Report
By PaulAsaran
Perfect. It all had to be perfect.
The familiar desk. Black swirls and splotches ran through it, counting the age and advertising the shape of the tree which formed it so long ago. It had worn smooth over the years, from book after book, scroll after scroll, scratch after scratch, from owner to unknown owner. Who wrote on this hallowed space before her, and who before them? A question asked so often, a quest for knowledge to be forgotten every night.
The ink pot, so old that the dark liquid had become ingrained in the clay, leaving its insides black. Give it a light tap to nudge it to its proper spot. A little more to the left, and behold, the circle marking its proper place disappeared. There's a name on the side. My name, scribbled in the rough mouthwriting of a little colt. How eager he had been to give it to me, his little sister who could already read better than he could. I'm feeling all tingly in that familiar spot. That one, right there in the chest, the mysterious place that could bring a sob or a smile on whim and make eyes water with no effort at all.
Ahem. Moving on.
Quills. Always three. It's easy to get overeager and snap. My assistant figured out a solution to that pretty quick. It took me a few months to accept the wisdom of backups – and admit that maybe my emotions weren’t as stable as I like to think. The quills require no changes. They are soldiers, ever present and prepared for instructions, their roles drilled into them by their ever-dutiful, scaled sergeant.
The rustle of a page brings to my attention said officer, who lays secure in his high-walled basket. His training goes ever on, now being advanced by the ongoing adventures of such Equestrian icons as the Masked Matterhorn and, his personal favorite, Radiance. His eyes, unheeding of my study, glow with the wonder only a child can muster.
Heh. Let him be. Back to my inspection. Next up are the books. Only three this time, each only as thick as a hoof. All in all, a feeble showing for the weekend. My mentor’s way of telling me to take a break, perhaps? They're not the subject for tonight, so let's set them, sorted by author – no, publication date makes more sense here – on the night stand for later.
They linger, a purple light emanating from the pages in accordance to the faint humming of my horn. When used so gently, it feels pleasant and familiar. Almost like a massage. To think, there had been a day when just turning a page felt like lifting bricks. And now?
Now a large portion of my life revolves around understanding it. Will I someday—
No, I've been down that train of thought before. That path only brings uncertainty and fear of the future. Now is not the time for those things. Now is the time for a scroll, a little ink, and some choice words.
Ah, but which scroll to use? They sit on a shelf, neat and orderly as a pyramid between the solid pewter busts of a pair of sisterly alicorns. A pity, they always face away from one another. Two or three years ago, that would have been of no consequence. Tonight, however, it seems wrong, like a bitter reminder of what once was. Those siblings should not have their backs turned to one another. Perhaps they should be replaced?
Hah! How funny that idea is. As if I could ever be rid of them. No, not when the very pony who had gifted them to me is one of the two being depicted. How would I ever explain such a faux pas as that? Magic Kindergarten has nothing on what might be directed my way in that instance.
I'm exaggerating again, aren't I? Ridiculous. I need to focus.
Scrolls. Right. The perfect one.
The first floated close by, fast as an arrow. It pauses, then spins in a purple light. Is that a rip? Oh no, that will never fly. Next.
Hmm, impurities in the paper. A few dark splotches? Probably an artisan-related defect. Made by an apprentice? Regardless: next.
Not bad, not bad. Let’s open it up. Oh, no, that’s a nasty crease. Next.
Oooh, nice. Smooth, light in color… eh, a little wide. Hold on to it, just in case. Next.
Oh, Goddess! Absolutely not.
Ah, this one looks decent. Are the corners uneven? Eh, might be okay. Considered. Next.
What the hay? That’s a checklist scroll. How did that get there? Next.
Oh. Oh. Oooooh. Very nice. Perfect color, edges an exact ninety degrees. And is it… it is! A perfect two-hundred-sixteen millimeters by five-hundred-eight millimeters! Now this, this is parchment perfection! How rare, how exquisite, how divine! This is a scroll worthy of a princess.
It takes its place upon the desk, whilst its less suitable comrades return to their proper places. A few seconds – okay, maybe a minute or two – to perfect the pile’s alignment and form.
Now then! Let us arrange the scroll just so. Yes, that’s nice. Quill, left one first: proper order is important. Gather ink, not too much, not too little. Hold it steady, let the excess drip. It wouldn’t do to stain this prime specimen of a scroll, now would it?
Not yet. One last check. Everything must be perfect. Inkpot in its proper place?
Check.
Three quills exactly, starting with the left?
Check.
Lighting just so? Hmm… let’s move that lamp.
There. I mean, check.
Dragon lost in his own fantasy world, certain to be annoyed in a few minutes when he gets brought back to reality?
Check.
Perfect opening line? Pfft, like it’s possible to get that one wrong.
Dear Plincess Cerestia
Che—
…
Oh, come on, Twilight. Really?
…
Fine.
"Spike, take a letter?"