Two days later, under a certain princess's calm, clear night sky, Celestia's protégé fell into her writing desk's chair with an unkempt mane and large, dark bags under her eyes. She levitated out an inkpot and quill from a drawer with a yawn and smoothed out the parchment that had been lying on the wooden surface, waiting for its time to come. Tired eyes watched the pen wet its nib and float over to the paper, hesitate, and spring into action.