//------------------------------//
// Prologue 
// Story: Dead Hearts 
// by Flutter Bloom 
//------------------------------//

Prologue:


Was it sunrise?
Twilight?
Vesper?	
Morning?
The stallion cared not for the name of the sun's ascension—he simply galloped on. Nevertheless, he did not blend perfectly into the forest due to his bounteous contrasting dyes that envisioned their own version of twilight. Aspen branches lashed at his legs, as the thorns from multiple plants seemed to have entwined with the hard ground and foliage took its chances to leave deep gashes in his ankles. 
Enclosed between his molars was a simple satchel.  Although he could have strapped it to his back, depressingly he was disallowed by the constraints of time. Nor did he have time to contemplate on a teleportation incantation, to effortlessly remove himself from the dense thicket established in the dismal forest.
Fleet of hoof, the stallion stained the dew-moistened grass with red. He glanced behind him—once, twice—before returning his focus to the forefront, fortunately averting a tree excessively willing to chauffeur him into Fate's domain. His tail had always been rather bothersome; the long strands of hair always managed to catch the sun's rays in such a way as if to embrace the gentle radiance  and unleash it on the eyes of those who needed it the least. His hooves slipped on the soft dirt and foliage, that caused him to halt himself,  if he had not caused his form to stop then he would have collided with a stone wall.
The sounds of the forest did beckon him—alas, the young stallion remained ignorant. He was tired, weak and his stomach groaned with growing hunger pangs from fasting since the previous nadir. His chest fell and rose with ragged gasps—a feeble attempt that was far from enough to satisfy his desperate lungs. 
His throat screamed as if it was engulfed by invisible flames. The stallion’s back ached and yearned for those extra limbs the others in his clan possessed, on the other hand due to his where he was he dared not wish for them as well - wings could have hindered his movement.  Closing his eyes, he muttered a curse into the satchel between his teeth.
His hooves moved forward, lightly touching on the stone. Bereft of warning, he felt something envelop his form - as his brain tried to gain recognition of the events that had been surrounding him, his thinking only seemed to only lasted but for a few moments  as his brain went blank. With his form enveloped he ended up getting rejected but this sensation that made his form to become spat out as if quicker than what a lake chimera would do when eating something bitter, this form of force that had gripped him tightly just to reject him was something he had yet to encounter before now. 
His body skipped across cold, hard stone as his limbs were pummeled against structures of brick and clay. He became aware of his own limbs breaking and cracking as he continued to skid, control over his limbs mercilessly denied. The precious satchel slipped from his mouth, sliding down the walkway and coming to rest before a young, white filly.
She remained stationary, watching, locking her sights onto his graceless, flailing body. With a meek step backwards, the sound of her small hooves seemed to echo through the halls that seemed to only bore the ragged sounds of pain from the mewling stallion. As she did, her small, round, pink eyes found purchase on the satchel. Curious about its contents, she lightly stepped to its resting place, her inquisitive nature assuming control of her decisions. 
She proceeded not towards the stallion, no; she was more stunned by what had happened to him. Never before had she witnessed anypony become a darting object of such great velocity. Almost at the bag, she stopped. Only pegasi could boast impact-resistant bones; the stallion might be gravely injured! The filly swallowed hard, turned on her back hooves and galloped off to mobilize the guards as well as to inform her parents, leaving the satchel there seeing as to her it held no importance.
Weakly, the stallion raised his head; the pound of taunting drums rang in his ears as his vision spun. Despite the crushing effort required, he found the will to stand but his will was overcome by pain and he remained to stay there. His body strained as he crawled toward the precious bag, its retrieval his only priority. 
Crimson trickled from a corner of his mouth, staining the dirty satchel he had previously carried. His left hind leg dragged along the ground as he tried to pull himself. Closing his eyes tightly, he shed silent red tears from the massive injuries he’d sustained. Upon their re-opening, the hues of the shades of the pattern of twilight, soon dyed red.
A small, barely-audible sound came from the back of his throat while he leaned his dead weight against a wall for support. His hooves scrambled for stability as they slid forward from under him. Allowing gravity to take him, he nuzzled his face into his coat, burying his bleeding features and hiding the bag as best he could—desiring its safety, lest something so precious be stolen. Though the forest beckoned, he refused it permission to absorb him once more. A small smile graced his features as he discerned the faint cries of a child, beckoning older stallions and mares to his location.
“How humorous—” he coughed slightly, nuzzling the bag as if it were his own foal, “—a small foal wishes—” a small, rough sigh came from him as a deep-throated cough followed, “—to help....” 
Soon, his smile drifted into a slight frown as he pulled his leg up some, dragging the bag closer to his thin, fragile form. A slight shake of his head soon followed as he forced his tail over his hind leg. Blood slowly seeped through the thin strands, staining the multicolored masterpiece. Once more, the filly’s cry: his location, where he came from, how he appeared in an array of magic. Nuzzling the bag again, he fought to remain conscious, although he knew he would soon succumb to the blackness. Allowing his vision to shift from the bag to the corner of his eyes, he watched the shadows dance on the walls. How he remembered the way they danced for his clan in times long past. As the sound of approaching hooves neared, so did the oncoming blackness that begged to suffocate him.
Feeling utterly lost, his throat tightened and his breathing became laboured. Unable to walk or hide his precious bounty. Incapable of magic, his reservoir exhausted, forsaking the forest that practically pleaded for his precious cargo. Able only to wait. He was afraid, though; afraid of them taking his stones away, afraid they would be like the dark ones lurking in the forest—his pursuers. 
He chanced a final glance to the bag and squinted his eyes shut, awaiting the rapid darkness. Better to die there than witness the newcomers fall upon him and claim his charge. Slowly the abyss engulfed him, dragging him completely under, rendering him comatose.