//------------------------------// // Dark Horse // Story: The Fading World // by Neon Czolgosz //------------------------------// Trixie paid the driver with money stolen from Sunset Shimmer’s room and got out of the chariot. She was breathing hard under the weight of her heavy-duty saddlebags, which were still a burden despite her quick-and-dirty feather charm. Tucked between the straps of her saddlebags was a rolled-up copy of the Canterlot Times, and an enchanted kitchen knife lay sheathed inside for easy retrieval. These hills weren’t as dangerous as the Everfree, or even some of the darker alleys in Canterlot, but wolves or the odd lost manticore were no joke. The night wind whipped her mane across her face. She wore only her saddlebags and a thin, purple cape. She wished for the warmth of the chariot once more, but began to walk deep into the hills. She had spent the trip from Canterlot re-reading the notebook, cross-referencing it with her textbooks and absorbing as much information as she could manage. The notebook had taught her much already. The Grail War. A magical contest between the most powerful mages in Equestria, with a wish for the winner. The contest alone would allow Trixie to prove herself a real mage, to hire out her services to anyone who needed them, and to make her miserable gate-keeping detractors back off. But a wish? With a wish, she could literally do anything! Riches, fame and fortune! She could help her family, her entire extended family, and let them live like pampered nobles. Or better, she could help everypony instead of hoarding magic for herself like Sunset Shimmer and every other greedy bastard mage involved would. Everypony in Equestria could have food in their bellies and a roof over their heads, and they wouldn’t have to desperately scrabble each winter just not to die alone in the cold. All of Equestria would know her, Trixie would be a hero, a harmonic soul, and they would sing praises in her name forevermore! Not that it would be that simple. She had to win this thing first. A new set of thoughts, fears, and fantasies had bloomed in her mind with every passage she had read. ’—each Servant is a powerful figure from legend, summoned by a Master to fight in the war. The Servants usually do the bulk of the fighting, and once a Servant is destroyed, the Master loses their command spells and is no longer a participant—’ That had been a relief. Trixie was talented, but Sunset Shimmer’s power was literally terrifying. If they were going to battle, she’d need a powerful proxy backing her. And now, Trixie would have the Servant that Sunset had originally desired... ’—Servants fit into one of five possible vessels, created by the Grail: Archer, Lancer, Assassin, Saber, and Caster. Heroes are placed into classes depending on their traits in life. Although the summoning ritual can influence class selection to a degree, the Grail ranks and chooses which Servant is most suitable for a given class—’ This was interesting. What would best suit her? The martial might of a Lancer or Saber, backed by her illusions and magic? The destructive power of Archer? Assassin’s stealth? Or Caster’s raw magical power? It was probably moot, but still fascinating to contemplate. ’—Master receives three command spells. A command spell channels the magical energies of the Master through the Servant, and can either force a Servant to do something they are unwilling or reluctant to do, or instead provide a boost of power to certain pursuits. Command spells should only be used to bend Servants in dire circumstances, as an angered Servant can turn on their Master (c.f. Berryshine of House Blackstar in the fourth Grail War)—’ ...Not exactly a reassuring thought, thought Trixie, but nothing to despair over. She had charisma, and if a pony like Sunset Shimmer could charm a Servant, so could she. ’—the existence of a Noble Phantasm. A Noble Phantasm (NP) is a treasure, weapon or ability linked so strongly with a Servant’s legend that Servant and Phantasm are essentially inseparable. For example, all legends and records of Commander Hurricane of Pegasopolis state that he had total mastery of the weather around him. When he was summoned into the Archer vessel in the seventh Grail War, his NP was the Banner of Storms, a standard that controlled weather absolutely. He could bring down columns of lightning indoors, or drown a city in sudden floods, crush his targets with melon-sized hailstones, and even create storms of fire or acid—’ Rain started to splatter on Trixie’s nose as she walked through the dark scrubland. She thought of that passage, and wanted that banner right now simply to keep the wind and rain off of her. ’—are constructs created by the Grail and hence are imbued with knowledge of the modern era and of the rules of the Grail War—’ Another relief. Trixie did not relish the thought of having to slowly learn old Equine before she could exchange anything more than confused hoof gestures with her Servant. —though each Servant is created by the Grail, a certain power threshold must be reached to successfully summon one. An underpowered ritual, if it works at all, could lead to a maddened Servant, a Servant placed in the wrong class, or simply a Servant with weaker abilities than normal. A strong bond between Master and Servant can improve the Servant’s abilities, but the optimal solution is to ensure enough power is available for the summoning. This can be accomplished by reagent decomposition, the mage’s own supply of magic, or a magically-enriched summoning environment— That part was challenging. Trixie was a better mage than most—she passed the brutally difficult end of year exams at the Canterlot Academy for two years running, where half of her compatriots failed each year. But this was no mere exam, it was a contest between some of the most powerful mages in Equestria. She knew she did not have the sheer raw life-force that a mage like Sunset Shimmer could bring to bear. Still, she had a plan. First, she had her life savings. Not money, the only money to her name was the near-empty purse of bits she’d stolen from Sunset Shimmer’s room. Her life savings were magic. All the various little charms and tokens and items she’d cobbled together over the years, the enchanted anti-cheating pencils she’d stolen for exam ‘practice’, the everpepper mill, the wand of venereal discomfiture, the potions of third-eye, a deck of tarot cards, the staff of whispering, the collar of pity, a gallon jug of healing salve, the tiny vial of vampony dust, a bottle of mitebane, exploding soap, a crystal relay, her first spellbook, and dozens of other things she had collected, bought, bartered, borrowed and stolen over the years. These were her life savings. She had even gone on a quick tour of the academy before she left, stealing windcheater charms off awnings, dust from casting rooms, chippings of rock from the oldest buildings. All of these things were currently weighing down her saddlebags and squeezing her ribcage with every step. Second, she had a place. It had taken her a day’s chariot from Canterlot and another hour on hoof to get there, but she could see her destination on the horizon. Ghastly Gorge, a series of canyons north of the Everfree, which was once the site of a terrible battle between the ancient Royal Pony Sisters. They had fought with such ferocity that they rent the ground beneath them and filled the earth with unknown magic. The canyons were expansive enough to hide in, and dangerous enough that sane ponies avoided it entirely. The cliffs were swarming with quarry eels, and... well, the quarry eels were dangerous enough that anything more would be superfluous. She made camp atop the cliffs, a hundred yards from the edge. She laid down her bags, pitched her tent, and cast a few illusions to keep wildlife away. Her campsite was ready. She brewed a pot of cheap coffee over a tiny paraffin stove and looked at the pony-sized pile of magical items she had brought with her. Trixie would use only three of these items. A dart of stunning, attached to the end of a javelin which she had misappropriated from the academy gymnasium. Her sandals of speed, which tingled the moment they touched her hooves. Finally, a shot of accuracy, a potion she had used a few times to earn money by cheating at darts. She also had a fishing rod and a dead pigeon, but both of those were entirely mundane in origin. Coffee finished, she steeled herself and approached the canyon. At the clifftop, she heard a rumbling. In the darkness, shapes scurried out of the cliff face and into the air. She baited the rod with the pigeon, and tossed the line over the edge. A few minutes later, one of the dark shapes came out to sniff at it. She reeled it in, the creature still sniffing at the meat as it rose up the cliff. Just as the freakish maw came a foot from the edge, she downed the shot of accuracy, hefted the javelin, and hurled it at the creature. It shrieked with rage and wriggled over the edge to fight off its attacker. It was scales and teeth and twisted muscle, and it almost bit Trixie in half with a single lunge. Only her sandals of speed allowed her to dodge it. The beast pursued her relentlessly, swimming over grass and dirt like a shark through water, javelin still embedded in its skin. Trixie dodged and dived until the attacks turned into clumsy thrashing. Seconds later, it was still, utterly paralyzed by the magical dart. Just in time, too. Trixie could already feel the enchantments on her sandals fading from use. Trixie had caught herself a juvenile quarry eel, the only creature around here that could provide enough fresh blood for her ritual. She bound it in rope, and began to drag the beast back to her campsite. The moon was still high in the sky when Trixie had finished her preparations. Textbooks pilfered from the library lay at the side of the ritual circle. Her hooves were covered in chalk dust and eel blood. Her teeth chattered from nerves and excitement. She double-checked the dimensions of her circles, triple-checked the reagents, nervously eyed her mound of treasures sitting inside a triangle of salt, and re-read the summoning ritual guidelines for the last time. ’—as long as the components are in place, an actual invocation of some kind is made, and the magical release is triggered, the content of the invocation is merely an internal anchor, designed to keep the mage’s magic flow directed properly. As such, the exact wording is entirely to the mage’s taste, as the words simply help the mage direct how the ritual should occur—’ Trixie scrunched her eyes shut, and pictured the words she’d scribbled on a scrap of parchment. She went over them three times in her head before she spoke. “S-servant,” she stammered, “I bind you to my service,” “To fight for fame and glory and honor,” “To share the Grail,” “A-and,” she swallowed, words almost failing her, “to show those academy nags who’s boss!” Her horn sparked, lighting the candle before her. The wind whipped and dark clouds gathered above. Every hair on her body stood on end as raw power flowed between her mind, her horn, and the ritual. Each line of chalk and salt lit up. The pools of eel blood glowed with black light. Her pile of magical treasures crackled in a blaze of energy, and as darkness closed in around her eyes, she saw it burst into blue flames. It was over. Trixie coughed, the taste of sour smoke on her tongue. She was in total darkness. She looked ahead, and gasped. A figure, three times the size of a pony, sat in the middle of the blackened ritual circle The clouds passed and moonlight shone. She was an alicorn of terrible strength and beauty, cloaked in night. Cradled in the alicorn’s right hoof was a ten-foot spear. Teal eyes locked with Trixie’s, and she pointed an armor-clad hoof at the mare. “You,” boomed the alicorn, “are my Master!” Trixie’s jaw worked, and no sound came out. A full ten seconds passed, before she could squeak out: “...Yes?”