The siren blares, deafening the sounds of hurrying hoofsteps clacking across a freshly polished tile. Young Cynbel at the ripe age of eleven, was running for his dear life while he wore a tattered black robe. He heard the various shouts, all demanding for the young alchemist's apprehension, but as he bolted past the door, he heard their increased panic. A crossbow bolt flung past him, embedding itself into a steel door that bent into a turn. "Shoot to kill!" one of them cried. Cynbel was soo...

—————————————— No matter how much he tried to scrub his brain clean of that incident, his eyes just kept seeing the hazy gas. The collapsed man on the floor of the potion room. His friend, practically clawing to get in. “I could’ve saved him,” Cynbel spoke, his fork idly prodding at the small mound of peas on his dinner plate. “What happened to Mr. Moorsom was an accident. It could’ve happened to anyone. You, me, your father. Just an unfortunate accident,” his mother, Chantal, spoke after ta...

The hum of the elevator filled the gaps between the silence. Necessary white noise to ease young Cynbel’s mind. Today’s birthday was... different. But no less exciting. Rather than give Cynbel a physical gift, his father decided to pass on something a bit more meaningful to his oldest son. A tour of the factory, something Cynbel had been asking about for a while now. His father stood beside him, his snow white mane all slicked back revealing the coming widow’s peak. The family resemblance was ...

------STEEL SPARTANS, PRIVATE SECURITY COMPANY. FILLYDELPHIA. [10:43 PM]--------- The night was chaotic and loud like an amateur band playing at a seedy little venue. A chorus of background noise that painted a putrid scene. The jarring alarm acted as the metronome, setting the beat for the pule abominations of magic-fused flesh crawling the hallways while the bass of clay golems pounded at the only room in which the music hadn’t reached. Each note sent a bigger dent in the metal door, the heav...

Click! A twist of the skeleton key signaled the end of the work day for Cynbel, as did the setting sun. It wasn’t a particularly profitable day, but he would at least break even. A marginal success, but one the young alchemist felt he needed to celebrate given his particularly sour mood. For the past few weeks, he’s been silently accepting that his shop, Splendor Solis, may be in its final stages. Business just wasn’t outweighing the cost of keeping the doors open Customers were becoming less ...

Off in the borders nearing the White Tail Woods, there was a sweet little hamlet that Cynbel frequently visited. Sweetcorn. It was a simple farming village that was untouched by the corruption of Equestria's xenophobic and morally bankrupt ways. They held no knowledge of the rumors of mistreatment and madness that often circulated around Cynbel, when he first arrived they simply saw a frail stranger in need of a soft bed and a warm meal. Their abundant fauna have proven to be nothing if not valu...