//------------------------------//
// Prologue 
// Story: The Balance of Harmony 
// by The Rising Tide of Night 
//------------------------------//

	The door to the small cottage opened, and a young woman stepped in.  She closed the door behind her, sighing heavily, and leaned against the door.  She was of average height, but her appearance was anything but average.  Her waist-length hair was a deep indigo, with single stripes of pink and light purple running down the center.  Her right eye was a deep purple, which gazed around at the main room of the cottage.  Her left eye was covered with a black cloth patch, and was surrounded by vicious-looking scars, running in jagged lines both above and below the patch.  She was wearing a long button-down cotton dress, and wore a dark cloak over her shoulders which she proceeded to hang on a peg by the door, and well-worn leather boots.  In her right hand, she gripped a long staff, topped with a violet crystal in the shape of a horn, and she leaned heavily on the staff as she moved into the room, her right leg limping along.

The overall presence of the cottage was that of a well-kept home.  It was comprised of one large room, with a sleeping area in one corner, a kitchen area in another, and a living area taking up the rest.  Bookshelves lined the walls, filled to the brim with books of all shapes and sizes.  There were some chairs in the center of the living area surrounding a small table, in front of a fireplace that was currently filled with a cheery, warm fire.  The sleeping area contained two beds, one larger than the other.  The smaller bed was currently filled with a sleeping young man, short green hair ruffling with each snore as he lay on his bedsheets, as if he had fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the bed.  The young woman smiled at him as she moved through the cottage, admiring his handiwork throughout the area, as he was the one who kept the place homey and clean.

She paused in her journey across the floor, staring up at the mantle above the fireplace.  Two framed photos sat there, in a place of honor.  The one on the left appeared to contain six mares, all smiling and hugging each other, as happy as could be.  The one on the right contained what appeared to be the same six mares, but in a fully human form, including the young woman who now gazed wistfully at the group.  The women were all smiling, but there was a grimness about them that translated to their stances.  No longer hugging, but still standing close together, they gazed out of the photo with a certainty and determination, each armed with various weapons, a force to be reckoned with.

The young woman’s gaze dropped from the photos, and she continued to her destination: a small writing desk on the far side of the cottage, tucked away from the rest of the room in a small alcove.  Writing supplies lined a small shelf next to the desk and rested on the desk itself.   When the young woman reached the desk, she carefully eased into the well-cushioned chair, leaning her staff against the shelf.  Picking up the quill in front of her, she dipped it with a practiced finesse into the inkwell, and began to write.

My name is Twilight Sparkle, she wrote.

Pausing a moment, she continued.

This is the story of how we saved this world.
And of how I lost the greatest friends I could ever hope to have.