I... <huff huff> I h-had to. <huff huff> T-to kill him. The Enclave scout. I regret it. He was friendly, guided me out of the Pegasus pony’s territory. Even offered me provisions when I was st-starving. But <huff huff> I saw it in his eyes! The moment he learned I was h-headed for Luna’s old <huff huff> academy. H-he was going t-to report… the Enclave would h-have come, <huff huff> would have stopped me! I-I’m too close. F-fortunately <huff huff>he d-didn’t see it coming. Claws on throat. <huff huff> I-I’m no skilled fighter, but I am a griffin. I can <huff huff> use what those Above have g-given m-me. <huff huff> It was fast. But… so m-much blood. Everything’s r-red. <huff huff> P-pull it together. I’m almost there. What’s one d-death, when the r-reapers will <huff huff> give me the power to d-do something worthwhile. Maybe even c-change the wasteland. L-little s-sacrifices. ----- OOO -----

----- OOO ----- They’re here! The story tells that when Littlepip first saw the Canterlot ghoul, Lionheart, she mistook him for a reaper pony. Seeing them for myself, I can understand her mistake, and yet the truth of them is so much grander and more terrifying than she imagined. The journey was perilous, between the Enclave and the cold, but it was worth every struggle. The old zebra’s ghost was right. The ruins of Luna’s old school is crawling with reapers. ----- OOO -----

----- OOO ----- My forays into the ruins have been, by necessity, intense and brief. There is Pink Cloud here – thin, blanketing the scholastic villa like a weak mist – but deadly all the same. I cannot fathom why it lingers. The weapon that killed this place, while terrible, was no megaspell; there is no dragon here to breathe it. The mystery, however, must wait until I can find a sanctuary within the school where I may rest and attempt to communicate with the resident Reapers. They pay no attention to me, save for the one with the burning hooves, who yesterday followed some distance behind me as I flew out of the Pink Mist, gasping for good air. But it did not follow beyond the academy’s decayed wall. They are not as… homogenous as they first appear. I can now distinguish a few from the others from differences in behavior or physical appearance -- the one whose hooves crackle with fire, the one who turns its wings into a cloak, the one with the shattered horn. My musings wax poetic. What draws them here? Why haunt these toppled towers and decaying dormitories? Why does death incarnate still trod spectral hooves over cracked cobblestones and crumbling crenelations? So many of the dark, skeletal death-spirits haunt this place where none have lived for centuries. Certainly, Luna’s Academy for Young Unicorns was a place of world-felt tragedy. But with the scope of the war and the wasteland that followed, it is unfathomable that… … … That was close! There are things that dwell and shuffle here other than the Reapers! ----- OOO -----

----- OOO ----- One of them approached me last night, the one with the hooves of flame. (The walls and defenses of my sanctuary meant nothing to it.) It stared into me while I slept, manifesting in my dreams, and we bargained. Not that I should call it that, for there was little negotiation to be had. They’re offer is terribly straightforward: power for service. I was, it seems, correct in my estimation that the reapers are not a threat – they seem unable to affect the realm of the living directly. That is why they need… emissaries. If I but accept – let them breathe into my soul, darken a part of it so that it may serve as a conduit of their power – then they will allow me to wield it so long as they can call on me. Even though I am a griffin… as one would expect upon realizing the power comes from something outside myself, and I will merely shape it. Like a canal shapes the water that runs down it. It is all perfectly logical. Spirits (according to the zebras of Froggy Bottom Bog) house a part of their power and essence in enchanted items, and what are Reapers but a type of spirit? I am shocked that it had never occurred to be before, but why should the Stars Above be the only Ones who can give the gift of necromancy? When next I sleep, I owe them an answer. But was there ever really a question? ----- OOO -----

----- OOO ----- The task they demand! They are not subtle, these death-spirits. There is no dance of seduction. No softly whispered enticements, as with the stories of the Stars Above tempting the foolish into damnation with sweet encouragements and concealed costs. With the Reapers, at least, there is no obfuscation. Still, I do not know if I can kill the children. All this way. All the cost just to get here, and I hesitate. Even knowing what I know, knowing what they are… They’re still children. Oh! No… no. Master, I was not questioning. I understand! They are a blight. Trapped souls in need of release. I will give them to you; do not take my power. Please! I will end the children, or I will die trying. I promise you this…! ----- OOO -----