Chapter I: Preflight Hyperventilation
A Biographer for Ponyville
Chapter I: Preflight Hyperventilation
Stay calm, stay calm. Everything is fine. Yes, everything is fine. There are all sorts of reasons why Head Scribe Emerald Desert would call you to her office. All sorts of reasons, like, um, a raise? I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a raise, and now I never will. Welp, I guess it’s back to unemployment. Maybe sis needs a secretary.
Struck Scroll had his ears folded down, along with his head, as he entered the Head Scribe’s assistant’s office.
“Hello, I’m here to see Head Scribe Em-” Struck started sheepishly.
“Of course you are. Why else would you be here, it’s not like any other pony is here. Nopony EVER wants to see me, I never...” The, perhaps underappreciated, assistant walked from behind her desk and kicked open the door to the Head Scribe's office.
A sigh emanated from the office before, “Come in Mister Scroll, don’t mind Miss Graze.”
Struck did as he was told, now seriously considering he might be in purgatory.
“Close the door behind you. Thank you.”
There could be no mistaking the Head Scribes’ office. The desk was quite literally overflowing with scrolls and papers, and the floor for that matter. There was a pot the size of a pony’s head half-filled with ink, a testament to its use, in the middle of the desk. And there were stacks of books all over the floor, along with the stuffed bookcases that took up every last inch of wall space.
The last time Struck had been in this room was when he applied for a job, assistant to the Archivist of the Royal Kitchens, some five odd months ago.
“Now then, Mister Scroll.” She looked up at him from behind the giant ink pot, sighed, and rubbed her eyes. “Please take a seat.”
He sat in the chair in front of the Head Scribe’s desk, the only thing in the room devoid of books, scrolls, or something of the like.
“Mister Scroll, what I’m about to ask you to do is ridiculous. In fact, it is beyond ridiculous. I will no doubt be cited as one of the most inefficient and incompetent Head Scribes that have ever come about.”
Struck was very scared now. And even more confused.
“I’m sure you’re well aware of our shortage of staff?”
Struck nodded. He was “promoted” a month ago to Archivist of the Royal Kitchens, and nothing really changed as far as his duties were concerned, he didn’t even get a raise, counting sacks of barley was still counting sacks of barley.
“Well this shortage has reached critical levels. Between droves of ponies being driven away by Her Majesty Princess Luna’s disposition and the, apparently low, psychological standards set by my predecessor-”
Oh that’s right, she’s only been Head Scribe for a few months longer than I’ve been here.
“-for hirees, I have, maybe, ten percent effectiveness. And I am not only responsible for seeing that the logistics of the castle are recorded, I am responsible for seeing that the entire bloody Kingdom’s production of brown paint is recorded. Because Celestia forbid some bored scribe five-hundred years from now can’t get an accurate count of this year’s brown paint supply!”
The Head Scribe was flailing her hooves about in a very not calm way.
“Um, are you okay?”
“NO I AM NOT OKAY!! I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR EVERY DAMN NUMBER THAT ANY IDIOT ON THE ROYAL PAYROLL DECIDES TO WRITE DOWN!”
Emerald was snout to snout with Struck, with him somewhat bent backwards over his chair. She looked down to see that she was somewhat straddling the, clearly terrified, stallion.
“I’m terribly sorry.” She removed herself from the awkward pose. “I have quite a lot on me at the moment, but that doesn’t excuse my behavior. Harmony knows the last thing I need is to scare off one of the last remaining competent members of my staff.”
“It’s okay?” Struck had by now abandoned purgatory and was sure he was on the fast track to Tartarus.
“No it’s not okay. Especially considering the assignment I’m about to give you. Which I’m sure you’re eager to hear, or maybe not. Regardless, here’s the deal, the RSLS, Royal Society of Literary Scholars, have decided, in their infinite dust covered wisdom, that now is the perfect time to start on the first volumes chronicling the lives of the Bearers of the Elements. And, in an effort to keep my job and not be shunned from any meaningful work for the rest of my life, I must send somepony to do something at least vaguely resembling research. And, you guessed it, you’re the lucky stallion.”
To say that Struck was struck would be quite accurate, “Not to overstep my bounds, bu-”
“-t why?” Emerald cut in, “Well it’s really not that complicated; the cooks can count for themselves. It is beyond me why your position exists, let alone your previous. If it’s any consolation, the RSLS has, surprisingly enough, pretty extensive resources. If you get this right, and you better, you’ll never have to go to a job interview again. Everyone is going to want the biographer of the Bearers.”
“Well, I guess it wo-”
“-n’t be so bad?” This lady is very rude, “Don’t think like that. This will be the most daunting task you’ve ever accomplished, because you must accomplish it. The Element of Magic will, no doubt, try to do the job herself, and the RSLS wants this to be as objective as possible. The Element of Generosity will, more than likely, try to make herself appear much more perfect than she is, for a multitude of reasons, probably including her business and courtship, and the RSLS wants this to be the plain truth. The Element of Kindness will either outright try to avoid you, or severely downplay her role in several key events. Loyalty, well, that’s complex, but suffice to say, don’t take her own version of events at face value, though she has done some very impressive things. Laughter well that’s something else entirely I-”
“Umm, I don’t mean to interrupt but h-”
“-ow do I know all this? And I do mean to interrupt, be assertive, but gentle, these mares will eat you alive. But, to answer your question, these.” She opened a drawer of her desk and pulled out six folders. “These,” she put the folders on her desk, “are the psychological profiles of the Bearers.”
“Um, wow. Can I look at them?”
“Nope. And neither can I, legally, but when you’re working at ten percent strength in a vital national ministry, you do what you must. And don’t ask how I got ahold of these; you do not want to know.”
At this point, Struck wasn’t sure if he was still talking to the head of a major government agency, or if he was in the office of a mob boss.
“I’m very sure this is a lot to take in, I quit reflecting on what I do months ago, but, like it or not, this is absolutely vital for the continuation of our way of life. Listen to me, I sound like some hawkish politician. I’m ranting aren’t I?” She looked at him questioningly?
He braced for, well, at this point he wasn’t sure, “Uh, yes”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“NO, no, nope.”
She raised it even more.
“I mean, uh maybe, kinda.”
She continued to stare at him. He was quivering just slightly.
“Yes, yes you are. Pleasedon’tmurderme.”
She raised her e- “Hahaha, I’m a horrible pony, that was way too funny.”
Struck continued to shiver somewhat.
“No, but seriously, I AM ranting, and I like to think I have a good reason to rant, but that’s enough of my pity party. Your travel costs to Ponyville are covered in full, and your board is paid for five months advance. And here,” she pulled a bag from seemingly nowhere, “three hundred bits for grocery and miscellaneous costs.”
Struck took these facts with much less trepidation.
Three hundred bits was a few dozen bits more than he made in a month. And five months paid board? I mean true, his current job, well former job now, came with free living arrangements (i.e. a walk in closet with a bed and nightstand), but nopony in their right mind would turn down an offer like this.
Then again, he didn’t really have a choice, but, well, there are much worse situations that life can force you into. Situations that don’t include free board.
“When do-”
“-you leave?” This lady is severely deprived of manners. “Immediately.”
Struck stared at her.
She stared back.
…
“Hahahahaha, sweet Royal Sisters you’re fun to mess with.*Ahem* But seriously your carriage leaves in thirty minutes from pad 27B. Consider it a taste of what I go through every waking moment of my pathetic mortal existence.”
…
“Still sitting there? I’d hurry, if you miss this one you’ll be flying on your own pocket.”
Struck tossed the bits into his saddlebags with his magic, and headed for the door.
“Oh and don’t forget this.”
A paper airplane crash landed into the door in front of Struck.
“Your Official Royal Identification Certificate. Stop by the Royal Archivists’ Secondary Sub-Bureau of Internal Management before you leave, and don’t wait around too long; I already sent in the paperwork to have it closed and absorbed into some other meaningless department I can’t remember the name of. Anyway, they’ll give you your official papers.”
As Struck exited Emerald’s office, and that of her secretary, his thoughts turned from overwhelmed confusion to hurriedly running through everything he would need to pack for the flight. Teleporting himself to his room, which was not too taxing, he began to gather all his essentials.
Saddle-bags? Check and equipped.
Money? Check.
Stationery? Check.
Confidence? Unaccounted for.
I.D. Certificate? Check
“Alright, I guess I’ll just have to buy anything else I need at my new board.” Struck stared at his I.D Certificate hurriedly. “Now where in Tartarus is this Celestia-forsaken sub-bureau?”
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“Next.”
The dead voice rang out with more clarity than it had any right to.
Struck just handed the papers to the elderly mare behind the booth. She took it, stamped it, and handed it back to him.
“Wha-?” He stared in confusion at the paper and then the mare.
“It’s wrinkled.” She replied in perfect monotone.
“I can’t help that, please, you know it’s not a forgery.” He begged with the mare.
“It’s wrinkled, and in accordance with the Equestrian Ministry of Interior’s Third Charter, Section Twelve, Subsection C: ‘No article of Identification Entitlement shall be accepted by an official of the Equestrian Government without explicit authorization from a Minister or higher official.’”
This mare must have killed on poker night.
“I, but, uh, *sigh*, fine.” He turned to slink out of the room, adorned with walls overflowing with scrolls and books.
“I’d hurry if I was you. The Princess should be finishing her lunch soon, wouldn’t want to have to wait for Day Court to settle this, seeing as your flight leaves in thirteen and a half minutes.”
He turned to face the mare, but all that greeted him was a metal divider with hours of business tacked on it.
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Breath. This is fine. You’re just going to approach the most powerful being in existence to ask for help in a trivial matter of bureaucracy. It’s fine, totally fine. I’ve done harder. I’m sure I have. There was that time with the rats, those were big rats. Admittedly they were sleeping, but they were killers! Probably. Why didn’t I confront those rats? I need that kind of courage to confront the Prin-
“Excuse me, My Little Pony.”
“-cess Celestia. Oh.” Struck looked slowly up from the floor, past white hooves, past lean white legs, up an ornate torc, up a perfectly kept neck, and into warm pools of magenta.
“Something on your mind, Mister?”
“Struck Scroll, Your Highness.” Struck bowed/fell to his knees in shock.
“Well Mister Scroll, I hate to be rude, but is there something you need? I must be at court in a few minutes.”
“Um, Yes, Your Majesty. You see, I, um, was recently given an Identification Certificate, but it got a little wrinkled, and the mare at the office said it needed authorization from a high official, and my flight is leaving in five minutes and I can’t screw this job up or I’ll never be able to get a meaningful job again and I please please please, I beg you, I need your signature on this please please please please-” At this point Struck realized he was hugging the Princess’ leg. “OH! I’m so sorry Your Highness, I would never dream of touching you, I mean your legs. NOT THAT I WOULD DREAM OF TOUCHING OTHER PARTS OF YOU! BytheSunI’manidiot pleasedon’tkillme.”
The Immortal Sovereign of the Sun, Her Most Immaculate Majesty Princess Celestia of Equestria, stared at the stallion in the fetal position at her hooves then at the document he was holding out to her in his magic. She signed it with a pen that materialized before her and smirked, “So you’re the lucky stallion Mister Scroll. Do try to cower in fear less, I would think it would be quite hard to write in such a state. Good luck.”
And with that he was teleported to his carriage with his I.D. in his saddlebag and his conscious mind in dreamland.
Not dreaming about touching Celestia. NOT.