Call of the Warrior: Butterfield Chronicles.

Butterfield Chronicles

A tale of unimaginable valor and strength.

In a far away land unknown to most mortal creatures and men–where sulfur and ash rose over the dreary horizons, and dead men walked the endless sands of the world– long wails of agony drowned the desperate whimpering of the damned, and those righteous few who still remained alive stumbled about as if dead of mind, for the dread of the land was too much, and few were those who could withstand it.

However, painful as it was to gaze upon the sorry state of this hateful world— faint rays of light still struggled until they reached the surface, and they shone brighter than the sun itself; for when the sun becomes darkened beyond possibility, light will always pierce through the shadows, and wash away the fears of a frightful past.

Such was the path of the warrior. Such was the path, of Butterfield.

"Um, excuse me, please. I'm just— please, pardon me, sir, but I think— Oh, Lords, please give that back..." Butterfield–unlikely hero and introverted apprentice mage–stood by the market's middle plaza, desperately attempting to grab a hold of some flasks and potions he needed if he was to continue his studies on alchemy and necromancy. Painfully enough–as the world tends to do with those it calls its subjects–Butterfield was having all the luck of a beached whale.

'Oh Lords... taking just one flask out of the bottom won't truly bother, will it?' Butterfield bit his knuckle, eyes scanning the crowd around him. 'I doubt anyone will truly notice, anyway...' With all the subtlety he could muster, Butterfield gently picked one of the smallest flasks that could be found, and–ever the careful one–slowly pulled it out of the pile; hand steady as a surgeon's scalpel.

If said surgeon had Parkinson's, that is. With the colossal tremor of a thousand earthquakes, the massive pile of flasks and potions shook and trembled–making Butterfield, and the stand's owner gasp in absolute terror–before it collapsed. Pieces of glass flying in every direction; potions splattering across walls, people, animals, and other brews. Hundreds of objects of immense value completely ruined, as unwanted ingredients suddenly fell into the mix. Men and astral creatures turning and shape-shifting into chickens, pigs, warthogs, and all in-between. Chaos.

All of it leaving a wincing, petrified Butterfield standing in the middle of the mess; magical barrier keeping him dry amid the sea of potions and concoctions that had washed away all others— with mixed results. Covering his eyes with an arm–while the other maintained the barrier–Butterfield slowly came to realize the predicament in which he had become involved. Angry—no, furious customers, shopkeepers, and other beings stared at him from behind the small sea of colorful liquids spilled on the stone floor. Butterfield swallowed hard— sweat pouring down his forehead, as knives slowly slid out of their scabbards, and magical glows encircled the hands of several other magi.

"Oh Lords... can't we speak calmly, and sort this out in a civilized manner?" Our hero stammered out— making certain to strengthen the barrier, as it was the only thing that kept him safe from the angry mob all around him. "I mean, I know this looks bad, but we can always settle it... peacefully..."

Butterfield felt the barrier pulsating— a throbbing, as if small ripples raced across its surface, and turned to waves the closer they drew to his hands. He gasped, and the barrier imploded. All the energy that he had concentrated on it suddenly flared up and smashed against his chest— sending him sliding across the floor on his back.

Butterfield grimaced as his head hit the far wall of a building surrounding the plaza, and a dull pain flared throughout his skull. He felt the world spinning all around him, as if ropes held him tied to a wheel that rolled down a steep hill. On and on it rolled— not stopping until it did, and his eyes had to focus on the huge, scarred mockery of a face that suddenly pressed itself against his own.

The massive man did not bother with words— instead, he rammed his knee into Butterfield's abdomen— knocking the air out of him, and forcing him into fit of coughing. Butterfield's eyes were wide open; tears forming in them, as the massive man slammed him against the ground, and placed a gargantuan boot atop Butterfield's neck.

With beady eyes and tears clouding his vision, Butterfield watched the man's foot rise up high...

...and then he felt it brutally fall back down.

Half a universe away; Twilight Sparkle sat on her haunches— face stuck inside the pages of some odd book she had seen fit to read at the time. However, her mind wandered. With the Summer Sun Celebration so close at hand–and the prophecy of Nightmare Moon's return looming over the horizon to boot–she simply hadn't had much sleep. It comes without mention of Celestia absolutely ignoring all her warnings and letters, of course.

Twilight Sparkle sighed; closing the book and placing it back on a shelf, she slowly stood to her hooves and walked to the balcony. Seeing a passing shooting star crossing the sky— Twilight felt that a wish was in order. Despite the childishness of the whole matter; she always did feel more at ease after making a wish. The innocence of it seemed to ease her nerves.

Closing her eyes— Twilight's lips curved in a smile, and she made her wish.

"Please, Princess. Please forgive me for doing this..."

Steeling her nerves, Twilight Sparkle focused her magic on the book she had been reading. The letters on it–runes as ancient as the sun was old–flared up in a cerulean glow, setting the room awash with light, and filling her ears with sounds— the likes of which she had never heard before. The world turned into a swirl of colors and noises that seemed impossible. No description could ever be given of the new things that passed by her eyes. Mixes of known colors and new ones that did not exist in her world; shapes with more sides than could be counted; numbers exceeding the comprehensible mind of a mortal... Madness. It was maddening. It turned all she knew into nothing. It shattered her existence; turned her truth into a joke, as her eyes fixated on the gaze of creation.

She screamed–not knowingly–until her throat grew raw and her lungs ached for breath. Her thoughts were a bundle of sorrow mixed with fear, but no confusion. She had seen this world and the next; her mind had expanded beyond all comprehensible boundaries— driving her to madness and back. When Spike finally found her, she was lying on the floor; a pond of blood surrounding the spot of her head she had hit the table with.

But beyond comprehensible realms; in a far away land unknown to most mortal creatures and men–where sulfur and ash rose over the dreary horizons, and dead men walked the endless sands of the world-a creature had been summoned.

The legend begun.