Libra was coiled up in her Bind's bedroom, her full length stretching to about twenty feet. Her eyes gave the impression she was sleeping, although no one in their right mind would assume the Living Book needed sleep. She was thinking deeply about the way that Rian Alpin had handled the Barabar hunters, namely how she had suggested they find less risky hunts in an attempt to spend more time with their families.

The grimoire possessed a spell called Ink Manipulation and had maxed out its level long ago. She primarily used it to build herself a body from her own ink. The body looked similar to a dragon, a creature she appreciated for its reputation of power, with Libra's real form, a golden book with a wide eye on the front and back covers, set in the forehead. Black liquid frequently dripped from the shape, and they had long since realized that carpet wasn't a viable option, regardless of the fact that the ink was consumed back into Libra within seconds. It stained like nothing else.

Rian walked in, her exhaustion immediately evident. The aging woman's blond hair had begun paling to a gray sometime ago, and the bags under her eyes read of difficult days. Libra stood, her concern for her owner overruling her arrogance. Her Bind raised a hand, not lifting her head. "Please don't." The draconic grimoire, albeit with some amount of hesitation, sat back down.

The phrase 'Bind' had been around for as long as Living Books had. Whenever a grimoire was named, it was bound to the one that named it permanently. It wasn't a bad situation - in almost every situation involving Living Books, the book had been grateful to have a name and an owner. Libra could still remember when she had awoken, a dusty old book in a dusty old bookstore. She had stayed in that bookstore for almost a year before she was purchased, and it had been another four months before anyone discovered she was alive. It had been an agonizing experience, knowing you could think and being unable to see or move for such a long time. Rare as they were, it was a miracle if the Book was discovered before it went insane.

But Libra was not concerned with the past, or even in the history of grimoires such as herself. At the moment, she was most worried about Rian.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Her voice was a quiet rumble, the result of a wide variety of sonic spells that allowed her to talk.

The Magelord shook her head wearily, sitting down in a comfy chair next to a vanity, getting ready for the next wave of politicians, citizens, and soldiers constantly vying for her attention. "I appreciate the gesture, Libra, I really do. But I need to think on my own for a while."

She shifted from her lying position, wings adjusting slightly as she changed her balance. A long and awkward silence followed.

Libra couldn't remember exactly when her ownership had passed to Rian, but they had worked together, saved each other's lives, saved the country even, more times than she could count. They were best friends, cooperative to a fault. She was the slightly puffed-up one, confident in her abilities. Rian was the kind one, the person who checked up on victims of catastrophes after they happened. Their dynamic had worked for years, and the book couldn't figure out when it had gone sour. It was as if she woke up one day and Rian didn't want to talk to her anymore.

She sighed loudly. "All right, that's it."

Rian looked up, curious. "What is it?"

As she stood, her tail knocked over an expensive-looking vase and shattering it on the hard floor. She didn't care. "I don't know what happened to make you hate me, but I want to fix it, all right? I'll apologize, I'll compliment you until the sun goes down, I'll - you name it."

Rian frowned tiredly, her forehead creasing. "Hate you?"

Libra got in her face, looking her in the eye. "Yes, hate me. I don't think you've said twenty words to me in the past month. What is wrong with me? Did I start malfunctioning at some point?"

Rian stood up, startled by her sudden intensity. "Wrong with - with you? Are you kidding? You're doing fine!"

Libra almost growled, it was so frustrating. "Then why are you ignoring me? Is something wrong?"

Rian's face paled. So that was it.

"Why won't you tell me what it is? I can help you!" The magess shook her head stubbornly. "No, you can't! I assure you, everything is fine!"

The growl escaped her artificial throat despite her self-control. "No, it's not! Do you even realize how unbelievable you sound? I've been trying to get your attention for at least two weeks!"

Rian slammed a hand on the vanity, and the mirror practically exploded. "NOTHING IS WRONG!"

Libra shrank back, and then grew in her fury. "I don't believe you! I'm bound to you for crying out loud! You think I can't tell when you're lying?"

The Magelord summoned a ball of lightning in her hand, the energy crackling in her palm, scoring the ceiling with scorch marks. "Stop asking, okay? It's none of your business!"

"So you admit it! There is something wrong, and you're not telling me!"

She fired the lightning. It was absorbed into Libra's ink, sparking and hurtling small gobbets of black liquid everywhere, including all over Rian's outfit. She gaped, assessing the damage. Libra didn't bother waiting for her, instead leaping forward and pinning her to the ground. "TELL ME!"

"NO!"

Lightning exploded from her, burning a cut deep into Libra's cover. Screeching in agony, her ink form liquefied, and the book dropped into the liquid. Stunned, it took a moment for Rian to grab her, wiping the ink away. "I - I'm so sorry! Libra? Are you all right? I didn't mean to - oh, cark."

The damage slowly began repairing itself, the burnt edges peeling away as the leather regrew itself. It was a deep burn, however, and Rian could see the white material that made up Libra's real body oozing liquid.

I'm fine.

Rian groaned in relief at the telepathic response, leaning back in the pool of ink, not really caring about her clothes anymore.

Why won't you tell me?

The woman winced. This was not a conversation she had ever wanted to have, and especially not with Libra. As she thought about it, she realized that she really had been avoiding her grimoire, and she couldn't remember how long it had been going on.

She sighed deeply. "I'm not immortal."

...What's your point?

"Libra, you're going to last forever. You've had a hundred masters before me, and there'll be hundreds afterwards. I'm getting older, you know."

The wise eye in the front of the book blinked.

So? They're dead, and you're not. If you're worried about dying so much, why are you avoiding me? Did you not want to have this conversation? Did you want to go all the way to your grave without ever telling me about how you felt?

Rian glared at the book. "Why do you have to make good points?"

One of us has to.

She started laughing. She couldn't help it.

What did I say?

Of course Libra was right. She was indeed getting older, but why should she be spending her time worrying about tradesmen and hunters when her time was limited?

"Libra?"

Yes?

"We need to have an adventure. A good one."

I thought you'd never ask. What are you thinking?

"I don't care. We could go to Barabar and grab a quest there."

Barabar? Their jobs are a little... mundane, don't you think?

Rian crossed her legs, leaning backward.

"Yeah, you're right. Well, how about we just grab a couple weapons and head to a high-ranking crawl?"

That sounds more like it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bryn Breuhull was a blacksmith, the greatest one in Qremond as far as his customers were concerned. He was a dwarf, tall for his species. His powerful stone-like claws were nevertheless incredibly dextrous and allowed him to stick his hands even in lava without any problems. His thick gray carapace could handle immense pressures, which was helpful when digging. The shell extended over his forehead, shielding his yellow eyes from the uncomfortable light on the surface, and his stout legs bore thick claws, strong enough to crush stone. He was wearing an enchanted leather apron, with deep pockets all over the front.

As with many dwarves in the world of Xanem, his mine was also his home, and the entrance was buried in the back. It was rigged with enough traps to hold off a full legion, even a fully armed. He was especially proud of the doorway, as it was hidden behind the endless lava fountain. His neighbors had complained about the heat once before he 'convinced' them that it was safe (in other words, he bribed them).

He was working on a pike at the moment, one that would light up in flames whenever the wielder pumped magic into it. Fire was easy enough to enchant with - many dwarves were obsessed with it, and it was often the first enchantment that they learned.

"Hey, Bryn! How are you doing?"

He smiled, his stony teeth in a grimace. "My very favorite customers! I haven't seen you in quite some time!"

Turning to the Magelord, he placed his hands down on the scored granite counter. "Now what can I set you two up with? Are you looking for armor, weapons, or both?"

Her grimoire answered for her. We want the good stuff. The classic wind armor. Do you still have it?

He chuckled. "Do I have it? Do you think I'd throw away a piece of armor as good as that? Sell it, perhaps? No, I've been holding onto those for a long time. They're in the back." Rian hopped over the counter, punching the dwarf in the shoulder jovially.

Leading them into the back room, Bryn pushed one of his clawed hands into an indentation on the wall. With some effort, he twisted his hand, and a portion of the wall slid away. Inside was a suit of armor.

This was no ordinary suit of armor. It was comprised of mythril and adamantite, and enchanted with almost every air-based enchantment Bryn knew, and quite a few that he'd needed help with. The helmet was modeled after a griffin, and the chestplate, greaves, and gauntlets were detailed with precisely forged feathers. These feathers weren't just for show - it was entirely possible to fly using the armor. It was of a legendary if not mythical grade, and was completely one of its kind.

It had also, incidentally, been custom-crafted for the Magelord herself.