//------------------------------// // Prologue // Story: The Legacy of Harmony // by overlord-flinx //------------------------------// "History? Nay left to the old and brittle... 'Tis our fate to not outlive what we've been promised, but to live long enough to promise what will outlive us. The act of magnanimity, to accept ones fate with nobility and grace; this being our final challenge. So I pose you this: Do you posses the heart of endless fire that can fuel the fate of others? And if'n you do, will you part with it when the winds call for it?" You do not decide your fate, those before you give you the fate that they have earned you. To deny fate is to deny everything that your ancestors had sacrificed for. Once you draw breath and open your eyes to the world you have been born into, your fate is given to you. The fate you are given is final and unchangeable; to change it would be to change the past. To change the past would be as an easy a task as having fire not give light or heat. You cannot change your fate, the past, or your birth... But you can change your destiny. You have control over what you leave behind, what fate you give the next in the legacy. All it takes is for one being to accept fate and forge it to the mantel for destiny to forge a new fate; not a fate for them, but a fate for who will come next. The choice of legacy is what you have control over. What one does with this choice lays solely with that one. Once that is embraced... one will experience Harmony. Venture forward, the grace of light bestow, Nobility crafted his armor... Regality forged his resolve... Destiny granted his will... The proud and mighty guard of the Royal Family, though the title was long since buried along with the Royals. With a mane of blistering fire, a coat of shielded brown, and tassels of beaten red; those that saw him would claim they bore witness to the horse of War. Those that knew him would know he was no harbinger of war... And was as regal as the fowl perched against his gold plate. Few spoke words with this being, which made it a wonder that so many could know his name on sight. He was Fenix the Dragonslayer; a stallion who was never without his Philomena. His brow was weighed down with as many honourable recounts as it was failures. The greatest of those failures was the one he had to bury along with the Royals he swore his allegiance to... Though his will remains unbroken and his fire as bright as ever. The fire of life that has kept him alive for too many years to bare count to. Through spanning plains and mounted snow, The drums of celebration... The thumping of passage... the banging of war... With each step against the earth; against the mud; against the air; the rhythm of the world around him would tell him a new story. Be it the wind dancing against the stones to hark a tale of a fresh harvest within reach; or of the trickling of water into fresh dirt to alert that the road ahead was well covered in rain. The world told him everything, and he would honor the world by listening. The hooves he planted against his partner, though large and hefty, would go against the land as if it were a bed of flowers at each step. Actions spoke louder then his booming voice would ever tell; and what they told was of great truth. He was Ban Dragonheart; a buffalo chieftain and father of the fatherless wild. There is no measure to the lands he has walked across; the terrains he has bared. Each heirloom adorned across his body, from his paint to the beads around his tail, told of perhaps a thousand steps he took beyond any living creature took themselves. The steps he took he told were going to be someday the steps that his grandchildren, and his grandchildren's grandchildren, and his grandchildren's grandchildren's grandchildren would someday walk... And perhaps many generation after. Hear the trees stirring under their bark, The willow's wisdom... The oak's resilience... The meadow's calm... Peace and serenity, pride with no prejudice; in truth: nature. To ask the wind or the trees for anything is not foolish, but brash. You need only be patient, and be humbled by what the world grants you for your patience. That is what he believes. A belief that has brought upon him the blessings of nature and the nectar of sweet life for all his calm. To not take, to not ask, to not expect... But to be thankful alone. Thankful for what has been, may be, and will not. He was Pallanen Lifekeeper, the last of the ent deer. Where his hooves have rested, life has grown; streams have been reborn or made anew. Each stride, small or large is a stride of new life. From his antlers, the antlers that birds and butterflies nestle against in moments of calm, seeds and spores of unborn possibility are clipped against the passing wings. Through this, his gift to a waiting world can go even further. Not because it was stolen, not because he was asked, not because it was expected... But because he sees no greater kindness. Bones here do rattle against the dark, To err is not easy to avoid. Those that see this being, this being of inky garbs and a ghostly presence with a bleach white complexion and empty sockets for eyes, they know that to err was that being's greatest mistake. None ask, and few wish to even hazard a guess. Is it bound by dark magic? Is it a construct of chaos itself? Does it exist for any greater purpose outside of cackling and making jest out of near everything? Not one soul could say... But one skeletal pony could tell the tale. For it was their's to begin with. It was Surprise, a name befitting such an astonishing creature. Bound by no tendons or muscle, no skin or blood, but only by linen and bone. Surprise has never been a creature to lay on the idea of its own being, but rather being more inclined to make light of everything. "Jesting jovial is just just gents!" It would cackle and chatter with its bony body rattling at every word. Though many call Surprise an 'it', the few that have braved the question know in truth Surprise is no 'it'... But a she. Against the time, the heart beats prime, What was he? No one knew. Who was he? Not a guess. How did he come to be? A curious question. Why was he? Why was he indeed... Taverns far and wide told tale of 'the travelled colt', or 'the apothecary of passing'. He was beyond any sort of strange notions or anything. From nowhere, a stallion of tan coat and ragged clothes unknown to any pony's eyes came from town to town. This stallion regaled of stories from all across the world, of worlds that no one ever knew. Upon his back, he carried with him sights that clattered and clanged like no armor had ever done before. He was a marvel in so many ways; a stallion before his time. He was Whooves... No one knew his real name honestly. They only called him 'The Apothecary', or 'The Traveller'. When one would ask "Who was that stallion?" The answer would always be the same. "Who?". In time, the joke became that when someone would ask in the tavern, all customers would raise a mug and slam it back down yelling "Who's hooves? Whoove's hooves!" Why was this? Not one truly knew... Not even Whooves himself. But, if you asked him his name yourself, the answer would not be as mysteries as the tales would like you to think. The heaven above here, life gifting spark. Crown-less with a kingdom... A throne with no mountings... glass with no design... But the royal name exists without those. Years ago, the royals were slain in a charge led by their great enemies. Though they fought valiantly and in the end banished the heinous usurpers, only one of the royal family still stood. She pleaded that though her sisters were slain, that there could be hope found somewhere in this troubled time. That plea was answered... The plea's answer was Celestia and Luna... Before Equestria was founded, before the three pony tribes fought for supremacy, before Discord drew breath, before the Everfree forest had even a sprout, before the sun and moon were controlled by ponies... There existed a caravan unlike any other. They carried no bags; they had no carts; and they brought nothing but what clothes they wore when they started. They followed but one stallion; a stallion garbed in gold armor. Motion my motion, the five made little sound as their hooves tapped against the dirt trail. Only on a rare chance would one speak, and in that rare moment, it was usually the same phrase. "Bloody swear, Surprise... One more pun and I'm lighting your robe ablaze..."