The Lunar Castle. Recognised around the world as many things, many admire it and many revile it. It is a monument to the indomitable Lunar will and its mastery of the Everfree, it is the heart and the mind of the greatest Empire that history has ever known, and it is the residence of many of the most powerful creatures in the world. Yet you are not here to admire the grand opulent halls, wander through the astonishing museums, or conduct the business of government. You came for something that is never advertised but is always assumed to be here.
Stepping through a small door, pushed away into a corner of an unassuming corridor in a restricted part of the palace, you start to descend a spiral staircase. The way is cramped, lit only by blazing blue torchlight, and you have to watch every step you take to avoid tumbling down and likely cracking your head open on the hard stone stairs. After descending the stairs for what feels longer than it should, and you wonder how many floors you’ve gone down in this time. Right as you start to think that this might go on forever, you reach the bottom, and on the far side of a thin corridor you see a door, nailed to it a small sign that reads “Central Imperial Archives”.
You walk up to the door and push it open. You’re presented with a modest waiting room with empty chairs, tables and bookshelves. It’s quiet, calming, and even serene. On the far side of the room, a thick layer of glass shimmering with enchantments cuts between a wide desk spanning the width of the room and separates you from the pony sitting on the other side. A bespectacled red pegasus with a long yellow-orange mane tied into a ponytail sits reclined in a chair, wearing a palace staff uniform consisting of a night-blue tailcoat over a cornflower-blue shirt. He appears half awake, holding a book in his hooves as his eyes lazily scan the pages.
Behind him, on his side of the glass, are rows upon rows of filing cabinets and bookshelves containing an incalculable quantity of pages. Each of them are at least several stories tall. Your eyes are fixated on the monoliths as you approach the desk.
“Mrm?” The pegasus cocks an eyebrow as he notices you have entered. “Oh, uh- hey,” he mumbles, shooting forward and setting his book down. “Hi, welcome, how can I help you?”
He speaks with a Griffish Isles accent and looks uneasy. He’s perhaps a little nervous. He’s constantly fidgeting with his hooves and rustling his wings, and you have a hard time establishing eye contact with him. You ask him who he is.
“Guh?” He flinches back. “Hey, guy, I’m not giving out information to any old dickhead who comes in here! Show some ID!”
You reveal your ID card and press it up to the glass.
“Oh? Lemme see that.” He inspects your ID card. His eyes light up for a moment. “Shit X-level clearance? One sec,” he says, his hoof reaching under the desk.
A sudden explosion of lightning erupts from concealed prongs in the desk. It hits you like a battering ram and sends you sprawling off your hooves. A scream is torn from your throat as the electricity sears through you. And then, almost as abruptly as it began, the current dissipates. The pain recedes, leaving behind a lingering aftershock that leaves you trembling and breathless.
“Sorry! Just had to make sure you weren't a disguised changeling or anything!” he giggles.
You grumble and retrieve your ID card. He looks anything but sorry.
“But yeah, looks legit. Just I can’t be too cautious when someone comes in saying they’ve got tippity-top clearance,” he says, shrugging.
“Alright, you wanted to know who I am. My name’s Moonatik, humble servant of her Imperial Highness Nightmare Moon! I first got a job at the castle as a maid, yes that’s the job title for stallions too, doing rather menial chores around the castle. After years of loyal service, I was offered a promotion. Not a specific promotion, a general ‘pick whichever job you’d like and it’s yours’ promotion. Not to brag but the Empress likes me,” he says, a smug grin plastered over his mug. “Anyway, all of a sudden it hit me: archivist. It came into me at that moment, I'd like to be an archivist. Organising the archives, and the like.”
You ask him how the job has been.
“It's great!” he laughs. “I've got nothing to do most of the time so I just sit on the exercise bike with a book. Keeps me fit, keeps me entertained. I don’t gotta do shit! As for the actual work, I organised the archives according to my personal system, which is so incomprehensible that a thief doesn't stand a chance of finding what they're looking for!” he boasts. “Genius, right? Well, aside from the times I get lost trying to search through them…”
“Yet, here…” He reveals a key he had on a string around his neck. He dives to his desk and unlocks a cabinet, pulling it open. “I've got all my favourite documents. The most fun ones, the most interesting ones, the most important ones, the ones curated for maximum intrigue and entertainment!”
“There’s a bit of a system to these. I start with general history in the first few and they’re all in chronological order. It’s a good way to introduce newcomers to the topic, anyone who isn’t well-versed in Equestrian history, all that context. I’ve selected a range of sources and accounts to directly draw from, which should give you a broad enough picture. After that I get a bit more general, just showing off what I find interesting in no particular order.”
“Now the choice is yours. You could read them in the order I’ve selected, or you could pick any old document from the pile and read through that. What’ll it be?”