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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Tyrant of the Wastes
Five months. A mere five months ago, Equestria had still been a verdant paradise, a land of plenty, and the entire world had blossomed under the warming sunlight of its guiding hoof. Yet now, the land was parched and dry, an endless desert of cracked dirt devoid of anything green. Five months since the Sun’s warmth had begun to burn. Five months since the plants began to wither, until they could no longer take the endless heat, and vast conflagrations burned across the world as fields and forests went up in flame.
Those who survived the heat now sheltered deep within the mountains, driven to tunnel ever-deeper to escape the sun’s wrath, burying themselves away and using whatever meager magics they possessed to seek food and water, to struggle to endure in a world that could no longer shelter beneath Celestia, for it was her hoof that had ground the world to dust.
Only Canterlot endured, and within, the will of its Queen was all. No longer would she endlessly give of herself to ponies whose gratitude was fleeting, who always returned seeking more, who could not see past their own petty wants. No longer would she coddle greedy nobles, no longer would she involve herself in the pointless squabbles over land, over money, over things that had no true consequence. Her ponies had demanded everything of her, had taken her for granted, and now they paid the price of their ingratitude. They wished for her to take care of all their problems, and so she had, in the simplest way possible.
She had given them one problem above all others to worry over. She had given them a world devoid of her charity, and then established Canterlot as the lone sanctuary, with one simple rule. Anypony could live in Canterlot, so long as they agreed that her word was absolute. Any dissent, any complaint, and they would be exiled to the Wastes.
Within Canterlot, there was still food. Within Canterlot, her magic kept the worst of the heat at bay. The city was still unpleasantly hot, yet it was the baking heat of midsummer instead of the endless burn of the Wastes. Each moment of each day, everypony now knew to whom they owed their continued prosperity, their good fortune, their food and their drink.
Perhaps, soon, she would allow them to establish fields at the base of the mountain, and begin to grow from the seeds that remained, to allow some hardy crops to blossom once more. She had not yet decided when. After all, there was food yet for some time, and she would ensure her ponies understood where to give thanks.
Perhaps, even, she would make it a regular cycle. She would give them time to grow, to gather as much food as they could, and then she would set afire all that remained. Times of plenty, and times of lean, as dictated by the will of the Queen. If they kept her pleased, the time of plenty would last longer. Yes. That would be good, would it not?
She no longer understood why she had ever seen it necessary to deny herself. She had ushered in a new era, one harsh, yes, one cruel, yes, but there was not the faintest tinge of guilt to her heart. It was a new age, now, and Queen Celestia was finally free.
Those who survived the heat now sheltered deep within the mountains, driven to tunnel ever-deeper to escape the sun’s wrath, burying themselves away and using whatever meager magics they possessed to seek food and water, to struggle to endure in a world that could no longer shelter beneath Celestia, for it was her hoof that had ground the world to dust.
Only Canterlot endured, and within, the will of its Queen was all. No longer would she endlessly give of herself to ponies whose gratitude was fleeting, who always returned seeking more, who could not see past their own petty wants. No longer would she coddle greedy nobles, no longer would she involve herself in the pointless squabbles over land, over money, over things that had no true consequence. Her ponies had demanded everything of her, had taken her for granted, and now they paid the price of their ingratitude. They wished for her to take care of all their problems, and so she had, in the simplest way possible.
She had given them one problem above all others to worry over. She had given them a world devoid of her charity, and then established Canterlot as the lone sanctuary, with one simple rule. Anypony could live in Canterlot, so long as they agreed that her word was absolute. Any dissent, any complaint, and they would be exiled to the Wastes.
Within Canterlot, there was still food. Within Canterlot, her magic kept the worst of the heat at bay. The city was still unpleasantly hot, yet it was the baking heat of midsummer instead of the endless burn of the Wastes. Each moment of each day, everypony now knew to whom they owed their continued prosperity, their good fortune, their food and their drink.
Perhaps, soon, she would allow them to establish fields at the base of the mountain, and begin to grow from the seeds that remained, to allow some hardy crops to blossom once more. She had not yet decided when. After all, there was food yet for some time, and she would ensure her ponies understood where to give thanks.
Perhaps, even, she would make it a regular cycle. She would give them time to grow, to gather as much food as they could, and then she would set afire all that remained. Times of plenty, and times of lean, as dictated by the will of the Queen. If they kept her pleased, the time of plenty would last longer. Yes. That would be good, would it not?
She no longer understood why she had ever seen it necessary to deny herself. She had ushered in a new era, one harsh, yes, one cruel, yes, but there was not the faintest tinge of guilt to her heart. It was a new age, now, and Queen Celestia was finally free.