//------------------------------// // Prologue // Story: Her Majesty's Envoy // by Mister Slick //------------------------------// Her Majesty’s Envoy By Mister Slick Prologue “Where do we begin in a world so unbecoming and blatantly vexed with us?” For the longest time I struggled as to where I should begin, as so much weight is placed upon words that authorize for a troubled youth witnessing the complex and insignificant on a dissimilar scale. There are those out there who believe that following the order of things, the order established by our society, is the best way to go. I’ve known this and the same is true for the majority of us. And by contrast, there are also those that desire a path for themselves, one that is filled with many quarrels and appears to reject the established order, be it a form of anarchy or otherwise. So when I try to frame the experience Barebash has had from his young adult life up to the present I become a bit stagnated, since he has always seemed to fit both categories. He remains the only known individual to never brandish an identifying mark like the rest of us, although he seems to prefer it that way. It is as if he lacks a true identity; always searching, never finding. All my worry has been tied up with him, time and again. Even now, as he serves directly under Princess Celestia, I cannot say for sure if he has found his niche. My initial impression of Barebash wasn’t exactly what some would call romantic, as he was anxious beyond belief; his nerves were completely wrecked. However, his behavior wasn’t the only thing that captured my attention in this moment. His large, broad body smelled of smoke and charred wood at the time. His massive wings, which might find kinship with those of Celestia’s, were singed at the feather-tips. And as if this wasn’t enough, as if the addition of a distinct curved scar above his right brow might leave some forgetting, he made a proclamation that he was illiterate. How was I supposed to handle such a situation? For the first time in all the time I had been working at the national archives an individual had entered a place dedicated to literature with little to no sense of what to do. It left me practically mortified. I find it strange how the initial impression of a future lover can be one of terror. Even as I struggled for my composure, I proceeded to assist him like any other, even as his vigilant eyes continued to scan the area, like a prey does when its predator is nearby. A few years later, when we met under different circumstances, the passion bloomed. So was it terror or was it pity that I felt? I still can’t be sure of it myself. At present, my husband is still illiterate, which is why I find myself producing this odd biography of how he ended up in the service of Princess Celestia, even though I was the one that prompted him to let me make a record. This is because I feel that what he has done for this country, over the past couple of years, deserves recognition. My intention is that for those who read (apologies to the illiterate) that you find an appreciation for Barebash and what he has done for this country. Conversely, what I hope doesn’t occur is that an ill projection is produced on how Barebash is somehow infatuated with the Princess; this is false conjecture to be sure. It is more so the case that Barebash views Celestia as a mother figure, rather than a lover. He never honestly experienced having a mother during his youth, or at least, not for long, so he managed to mold that figure in his view. My husband’s mother, the botanist Vanessa, disappeared one morning while venturing into that infamous, tenebrous forest that lies to the south of our country’s capital. It is that forest of sublime dangers, the one that, for the most part, remains unknown to us. An individual such as Vanessa did not succumb to feral creatures or toxic plants, since one with such wit was incapable of allowing that type of malevolence to befall her. Rather, it is believed that she simply abandoned her life as a botanist and departed to live elsewhere. A search party, led by my husband’s father, gathered at the area where she left her belongings and scoured every conceivable place around it for four days before the forest got the better of them and they ceased their search. Later on in his life, my husband would revitalize this search as the rumor of seeing a distinct mark, the mark of Fragaria Vesca, upon the backside of another spread to my husband’s ears. In the time between, it was only his father that ensconced Barebash in those times of harsh realities. The ring fighter, Bucklesnap, known by some as “The Whipping Strap,” has certainly made a name for himself as being one of the best in the Equestrian Fighting League. Some say it is his private hall, constructed next to his home, that deservies the credit. It allowed him to focus, strategizing before each fight, making sure he had that edge he needed. Later on though, the hall opened up to guest fighters, or rather clients, which offered a method of training for both parties. With his wife no longer by his side, his time spent in the ring declined and the task of training increased to the point of sole profession. Because of this, Barebash spent a lot of time in the training hall as well, adopting a similar lifestyle for a while. As he grew, Barebash exhibited the qualities of a model fighter that his father could be proud of, minus the zeal. Only one bout was held. It was a single test of skill and strength for father’s sake before opportunity revealed a path. This was undoubtedly what set in Barebash’s mind that insatiable craving for a conquest on individual identity. The incentive was already there, but these events amplified the forces already at work, as the mark earned by an individual such as this is late, faint, abstract, and obtuse.