This is an Equestria of a different era.  Primeval forests shroud the earth with their green shadows, and ponies live in enclaves separated by vast distances.

You are a human warrior.  Your kind has always been rare in this world.  Massive and powerful of body compared to ponykind, your people live as wanderers and mercenaries, settling nowhere, rarely seeking out the company of others.  Yours is a dying species.

Your travels have taken you far and wide, but you are young yet, and there is much you have not yet seen.  You find yourself now high on a green mountainside, in a fastness of bat ponies sheltered by stone and fed by hidden springs and orchards.

There is a tavern here for travelers and locals alike.  In that smoky room carved out of rock and wood, you sit at a table with a tankard of sweet fermented juice.  The drink is made from some golden, globular fruit that grows on the steppes below the mountains.

The bat ponies pay you little mind.  You have encountered many ponies in your travels, and have been met with the full range of responses, from outright hostility to naive acceptance of your presence.

The chiropteran variety gives neither.  From your observations, they are a hardy and savvy species, often friendly and courteous to travelers, but highly secretive.  Already you have fought for one of their warlords, on a mountain far from here; already, you have killed some of them.  They were not easy prey.

That was several years ago.  You have had no interest in the mercenary life for quite some time.  You have preferred instead to follow your wanderlust, seeking you know not what.  Perhaps you will find it here, in this stony redoubt upon the mountain.  Perhaps not.

Your eyes travel over the murmuring crowd of bats.  They suck at plates of fruits, and drink of the same juice that ripples in your tankard.  They play games of chance and hiss and spit when they lose their golden coins.  Their eyes are of many colors, and their bodies dark like the night.

You have spoken to only the tavern’s master during your stay here.  Some of the locals have eyed you coolly.  Others have flashed you wry smiles before turning back to their games.  None have approached you.  You are not unwelcome here, but you are not a part of this place.

A boisterous group of bat ponies sits at a round table by the door.  They wear light armor and their weapons lie sheathed on the ground.  The largest of them is a handsome stallion with a dark blue mane and eyes like a tiger’s.  You can tell from the way they carry themselves – and by the distant manner affected toward them by the tavern master – that they are not native to this mountain hold.

For an hour you watch them play their foreign games and chitter in their secret language.  You daydream of what lies at the summit of this mountain.

The door opens.  A mare enters.  Her mane and tail are short, and as dark and green as the forest blanketing the slopes.  Her eyes are a muted gold color, like coins beneath the silt of a river.  Through the left runs a livid pink scar.  She has no wings.  The stumps are barely visible beneath her coarse gray fur. 

The handsome, tiger-eyed stallion hoots at her.  “Ready your weapons, lads,” he says.  “A beast walks among us.”

His subordinates laugh.  The tavern stirs.  The mare smiles.  

“Does my ugliness upset you?” she says.  “I would think a brave warrior like you wouldn’t be bothered by a monster like me.”

A grimace creases the stallion’s face.  “What poor wit.  Your words are as grotesque as you are.”

“Then we share something in common.”

There is light snickering among the bat ponies at this, but none of them say a word when the stallion’s face darkens, and none of them move when he stands to deliver a cracking hoofblow to her face.

The mare staggers against the wall, and says nothing more.  All is silent.

The tiger-eyed stallion sits back at his table, contempt in his eyes as wordlessly he slams back the contents of his tankard.  “What kind of place is this, where bounds think they’re clever?” he asks.  “A town of bumpkins and disgraceful bounds.  I will be glad to be gone in the morning.  Tavern master!  More drink.” 

Silently the master comes to fill his tankard, and gradually the life seems to seep back into the tavern.  The bats go back to playing their games, and the clattering of dishes resumes.

The mare with the dark green hair stands by the wall, nursing the mark on her cheek.  She stares at the tiger-eyed stallion, her expression giving nothing away.

When the tavern master has returned to his post behind the bar, the mare goes to him.  You watch their quiet exchange of words.  She passes him a few bits.  He nods, and from under the bar he pulls a strip of parchment.  He scrawls something on it before sliding it over.  She takes it and departs the way she came.  The stallion and his compatriots don’t even acknowledge her passing.  Neither do any of the locals.

You are not surprised by any of this.  You are familiar with the treatment of those wingless bat ponies called bounds.  They are outcasts, and in worse places than this, they suffer far more than what you just witnessed.

You stay for another hour, your thoughts clouded, before finally you drain your tankard and toss a bit to the tavern master.  You step out into the cool night.

***

Morning comes as a thin ray of orange light.  It is one of many, piercing through the gaps in the stones that tower over this stronghold.  You rub at your eyes and sit up in your bedroll.  You hear giggling coming from somewhere nearby.

You spent the night sleeping in the crook of a tall gnarled tree clinging to the rock.  From your perch you survey your surroundings.  Lights spill from the windows of the squat buildings below, and dark shapes move along the streets.  The bat ponies are going about their daily chores, taking their wash to the streams, pools, and small waterfalls that run throughout the settlement.  The sweet scents of fruit and cooking meat make your mouth water.

A rustling comes from the foliage above you.  You glance up to see two bat pony foals staring down at you, wide-eyed.  They both scream and disappear, laughing.  A moment later, you see two shadows gliding down to the earth below.

You stretch, cracking out your neck, before gathering your belongings and climbing down.

There is a peculiar stillness in this mountain fastness, a tranquility in the running waters and the shaded stones.  Wiry trees like the one you slept on, with their twisting branches and pale, desiccated bark, rise from boulders and seek the sunlight where they can find it.

The bat ponies themselves are quiet, but that is how they always seem to be.  Even the most murderous among them will appear thoughtful and serene when found alone or with friends.  It is only in battle that their eyes seem to fill with an energy you cannot name, and their screeches become terrifying.

You walk through the dim streets, buying a fried cake covered in sugary icing from a young vendor manning a black-and-blue pinstriped stall.  Your intention is to go to the market before heading for the summit.

On the road you pass the tiger-eyed stallion and his group.  They are heading up the slope, climbing the winding path toward the distant gap in the stone that is the stronghold’s uppermost exit.  Some of his underlings cast wary glances in your direction, but he is too busy talking to notice you.  You pass them without a word.

The market street is just coming to life when you arrive.  Ponies have set up stalls and carts decorated with darkly colored cloth.  They form a ring around a small stone fountain, where water burbles quietly in a round featureless basin.  With screeches they advertise their wares.  Some are selling golden fruits from the steppes, while others hawk goods imported from distant enclaves: bolts of cloth, metal tools, gemstones, strange spices, books.

Even at this early hour, the market is quickly becoming busy.  Locals lazily walk from stall to stall, ignoring the screeches of the merchants as they examine their wares.  You see bat ponies in cloaks, obvious travelers, come to market perhaps from the steppes or a neighboring mountain.  Foals fly around overhead, laughing and chasing one another, stealing fruits from carts and generally making a nuisance of themselves.

You buy dried food and a thicker blanket.  The air is thin and cold in this place, and you are still far from the summit.  A wizened unicorn sells you some thread and scrap cloth for cheap; new clothes are very rare to come by, and you have become accustomed to patching your frayed pants and cloak.

An orange earth pony and her husband have hitched their wagon at the edge of the circle.  Their spread of metal tools catches your eye.  You buy a small hammer and some metal spikes that you intend to use as pitons for climbing, should you need them.  Despite her thick accent, you’re able to negotiate a reasonable deal.

You buy an apple from one of her overflowing barrels as well.  As you sit by the fountain to eat it, you recognize a figure moving through the crowd: the scarred mare from the night before.  On her sides hang two saddlebags.  She makes her way through the market as if an outsider, weaving past the gathered bats who either ignore her or shy away as if she is unclean.

She approaches a stall selling dry goods, where its proprietor – a bat pony – eyes her with some distaste.  Nevertheless, when she gives him a slip of paper, his bright orange eyes flick over it briefly.  He nods, ducks out of sight, and reappears with a small satchel.  She slips this into one of her saddlebags.

Your attention is disrupted when you feel something nudge you in the side.  You look down to see a bat pony foal staring up at you.  His eyes widen and he squeaks, but he doesn’t run away.  You recognize him as one of the pair that was staring at you this morning.

“Yes?” you ask.

“Mister, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“How did you get so big?”

You gesture with the apple.  “By eating.”

The foal scratches at the stone beneath its hooves.  “Can… can I have something to eat?” he asks.

You glance around the market, keeping one arm draped over your pouch of coins.  Experience had taught you to be suspicious of distraction tactics by thieves.  “Where are your parents?”

“Don’t have any.”

You shake your head.  There was no way to know if the foal was telling the truth.  You knew an innocent, wide-eyed face could lie just as easily as a cruel one.  But you knew too well the plight of orphans.  

You toss two bits to the young bat pony.  “Buy something for your sister, too,” you say.  You spit apple seeds on the ground, having eaten the fruit core and all, and stand up.

Immediately the foal snatches the two coins in his mouth and mumbles his thanks around them.  With that he flies up into the air and to the far side of the market, landing on the roof of one of the stronghold’s many squat buildings, and runs off out of sight.  You sigh.

As you rub your hands together, trying to remove the last of the apple residue from your fingers, you feel a pair of eyes on you.

You turn your head to see the wingless bat pony watching you from afar, looking at you with curiosity.  You stare back, blinking.  Her dull golden eyes shine in the morning shadows.  A group of cloaked bat ponies walks between you, chattering amongst themselves, and when they have passed, she is gone.

***

The sky is endless and blue above your head, marred only by the ribbons of white clouds spread out like fibers of fresh-picked cotton.  

After finishing at the market, you had left through the redoubt’s upper exit, nodding to the guards as you stepped out onto the upward trail.  For an hour you walked along under the canopies of great trees similar to those on the lower slopes, but these soon gave way to scrubland and low grasses.  

Some ways distant you can see the grass disappear as from the mountainside great spires of jagged black rock vault toward the heavens, and still further beyond that, the snowy moraines of the glacial summit tower high and hazy above you. 

The climb is tiring.  The trail is steep, and the air grows thinner the higher you go.  Pausing to sit on a small boulder, you stare down into the valley.  The great mountains slope down from black and gray stone to the dark, rough green forests, down further still to the flat verdant steppes, down past drifting clouds of fog to the rich grasslands at the valley bottom.  Much closer – for it too is quite high up on the mountainside – but still looking much smaller from this perspective, the fastness of the bat ponies resembles a clutch of gigantic dragon’s eggs, long petrified and fused together.

After several hours more of climbing, you stop for your midday meal.  You are enjoying your dried fruits and jerky of questionable origin when you hear voices coming down the slope.  The loudest and most vocal of these is familiar to you.  You look up to see a large stone jutting up out of the slope; the voices are coming from behind it.  You expect you’ll be encountering them soon.

Your prediction proves correct.  Shortly after you finish eating, you make your way around the stone to see that the trail narrows to a long ridge of black rock, connecting this mountain to the next.  The wind here is relatively mild, though it has grown stronger, especially now without the benefit of even shrubs as a buffer.

You see in the distance a familiar group of bat ponies making their way across the ridge.  There are eight of them in total, and they are led by a blue-maned figure.  One at the rear spots you, but they do not stop.  It is not until they reach the other side of the narrow rock spine that they halt.  They turn and watch your approach.

As you near the other side, it is the tiger-eyed stallion who calls out to you.  “What are you doing out here?” he shouts over the wind.  “We have no need for mercenaries.”

“I’m just going to the summit.”

“Why?”

“I’ve never been there before.”

The stallion gives his companions an incredulous look.  He laughs.  “Never been there before.  My goodness.”  He fixes his gaze back on you.  “Let me tell you what’s there: rocks and snow.  It’s not a place for your kind.  If you keep going, we’ll be the ones finding your frozen corpse on the way back.”

You shake your head.  “Don’t worry about me.  I’ll be all right.”

Smiling faintly, the bat pony inclines his head.  “You don’t seem to understand.  There’s nothing for you up there.  Turn around and go back the way you came.  I’m sure you’ll find much happier work in the valley.”

For a moment you stare down at him.  The tacit threat of violence in his eyes, and in the way his compatriots hold their sheathed weapons, tells you that there will be only one outcome if you step forward off this ridge.

You’d seen it before, this kind of posturing.  You are not impressed.  Regardless, you have no desire to spill blood over something like this.  The mountain will be here long after this stallion is gone.  The hilt of your sword remains untouched.

“Travel safely,” you say.  You step back.

The flicker of a sneer crosses the stallion’s face, but he says nothing.  With a flick of his head he gestures for his companions to continue up the trail.  They turn, showing you their backs, and walk away.

You do the same, heading back down the ridge in the direction of the fastness.  The wind picks up, ruffling your cloak.  The trail is narrow, but not such that it’s difficult to balance.  Two sheer faces of stone drop off on either side, sloping sharply down into deep ravines below.

You hear the arrow before you see it.  It whistles far off its mark, carried by the wind, and careens off down into the ravine.

You turn your head to see the group of bat ponies halted up on the rocky slope.  The tiger-eyed stallion with the dark blue mane is taking aim.  They are far, but not so far that you can’t see his face.  His eyes are bright and hungry, his fangs are bared, and he lets out a bloodcurdling SKREEEEEEEECH.

The second arrow again misses, but you barely notice.  Your blood runs cold as the other seven bats pull out their bows as well.

Charging them would be suicide.  You turn and run, your feet pounding heavily on the trail as you sprint toward the other side of the ridge.  At your back come arrows and screeches, the latter echoing down the slope.  The wind howls in your ears.

An arrow finds your left shoulder, the barb digging into your flesh.  Your step slides close to the edge, rocks crumbling down into the ravine, the vision of a thousand-foot-drop into grey and green making your head spin.

You recover your footing, teetering on your feet, running diagonally toward salvation.  It’s only a few more lengths, a few more strides.  

Your calf burns and seizes as you are hit again.  The arrow punctures through to the other side, jutting out just beside your shin.  Just ahead the trail widens, meeting with the slope, with solid ground.  You were close, so close.  You feel your leg give out beneath you, sending you forward, tripping into space, your hands reaching out into nothingness.