Chapter One: Forested Persuits
Deep in one of the world’s forests, amidst one of the most time-hallowed groves, one would have expected silence and darkness beneath the thick canopy. What one would find were a blazing light of Fire, an orb of clarity casting the darkness around it into sharp relief, and the echoing notes of a lute. In any other place, or at any other time, the lute’s song would have been the sweetest sound to light upon any ear, and brought even the most hard-hearted to shed a tear, but the crackling of the Fire threw it off. The wood that fueled the Fire cracked, splintered, and buckled just so to cause a dissonance that made the lute’s songs like screams.
For hours this went on, and the air shook in pain. The Lute’s fair notes screeched and shrieked as they were pitted against the Fire, and they lost. Even after the Fire had become naught but embers, its proud light reduced to a faint glow as the shadows crowded around, it was steadfast in its defiance.
The lute crashed into the embers. “Years of planning! Of patience! Of perseverance! Wasted!” The Musician glowered at what had once been embers. Instead of being extinguished, as he had hoped, the embers had grown into a bright Fire once more, using the lute, the intricate swirling patterns on which could now be seen clearly, as its fuel.
“Of course,” the Musician groaned. He spat at the Fire, and a fizzling sound was heard. The Fire grew, feasting. After several minutes of total silence, even from the Fire, a grin spread across the Musician’s face. “Fine then. Choose not to serve me. But never let it be said that I was one to give up easily.” As he slowly spoke, a small tube emerged from the Musician’s robe, and found its way to its lips.
The Wind rose. It began to circle around the Musician and the Fire. After a few seconds, it closed in on just the Fire. A few seconds more, and the branches and boughs of ancient trees were ripped from their trunks and danced with the wind. As a set of cloven hooves marched away, more foliage was drawn into the newly birthed cyclone, spinning ever faster as it did. Once the air was thick with branches, shrubs, and boughs, something caught. The Wind and Fire had become a pillar spiraling into the night sky. Then, with a single piercing note from far away, the Wind left. No longer bound by the tyrannical gale, the burning debris flew far and wide, blanketing the Forest in Fire. And, as it does, the Fire consumed.
Sometime prior, along a rarely trodden path, recently consumed by the nearby tree line of a different old forest, was a small clearing. Normally empty, this clearing now held an old wooden cart. The open door, at this moment, was occupied. Not by any living creature, but, rather, a flying pot. A small pot by any measure, and made of wrought iron. It was, of course, only there for a moment. Its flight path brought it to a loud landing just outside the doorway. It would later be found to have a small dent.
Through the door a light blue unicorn could be seen, rummaging through a cabinet. To the side, another open cabinet could be seen, containing assorted foods, and to the other side a small bed. Beside the bed was a pair of stands, each with a purple hat and cape, adorned with stars of blue and gold. A closer inspection would find one of the sets of clothing to be care worn and slightly faded, whereas the other was new and vibrant. “The Magnificent Presto” was carved faintly into the stand of the latter set.
Presto, the rummaging pony, released a short and breathless grunt, as he flung a metal hook, some rope, and a set of sticks out after the pot. Releasing another grunt, he frantically opened another cabinet. He was beginning to panic at this point. Had it fallen out of the cart at some point? Had one of the guards at that last checkpoint pilfered it? Had the—
A glimmer of light caught his eyes. Slowly, carefully, his target, encased in a pale purple glow, rose from where it had been buried. Presto’s eyes shone.
As he exited his cart, he realized how stupid he had been. All of the supplies he had thrown out the door were just sitting there, asking to be stolen. Any bandits nearby would certainly have been alerted by, at the very least, the pot’s exit. It was naught but fortune that allowed the night’s festivities to go on unhindered.
A sizable jar, his earlier prey, floated in his magical grasp. Its contents would have surprised most, but its contents held no value to most. With a sigh, he stepped forward, where his supplies lay strewn about like so much refuse.
Presto’s pale aura set everything up as the sun set: a pair of forked sticks stood at attention, their bases covered by mounds of dirt, and a third stick at rested across them. A hook, with a now-water-filled pot attached beneath with rope, hung from the precarious, wooden frame. The image was almost complete with a bunch of logs, blanketed in leaves, resting beneath it all. Presto’s horn began to glow brighter, and the tinder glowed with it. After a few seconds, the spell caught, and a small flame sprang up on the leaves.
Presto lay down next to the growing fire, slightly winded. By the time the sun’s light had fled from the small clearing he had parked in for the night, the logs had caught, and the fire was blazing bright. He took up the jar in his magic, and was about to pour it into the pot when he dashed back into his cart.
He soon reemerged with celery and carrots following behind in his purple glow. The vegetable passengers in his magic soon found themselves broken up and tossed into the now-boiling water. A portion of the jar’s contents soon followed, though in a more slowly, deliberately, carefully, and reverently.
Triumphantly, Presto raised the fourth and final stick into the air. It was shorter than the others had been, if only just, but served a far more vital purpose. Presto plunged it into the pot and began to stir. While at first enthusiasm possessed him like a soup-loving spirit, a look of concentration soon came over his face, and the stirring came to a slower, more deliberate pace.
After a while, the tedium of the constant stirring and the aroma of his concoction conspired to break him. He raised the spoon to his snout, the small depression at the end filled with the night’s creation, and he sipped. His eyes closed and he let out an involuntary moan.
Giggling like he was a schoolcolt again, he trotted into his wagon. Straightening a few things as he went, he soon found what he had been looking for in his cabinet — the only thing that night that had been in its proper place — and all but bounced back out the door. He raised the newly retrieved bowl above the pot, and served himself his first course. Once he had filled his bowl, he paused, and then his hoof collided with his forehead.
A few moments later, now having retrieved a spoon, he ate his soup with gusto. As he moved to fill his bowl again a faint rustling reached his ear. His head zoomed around, and his gaze soon fell upon it in a nearby patch of shrubbery.
Damn it all thrice over! he cursed to himself. If I just hadn’t made so much noise, had a little self-control, I wouldn’t have attracted any bandits. Now I’m going to lose not only my soup, but my cart, and all of my— However, before berate himself further, something began to emerge from the bushes. He readied a concussive spell — the only self-defense he knew — even though he was too twitchy to and nervous to hit a single tree in the whole forest. He struggled to control his breathing, and had to force himself to remain still when what was coming emerged.
It was not, as he had feared, a band of criminals come to take all that he held dear. It was instead, a solitary figure. Doubtless a female from what he could see of her snout and flanks. What she wasn’t, however, was a pony. Her figure, and her legs in particular, were slimmer even than a mare’s. Her snout was the length of a Stallion’s, but not nearly as thick. What he could see of her fur was a light brown, and her tail was barely long enough to be considered decent. All-in-all, she had a look of smallness about her, even if she didn’t actually look smaller than the average mare. Presto did not know how or why, but he did know was what stood before him.
It’s a doe. A deer, a female deer. While he did his best to maintain the outward appearance of strength and confidence, he was well and truly panicking by this point. Presto did not know that his heart could beat this hard, or that he could sweat this much in the absence of stage lights. Presto was a traveler. As a traveler, he heard stories. Stories of bargains, of exact words, and of cruelty. Stories that elder siblings told to terrify. Stories that most ponies — including Presto — brushed off as myths of a more violent, less civilized, age.
“Hello?” she offered, after a full minute of silence.
“Hello,” his voice was stern and level. A closer look would reveal marginally wider eyes and slightly shorter, sharper breaths. “Who are you?” was his response.
“I am known as Fona, sir. I am a traveler, much like you seem to be.” Her voice was soft. Soothing even. Presto wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
“What do you want?” Presto silently berated himself. That question was supposed to be detached, but his tone was softening. His mind was plagued with doubts; what if he was wrong about her? After all– his thought were cut off by a loud growl. Presto’s eyes grew wide and his gaze darted about the clearing. It took him a few seconds to realize that it was not, in fact, some great beast come to devour him. Fona’s sheepish grin confirmed that she was the source.
“I’ll pay you back for it,” Fona pleaded, “I promise.” Presto sighed and turned his gaze to his pot for a moment. Not all of his nights had his favorite dish at the end, to say the least.
“Alright.” Presto heard her make a delighted sound. “Take a spot next to the fire. I’ll get you a bowl.” As Presto returned to his cart, he began to feel a little guilty.
After all, he thought with slumped shoulders and dragging steps, she’s all alone, and clearly hungry. And what’s my initial reaction? To judge her based on some centuries-old ponies’ tales about deer that not only weren’t her, but might not have even happened in the first place. Grangran would be disappointed. Drawing up to his full height, Presto resolved both to give her the chance she deserved, and try to make up for such a poor start. He was starting to feel good about meeting her. The deer hadn’t been seen outside of their forest since Nightmare Moon was banished, and now one had stumbled into his campsite! It was nothing short of phenomenal luck. Besides, she was a traveler, and what his Grangran had told him and he had found to be true: any traveler with sense in their heads made good on their promises. Even if any of the stories were worth a moment’s thought, it was doubly so for the deer.
Some rummaging later, he emerged to find Fona curled up to the fire. He filled her bowl, and passed it to her with a small smile. She took it in her hooves with a smile of her own, before dipping her muzzle in. When Presto had finished refilling his bowl, she raised her head. A quick glance revealed that her bowl was bone dry.
It was here that it occurred to Presto that a closer inspection of his visitor was probably warranted. Her coat was a uniform light brown, barring a sparing few glimpses of a white underbelly. Her face, snout and all, sloped down from her ears, which were angled outward to a marginally unnerving degree. There was another thing that unnerved him about her, a niggling sensation that he couldn’t quite place. He couldn’t tell of it was new or if he just hadn’t noticed it before, but something was definitely there. Something which he had been thus far avoiding thinking about. Something which, in this instance, he couldn’t help but look at.
“Do you like what you see?” Fona chuckled.
Presto’s blush could be seen through his fur. “I just couldn’t help but notice your lack of a cutie mark, Miss Fona.”
“I was wondering when you would mention that, mister...?”
“Presto.”
“Mister Presto,” Fona raised a hoof to her forehead, as if swooning, “indeed, we deer are forever blank flanks. Eternally unadorned by out-of-place discoloration.” Presto snickered. A small smile grew on Fona’s snout. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, thank you.”
Fona quirked an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yep,” Presto’s voice had grown light and full of laughter, “Wouldn’t want to risk getting some weird disease, now would I?” Fona snorted. Then again. Her snorts grew into laughter, and her laughter into echoing guffaws. Presto soon joined her.
After the clearing had grown silent again, Fona was the first to speak. “I guess I’ll need to find another way to pay you back.”
Presto grinned widely, “I have an idea.”
“Well do tell.”
“Well,” Presto gestured around her with his hoof, “it has to do with those wonderful illusions of yours.” Fona froze. “Some of the most subtle I’ve seen,” Presto added, “took me a little while to realize what was going on. Truth be told, I can’t see flaws or mistakes, but I can feel them.”
Fona slowly turned her head towards him. “How could you tell?”
“Illusions are my special talent, so it was only a matter of time.” Fona’s gaze tuned toward her forehooves. Presto leaned in, his mouth dropping into a frown. “Miss Fona, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how this looks. I do not like being deceived.” Fona slowly raised her gaze back towards him. He settled back on his haunches, giving Fona an intense, level glare. Inside, his panic had returned, and thoughts just beneath the surface explored the worst scenarios he could think of. Without even going into the possibility that she might not be a dear, this level of trickery was not a good sign. He only held together on account of one single thought: If any of this speculation amounts to anything, I cannot afford to show fear.
Fona, for her part, was all but unreadable to him. He could see that she was thinking intently, which did not help his state of mind, but he could in no way glean what about. Intense silence dominated the camp for a few moments before she replied. “First and foremost, I must tell you that I had no intent of mischief or wrongdoing. The ‘illusion,’ as you put it, is something called a glamour. It is a technique that, rather than creating obfuscations out of whole cloth, applies subtle changes to things that already exist.”
Presto furrowed his brow. “You mean sensory things? Sights? Sounds?”
“Tastes, smells, and anything else.”
“Anything? Even fooling magical senses?”
Fona nodded and gave him a small smile, “It’s the hardest, to pull off, but yes.” Presto narrowed his eyes.
“This is quite fascinating, assuming that it’s also true.” Immediately after that phrase, its implicit question hanging in the air like a heavy gas, the niggling sensation vanished. There was something different about Fona. She looked less… helpless. While still slimmer than any mare he had ever met, her legs and barrel were thicker, actually lined with some muscle. Her snout was a little longer, her coat duller, and the angle of her ears was even more eccentric. The most significant change, though, was in her flanks. They were not quite as round or full as before, though they still lacked a cutie mark. Presto sighed, a small smile returning to his face. “Well,” he said, “all this for one meal?”
Fona nodded. “I ran out of supplies a couple of days ago.”
Presto sighed again. “You’ll have to work harder to earn my trust, but so long as you tell me about these “glamours” when you use them in the future, and don’t lie to me about anything else, it should be work out.” Picking up her bowl in his magic, he motioned to the pot with a hoof.
Fona let out a breath that Pesto didn’t notice her holding, “Good enough, I suppose. And yes please. From the way you’ve been talking, it would seem that the idea you mentioned earlier is a long term arrangement.”
Presto nodded, passing her the bowl again, which she began to eat again, but more slowly this time. “Right. Well, would it be fair to assume that you don’t have a stable source of income or food?”
“It would be both fair and correct.” Fona sighed, “So, are you offering me a job?”
“You see Miss Fona, I am a travelling magician—“
“Ooh! A bringer of spectacle and song!”
Presto recoiled slightly at the outburst, before composing himself again. “Spectacle, yes, but I don’t sing. I do, however, think that an assistant is just what my show needs.”
“Long term?”
“Very.”
Fona smiled brightly. “Where’s our first stop?”
“We can discuss that in the morning. First, we should figure out the sleeping arrangements for the night. I only have one bed, and it isn’t big enough for two.”