//------------------------------// // Prologue // Story: The Crossover Chronicles: Adventures in Equestria // by Cool_Quick //------------------------------// Prologue The Time: 10 Years from Now The Place: In an Unknown Rural Area Chris J. White sat on his grandparents’ front porch, smoking his cigarette and enjoying the brisk cool breeze on his face. He loved this place. He remembered fondly coming here as a six year old child, with his mother and brother and sister, and sitting in this same chair, listening to Grandma talking about long times past, and how admirable his father had been. Now, as a twenty year old man, he still loved just the peace and quiet this place brought. Sure, flying cars and so on were neat and all, but still, the past did have something that no technology could recreate; natural peace and quiet. Chris heard his Grandma inside teasing the kids about her broccoli casserole she was making for Thanksgiving the next day. He also heard the sound of his Grandpa trying to start the weed eater, with no success. Breathing a quiet sigh of contentment, Chris blew out a smoke ring, and watched it sail away across the lawn and over the fence. He was reminded of that scene from The Hobbit, that book he read in fifth grade, where Bilbo was talking to Gandalf, and blew out smoke rings in agitation; hoping that Gandalf would leave him alone. Chuckling to himself, Chris leaned back in his chair the color of the lush lawn, and closed his eyes. He was rudely interrupted by the sounds of his Grandpa fussing at the weed eater… very loudly. Sighing for the opposite reason he had sighed earlier, Chris abandoned his peace and quiet, and walked slowly to the back of the house, following the cobblestoned path that he remembered from his childhood. Looking around, he saw the forest, once ominous, but now friendly and inviting, to the left of the house. To the right, he saw the rolling hills, like waves on an ocean, gradually spiking to a tsunami with the mountains in the distance. Speaking of ocean, there was one to the north of the house, sparkling now in the sunset light. To the south, simple farmland owned by his Grandpa stretched for several acres, before a wire fence divided it from the rolling hills. The path ended near the back of the house, where Grandpa stood. He was a tall man, but a stooped back caused him to appear shorter. His voice was deep and light-hearted, and his laugh was contagious. He loved the outdoors, and often told stories to his grandchildren about how he had shot deer and other creatures in his youth, and even showed off his collection of animal heads and antlers. His eyes were still alive and sparkling, with ocean blue eyes peeking out from bushy white eyebrows, which is why his grandchildren nicknamed him “Grandalf.” He was busily yanking on the start cord of the weed eater, which made him appear like a dentist trying to yank out a stubborn tooth. He was cursing quietly but angrily to himself, because a few of the young kids were nearby, taking care of Grandma’s radishes in her garden. Grandalf didn’t notice Chris until Chris tapped him on the shoulder. “Eh, what?” Grandpa exclaimed, narrowly missing hitting Chris in the head with the engine of the weed eater. Seeing who it was, he smiled broadly. “Well, Chris, do ya think you could help me with this confounded piece of crap?” He pulled the weed eater again with a vicious yank. To his surprise, the weed eater coughed to life. Chris smiled at his bewildered Grandpa. “I guess my presence scared it.” Grandpa shrugged, and smiled as he turned to the lawn and started beheading weeds. Chris sighed for the third time that morning. He knew that his Grandpa was involved now, and that everything else had faded away from his thought patterns. Turning around, he headed inside. When he stepped in the door, he nearly forgot to wipe his shoes on the mat, since the weed eater had kicked up some dried mud. After doing so, he stepped inside to smell his Grandma’s cooking. She was cooking the broccoli casserole for the next day. “Ah, Chris,” she said in her slightly shrill voice. She was a small woman, with a heavily dimpled face, hair the color of chalk, and a feisty disposition. As she walked through the kitchen, she limped slightly. “Are you alright?” Chris asked. “Cursed arthritis,” Grandma said, not saying “cursed.” “Thanks to that stupid car accident, I have to sit on my ass almost half the day.” She sat down on an old wooden chair, which creaked as if an elephant had sat on it. Funny, since Grandma wasn’t very large. She stared at the oven darkly as she sat and nursed her aching foot, as if somehow the casserole was responsible for her arthritis. She was quite a spunky woman, Chris’ Grandma. He imagined if someone tried to rob the house, she’d bite the thief and beat him with a club all the way to prison. “At least you got the casserole done,” Chris said, noticing the food in the oven. She grumbled assent. An awkward silence ensued, and Chris decided to break it. “So, Grandma…” “Oh, by the way,” Grandma interrupted. “There was something I wanted to show you.” Intrigued by Grandma’s sudden enthusiasm, Chris helped her to her feet, and guided her across the room towards the garage, Grandma cursing the whole way. The garage can be described in one word, messy. There were old bicycles from 1963, a refrigerator that hadn’t worked in 10 years, board games that could have belonged to Thomas Jefferson, and other such things. The garage was sometimes called the “Junk Room.” Anytime Chris was younger and wanted to get something out of the garage, it felt like going through a maze. He remembered turning it into a game of finding the best path through the stuff, and even made it a game with friends and family. Ah, the good old days… “Right over here.” Grandma’s voice disturbed Chris’ thoughts. He walked over to where she was gingerly trying to lean over an old dining room table that Abraham Lincoln probably used in his childhood. Behind it, she was attempting to pull out an old dusty box, but couldn’t seem to reach it. “I’ve got it.” Chris leaned out and managed to pull out the box. Its heaviness surprised him, and he dropped it on his foot. Letting out a curse word under his breath, he limped to an old chair that probably belonged to his great -great-great-great-great-great grandfather. “This was your uncle’s,” Grandma said with little emotion. “You were named after his real name.” Hearing the beep of the oven, she said “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you find anything.” She swept from the room, shutting the door a little loudly. Chris was immediately intrigued. He walked over and looked inside. He found a book of riddles, a map of some bizarre place he’d never seen before, Equestria it said, and a heavy book. It was rather large, slightly yellowed and rather dusty. Chris found this out the hard way when he blew on it, and the air became filled with dust particles. After blowing it off, he read the title. Adventures in Equestria: by Chris E. White and misc. Chris read. This book rather intrigued Chris, and he figured he’d show it off. Walking back inside, he headed to his room for a nap. He’d show it off this evening, when he could read it to his relatives. That evening, Chris decided to head upstairs early. He wasn’t ready to show it off to his relatives; since he’d found it, he’d read it first by God. He picked up the book and plopped on his bed; turning on the light and stretching his limbs. Then, he opened the book and read a small footnote. “This is the story of Chris E. White, and his adventures in Equestria. This story may seem hard to believe, but this can all be verified by simply leaving this book in the moonlight for five minutes.” Okay, Chris thought. Definitely one of the strangest notes I’ve ever seen. He turned the page and read, “There is a warning. This story can be quite emotionally scarring, and young children should be warned about some aspects.” Chris whistled inwardly. “Luckily for you, dear reader, this first part will be quite comedic, and will prepare you for the horrors to come starting in part two. You have been warned.” Pausing for a drink, Chris reflected on this strange first paragraph. His uncle was strange, that was for sure. He lay back on his pillow, and continued, “Once again, this is all true, and as you read you may find that you can actually find it very believable…” And now, here’s my (the author’s) slightly revamped interpretation of the book that Chris read. You probably will have, and possibly never will, see another story quite like this.