A Biographer for Ponyville

by TMH

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Comedy
Length: 4061

A low level unicorn scribe is, through the magic of bureaucracy, the perfect candidate to interview and write the biography of the Bearers of the Elements of Harmony.

Struck Scroll, Archivist of the Royal Kitchens, is, through luck and the tides of fate, thrust into the position of Biographer of the Elements of Harmony. His job, as he is forced to accept it, is to interview the Elements of Harmony and recount their lives and tales up to this point for the good of the ponies of Equestria, or some nonsense like that.

He never asked for this.

Published 2013-10-01 18:40:03 UTC
Last updated 2013-12-30 04:17:11 UTC

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?”

“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.

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.

Chapter II: The Journey of a Thousand Pains

A Biographer for Ponyville

Chapter II: The Journey of a Thousand Pains...

With a jolt the carriage landed.

The two pegasi who had been pulling the cart unhitched themselves and unceremoniously went about the business of unloading.

A long package.

A squat package.

A spherical package.

A *crash*, ahem, package that totally didn’t have “fragile” marked on it. Seriously, it came off I swear.

A sleeping stallion. “Hey buddy get up.”

“Hmm, ugh.”

“Look pal, I ain’t gots all day. Get your flank outta my carriage before I take it out for ya.”

The other pegasus looked over to his partner and their passenger. “Come on Frank we gotta be in Cloudsdale before six.”

“I’m workin on it Pesti, just get the inventory filed with Ms. Doo.” Frank looked back to Struck, “Look, either you get out right now, or I fly up this cart and tilt you out over the river. Capiche?”

Struck made no sign of hearing the fine upstanding gentleman and instead mumbled something along the line of, “Oh really Ms. Sparkle you already wrote it? How convenient.”

Frank sighed, “Sweet Celestia. Alright buddy, time for a bath.”

Struck had a spark of consciousness. This spark rapidly grew into a raging inferno thanks to the plentiful air provided by his spontaneous descent toward a river.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH-*SPLOOSH*” Assorted bubbles and gurgling broke the surface of the river as Struck furiously swam upwards. He launched through the water gasping for air and looking about wildly, “Wha-wh-w,” he stammered briefly before he drew in a large breath and composed himself, “WHAT IN THE THRICE-DAMNED NAME OF TARTARUS JUST BUCKING HAPPENED!?” Composed being, of course, a relative term.

Upon realizing that nopony was going to answer him, he decided that he might as well get to shore and figure out why he just got dropped into a river.

He reached the shore panting due to shock and a less than perfectly fit body, (accounting an athlete did not make). Laying spread-eagle on his back he stared into the sky recalling his last memories.

It yielded little but anxiety. First, he recalled his saddlebags, which he had to dive back into the water to get. Next, he remembered the I.D., which he spent ten minutes and several dives searching for in the river-bottom before realizing it was still in the saddlebags. Then, he remembered what a fool he had made of himself to Celestia and considered drowning himself to avoid ever having to face her again. He finally decided that he had had enough damn water and would have to find some poisonous plant or something later.

His contemplation of a self-inflicted mercy kill was interrupted by the sound of a voice, which was odd considering he hadn’t seen any signs of civilisation during his panicked fall to watery hell.

Three fillies emerged from the foliage arguing over who was more responsible for forgetting a map from what Struck could gather, and he gleefully began trotting toward the group, “It sure is nice to see some frie-” a rock. His face. Those were his last thoughts.

“Is he okay?” The orange and yellow fillies asked in unison when the white one motioned that she was done examining the stallion.

“Probably, I hope.” Was all she could say with a bit of a grimace.

“Scootaloo, why’d ya hafta go and knock him out with a rock for?” The yellow one looked accusingly to Scootaloo.

“You saw him Applebloom, he was coming right for us! He might be some crazy serial killer that lives in the woods.”

“I ain’t never heard about no serial killers around Ponyville, Scootaloo.” Applebloom looked unconvinced and rather nonplussed.

“Yeah, well, maybe he was just starting.” Scootaloo didn’t seem too convinced in her own story either.

“Well whoever he is you really got him.” The white one walked back over to the others and joined the conversation.

“What can I say? Rainbow Dash taught me everything I know.” A balloon would be hard pressed to inflate more than the little pegasus’ chest.

“Like how to forget a map?” Applebloom deadpanned.

“I already told you I brought the map!” Applebloom just stared at her. “It just, kinda, fell out or something.” She looked away and scratched the back of her neck with a front hoof.

“Riiiiiiiiight,” she rolled her eyes, “Anyway, the point is we’re lost, we don’t have a map, and you just clocked the only pony we’ve seen in hours.”

Scootaloo pawed the ground sheepishly.

“Oh, how could this day get any worse?”

“Sweetie!!”
“Sweetie!!”

“What?” It started raining. “Heh, heh. Oops?”

Struck awoke slowly.

Before he gained control of any of his senses, his subconscious thought it would be funny to give him a quick flashback of the whole day. Needless to say this did not give him high hopes for what he was about to wake up to.

The first thing he noticed was the smell, burnt juice.

Wait a second, how can yo-

“-u burn juice?” Well, hearing is back up.

“Hey! It’s not burnt! It’s just kinda, um…”

“Kinda burnt?”

Touch reformed and informed him that he was laying on grass, and pleasantly less wet than he imagined he would be.

“Okay, fine, it’s burnt. I just don’t know what went wrong. But at least the apples are fin- OH COME ON!!!”

Yep, hearing is definitely back. Ouch.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah...Applebloom?”

“Remind me not to make you the Crusaders’ designated cook, why were you even cooking the apples?”

His eyes opened slowly and, piece by piece, revealed three foals sitting around a fire. They all had their backs turned to him.

His first thoughts about them were grateful, they weren’t cannibals. Then he realized how stupid that thought was and instead decided to be grateful that rock hadn’t broken anything important. After that his emotions took a turn for the bitter when he realized a broken skull would have been the perfect excuse to get out of this job.

He snorted in disdain at his bad luck.

“Aaaaah!”

The orange pegasus shrieked and hid behind the log she and her friends were sitting on. The yellow one looked at her agitatedly and the white one looked on curiously.

“Um, hehe. Sorry.” She walked around the log to her friends as she rubbed her right foreleg.

The yellow one looked back to Struck. “Hiya there mister! My name’s Applebloom, and this here
is Sweetie Belle,”

“Hi!”

“and Scootaloo.”

“‘Sup”

“And we’re…”

The three collectively inhaled, “THE CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS!!™”

Ow, my ears. “It’s nice to meet you?”

The white one, Sweetie Belle, responded, perhaps too intensely, “It’s nice to meet you too Mister!”

Struck rose to a sitting position and introduced himself, “My name is Struck Scroll, and I need to reach Ponyville.” Might as well try to sound professional, he thought.

“Well I’ma mite sorry Mister Scroll, we would be happy ta get ya to Ponyville, but we’re kinda lost.”

“Yeah, how’d that happen? Heh heh.” Scootaloo swallowed dryly.

Applebloom looked away from her orange friend and back to Struck, “So as I was sayin Mister, we’d love to help but we were kinda hoping you knew where we are. Do ya?”

“Unfortunately, no. I was dumped into that river in some kind of flight mishap; I was actually just dragging myself out when,” he broke out into a panic, “Oh no. My saddlebags, my saddlebags, please tell me you have my saddlebags.”

“Sorry, we could barely drag ya as you are, we had ta leave yer bags behind.”

Just as Struck was beginning to contemplate running off into the woods and living the remainder of his life as a hermit, Sweetie Belle spoke up, “Buuuuuuuut, I did bring some of the papers with me,” she fetched them from her own saddlebags, “here you go.”

His I.D. and his Royal Orders. No money. “Alright, well, now that I’m up I can just follow the drag marks and get the res-” That's when he noticed it was raining quit intensely and there were no tracks to be found in the mud.

“It couldn’t have been far, how long was I out?”

“Hehehe, about, um, seven hours.” Applebloom looked at the unicorn apparently having a mental breakdown worriedly.

“Seven hours? Seven hours?” Struck looked desperately at Applebloom, who backed up slowly and nodded her head wordlessly.

At this confirmation he stood on his hind legs, hugged himself, and spun around in circles before he fell onto his back and gave a short choked laugh. “Well, at least I’m lost and poor.”

Applejack was starting to get worried. That in itself wasn’t especially unusual considering she both ran a huge apple farm and raised her little sister, but unusual or not when Applejack was worried she took action.

She’d been waiting for Applebloom to come home for almost an hour, and the annoyance she had felt when her sister was ten minutes late became mild worry at thirty minutes and put her into action at sixty. Big Mac was just closing up the barn for the night and Applejack decided that when Big Mac came in it was far too late for Applebloom to be out.

Resolving on a plan of action she galloped out to meet her brother as he was heading toward the farmhouse. He took notice of her and stopped his trot when she got closer.

“Big Mac, Applebloom’s been out a mighty long time, you ain’t seen her up at their treehouse have ya?”

He thought for a moment, “Nnnope.”

“Ya seen Sweetie Belle or Scootaloo?”

He was silent for a few moments, his eyes stared at the emerging night sky in that way one does when one thinks and does not see, “Nnno-well, actually I seem to recall seeing Scootaloo running out of their tree house this morning with some kind of scroll, no, it was a map.”

Applejack thought for a moment, her mind not at all liking what the absence of her sister and the Crusaders having a map likely meant. “I swear I’ll tan that girl’s behind until it shines like a Red Delicious if she’s done done what I think she did. I’m gonna go round up the girls and go a lookin for ‘em, I’ll be back by midnight to get the whole town if we can’t find ‘em.” And with that she galloped off down the road towards Ponyville proper, the fading pink of dusk both complimenting and opposing her anger, and fear.

Author's Note

I had planned on adding more to this chapter, but I was finally swayed by the natural ending.

Any questions, comments, or concerns are directed to the comment section below; I respond to all comments.