Chapter 19: The Library

"Light reading." ​

"Looks like it was occupied for a bit. Gimme a sec."

You and Celegwen couldn't stop Ofelia even if you wanted to. The blonde remains out of sight for a more few minutes. You nervously look down the hallways in either direction, but there are no patrols to speak of.

The halfling reemerges, and gestures for you all to come inside. You have to kneel down slightly to fit below the narrow opening between both bookshelves, and gesture for Ray to follow you. The space is so slim, Celegwen has to release you from her support for either of you to slink through.

Everyone manages to fit through the gap. On the other side lies a narrow, dusty, windowless, and uncomfortably short library. Your hair practically scrapes the top of the ceiling— matted as it is with blood— so you duck as you enter for comfort's sake. Both walls and the far end of the corridor are flanked with books from floor to ceiling. A few stacks of parchment, faded scrolls, and rolled up maps hang from the shelves. More tomes are piled up against a few spare ladders. There's no light— save for the same unnatural glow that has illuminated every other area of the city thus far.

​

Neither the obvious sorcerery, nor the absence of furniture could prevent Ofelia from setting up shop. She's piled a collection of a vagrant's rags against a far wall, and is laying out her things on a clean and dry expanse of the wooden floor.

You can barely move, exhausted as you are. Ray leans into you, and you put a hand on him while you wait for Celegwen. She manages to slide into the small entryway with far more difficulty than you had, keeping her chest down as best as she's able. The elf is flustered as she reemerges next to you all, but she still offers you assistance in getting to a decent resting place beside Ofelia.

The instant you lay down, you drop against your pack without even bothering to take it off. Ofelia chuckles, but can't possibly be as relieved as you are.

"Get some rest, Richard. I'll keep the first watch while you all sleep."

You barely hear her last few words, as you're already unconscious.

Music

Someone is shaking you.

"Richard." Ofelia whispers as loudly as a demon-infested library permits. "Richard! I don't know why I always have to be the one to do this shit. RICHARD!"

Heavy with sleep, you wave your arm to move the halfling aside. What little muscle remains sears from overuse of your limbs. She stops shaking the minute you mumble, "what? What is it?"

"Richard, I know you like to sleep like the dead and all, but we can't stay here forever. It's been several hours. Hope that's enough."

The damn headache has finally subsided. With a frown, you rub some of the sleep out of your eyes and blearily try to adjust to the low light.

Before you can get your bearings, Ofelia shoves a handful of food at you. "You're not gonna' like this either, but we're not readin' 'til you eat."

Your frown deepens further as you take the package from her hands. "I did mean to ask you something." Waking up properly, you catch Ray sleeping soundly at your feet. Celegwen is in a trance as she sits with her back to a nearby bookcase. Your actual question is momentarily forgotten. "Why didn't you wake both of them?"

"Ray can't read and Gwen carried you up here. Eat. And is that really what ya' wanted to ask me?"

You continue stalling. "No. I— I want to take better care of myself. I was hoping— I was wondering if— if you could help me? I'm worried about Flesh—" Just as Ofelia starts to smile, she lets out a groan. Your whisper takes on a far more enthusiastic tilt. "You'd probably like him! His most faithful adherents treat their bodies as their place of worship. I could— I could learn a thing or two from them." Your resolve meets her dead in the eye. "From you."

She stares down to the untouched food in your hands. "Start with that. I'll see what I can do."

You take a deep breath, and slowly work at the wrap. It's just boiled leaves, moss, and other (unidentifiable) plant life. It's completely tasteless, and feels like glass going down. You try and tell yourself that it's worth it. It's slow going, but you manage the entire thing. As badly as you'd like to not pay any attention to your body, there's no ignoring how angular and gaunt every inch of you has become.

The halfling pushes more into your hands just as you manage to choke down some water. She's glaring at you, but is kind enough to not make any further comment.

The hundreds of books lining the walls are infinitely more appealing than normal discussion— but this is a rare opportunity to learn something from your companion. The very little you know about Ofelia and Celegwen hasn't been much of a concern, but it looks like you all will be traveling together at some length.

I am here to document my findings.

Your journal is fished out, tucked under one arm, and a bundle of greens is held with the other. You're saddled with more before you even get to your feet. Your limbs still ache, but even a few hours of sleep has done wonders for your body and mind. A low, respectful, and subdued tone is pointed at Ofelia as you make a point to keep eating. "Would you accompany me, while I— while I look over these shelves? I know that you came here to search for a cure of your own, but I— I don't know very much about you."

The books give you an easy excuse to avoid eye contact. You're terribly unused to speaking to others at any length like this, and pray that the honest attempt at conversation doesn't sound too awkward. As your eyes wander, you see tomes ranging from singular slips of paper, to hulking volumes that strain the wood they rest upon. The books are haphazard, and are clearly unorganized. It seems like a shot in the dark to locate specific information.

You have so many questions.

Ofelia scarcely comes up to your hip as you walk side-by-side, so she looks up in reply. "There's not much to say." Her usual sass is entirely absent. "I've done a lot. Been a whole lotta places. But I don't got a lot to me, Richard." Her voice grows distant. "Ya' think that's why that cold demon mostly left me alone?"

You can't help but shake your head. Tearing your eyes away from Classical Diction, Magicke of Yeast and Time, and Glory & Magnificence of the Wilds, you pick the smallest and most slender book in sight off from the shelf. The pages of 151 Illustrated Seaxes are relatively unharmed by Time, save for a thick coat of dust along the edges. While offering the book out in response to Ofelia's question, you silently flip open a few of its pages.

Depictions of exotic and mundane blades from various corners of the world brightens Ofelia's face, and puts light back in her eyes. You whisper, "not a lot to you?"

The two of you exchange the book as if it's a priceless artifact. Completely enamored with its pages, Ofelia flips through them with increasing eagerness. "This is incredible! Okay. You know I got a way with knives." The cornflower blue of her eyes lingers on a single, luminous illustration. "Ain't seen nothin' like this before. I make due with what we can find, and the bit I got from home, but this..."

You lean in, and inspect the entry she's pouring over. The weapon on the page seems to almost jump off of it. A blade made of gemstones reflects and refracts light from the surrounding area off the page with such intensity, it lights up the area around you both. You can't help but murmur, "this is useful. Keep that page open."

The two of you stroll further down the hall.

"If I'm not being too forward, why are you so adept with them?" You're a gentleman, and wince as you try elaborating. "It's extremely unusual for a woman— let alone a halfling— to be so..."

She takes no offense. "It's unusual, yeah. All of my sisters are family types. Couldn't get their hands dirty if their lives depended on it, y'know? But they're doin' somethin' I can't, too. Sittin' around. Waitin'. Actin' all nice and proper. Manners, and bowin', and all that mess. I wanted to help in other ways. My Pa wasn't very understandin' at first— but after enough years of the work, he came around. I wouldn't take no for an answer, if you understand my meanin'." The killer stares hard at something unseen. "I worked real hard to get to where I am now."

You have no idea how to reply, and at least offer a nod in acknowledgement.

Looking for anything that might help you and your cause provides a welcome distraction. You're rapidly realizing how impossible it would be to search through every tome— let alone translate them. Estate & Economy, Charting the Unknown, and Properties of Matter & Air all leer at you with gilded spines and withered pages. You move to fish out your journal and pen, and pause.

Ofelia's eyes are boring into the untouched food in your hands. Wanting nothing more than to not offend her, you try to work at the wrap. Rather than slowly pick at it, you try inhaling the contents outright. The pain is immediate and intense, but it's at least over with quickly.

You're reluctantly plied with more food. Though you've both been whispering, Ofelia speaks so softly that her words almost becomes inaudible. "I hope it isn't too awful. I'm used to cookin' outdoors, but it was too risky to make a proper fire in here."

"It's—" You cough, despite how hard you're trying to restrain yourself.

Both of you look with alarm towards the entryway. There's no sight of any movement, and you muffle all further sound into your sleeve.

It takes you a minute to regain your composure, but you eventually continue, "it's fine. I've told you before— it's no fault of your own. I imagine— I imagine that you can do even better with a proper kitchen?"

She beams, "'course I can."

Pouring over the shelves, strange runic alphabets and a few Elvish tomes stare back at you. You make a note to have Celegwen look over the exotic script, and clear your throat a few times. "I'm willing to bet there are some recipes buried in here. Do you have any favorites, Ofelia?"

The halfling's eyes gleam. "There's a buckwheat honeycake recipe that I'm an expert at makin'. It's so much better if you let it sit out overnight, so all the spices come together." She leans in, and winks. "I always add brandy to mine."

You chew at the greens in hand, and try to imagine it. The sensation of needles and glass doesn't abate, but it's a welcome change to have some positive associations with food. "That sounds... really nice. Maybe you could copy it down for me?"

She could not look any more delighted as you offer her a blank page of your journal, and eagerly writes down the ingredients. The rogue clearly has no idea how to use your pen, and presses the nib too firmly to the parchment.

You take the barely legible page back. "Your handwriting is a little heavy—" The vegetables you're choking down are almost as dry as your speech. "—but this looks wonderful."

"Very funny. Try not to sound so excited!" She can't help but laugh, and reaches up to jab you lightly on the side of your arm.

"Really. Thank you." You let the ink dry properly before closing your journal.

"Hope you get the chance to try it one day." A few more pieces of food are shoved at you before Ofelia turns to go. "I'll uh, leave you to the books. Let me know if you find anythin' interestin', 'kay?"

"Ofelia." You whisper as loudly as you dare to grab her attention. Your eyes grazed over a heavy tome. It's dog-eared, well-worn, and the cover is a sweet shade of blue. The spine of Belbaina's Cookbook looks handwritten with love. You fetch it off of the top shelf— where the halfling no doubt never would have seen it— and hand the book off to her. "I could use your help searching. Maybe we can look through this later?" Her eyes go wide. You put a finger to your lips, as your frown relents. "Let's wake up Celegwen and get to work."

She nods enthusiastically. "Sure— though I don't have the faintest idea what we could be lookin' for."

Your eyes widen as they pour over the countless entries of the many shelves lining just this one room of the library. Periodically, there have been footsteps off in the distance, too.

You can't imagine you can cover every book here— especially given how precious time is— but maybe you can focus your search.

"Anything regarding the ruins. Anything pertaining to our mission. Look for the oldest codexes you can find. Have Celegwen search through anything in a tongue you don't recognize. We will— we will cover more ground if we divide the search."

Ofelia nods and briskly goes to wake the elf. You flip through a great number of the items on the shelves in the low lighting. Taking care to not bend any spines— after each thorough examination— you gently place each book back where you found it. A few particularly colorful covers stand out, but one looks newer than all the rest.

The writing on the spine is self-indulgent to an extreme, and wraps from the back to the front cover. The title simply reads, 'On History'. You pull it off the shelf, and upon opening it, you immediately make a face. It's even worse on the interior. Flowery illustrations and decadent script details gross exaggerations of Corcaea's history. You flip through the first few chapters quickly, and read as fast as you're able through purple descriptions of King Magnus, and all the Kings before him. King Vaughn, King Frederick, King Samuel, and King Thaddeus are described in excess. You have never even heard of the last two until now, so your curiosity is piqued. Despite the lack of relevance to your current search, you try to skim what you do recognize.

"And unto his holiness we doth profess the most suffering. His Vengefulness hath taken from us. As thine royal visage looke upon the blasted field, thine grain spoilt, and our hearts doth weep for thine people." You wince, and try to eat a little more while you read— grateful to even have what's been given to you. The famine only ended recently. In between mouthfuls you continue muttering. "...owe to His divine reflexion we doth offer our flesh, 'i this, the hour of our reckoning... profligation of our impulses most shameful might not but now be taken unto his essence, eradicating our manifestations forevermore..."

Your voice is hardly a whisper as you read a few more entries aloud to yourself.

How have I never heard of these men?

"Immutable though the darkness may be— still, still, we seek illumination. Through His Spirit, we have attained peace. There is nought left. We must endure..."

You can't help but make a sound, and practically choke on your food. "...and up from the earth did they come? Titans, great and terrible— winged and feathered were their offspring and yet coarse and chromatic were they. Lapidated, they fell deep within the place of their birth, heralds of the King—"

A faint sigh escapes from your teeth as you try to contain your distaste. It's a fair assumption that the remainder of the book is as fanciful. You flip through a few more pages and confirm your suspicions. "...did tumble and quake a storm so fierce that none doth withstand it. Cleaving the land in twain, rending Desolation from that which we now call home... creatures of the sky and earth, whomst reside now on the Throne of Ellor..."

This is all nonsense.

Frowning, you flip to the back of the book to try to gauge just how fanciful it gets. There's an illustration of a man towering above a castle, who's raising his hands to the sky. "A fairytale." The banner underneath the figure catches you off-guard, however. It reads, "Cause of War."

Flipping back through the earlier entries on Corcaea (where the children's stories hold some weight), there's talk of a trade route that once ran from the northern continent to where you currently reside. This is impossible, as the Cabochan Strait lies to the north. There's further entries on a civilization eclipsed in darkness. The pages illustrate a bountiful land wasting away under a red moon, that could only be saved by the return of the Gods. You scoff.

More fanciful yet are talks of a time when men determined their own fate. That they existed before the other races. Before the Gods exerted their will over the world. By the time you reach an entry on marriage between King Frederick and his many devotees— in the name of worshiping Flesh— you close the book with a thud, and a deep blush across your features.

That's enough of falsehoods and fairytales.

You slide the tome back onto the shelf and continue your search. You keep your eyes peeled on the topmost shelf (where Ofelia and Celegwen will have more trouble spotting anything of interest), but you also comb for books regarding the Church of Mercy. You can recognize Her name in more tongues than any other. After what must be another hour of searching, you gather several items of use. Faiths & Heresies of the Old World, Treatise on the Merciful, an old religious pamphlet, and an ancient diary all bear mention of Her. The diary even has your church's oldest symbol— a pair of outstretched hands— etched into the spine.

You flip over the pamphlet first. It's the easiest to read, thanks to a woman's inhumanly delicate script. It lists a number of Mercy's tenets, along with methods of observing Her.

​

You fondly tuck it into the side of your journal before flipping open the diary— then drop it from your hands immediately. The thick human leather of its cover stares at you as it falls open to the floor. 'LIES' is etched into the dried flesh of the item in a harsh script.

It falls open as it hits the floor. You can't help but grasp onto your holy symbol, frantically looking around down the hall, to your hands, and to the diary. No one seems to stir, other than Ofelia and Celegwen moving through the shelves closer to the entrance of the room. No curse takes you over. There is no indication of any influence from demons or sin. Silence pervades the library.

Nervously moving to open the diary with the edge of your shoe, your heart drops. Inside the pages lies the confessions of a mad man. The handwriting begins frenetically. Every sentence escalates in viciousness. Love and obsession clearly drove the author beyond insanity.

You realize you may be looking at a chronicle of someone taken by the Catalyst. The book is picked back up with your sleeves around your hands, and tucked under your arm. It will be stored alongside anything else you find for your research. This sort of material could be crucial— when you have time to give it a more thorough examination.

You flip through Treatise on the Merciful quickly. The margins of each page are filled in with the complaints of bored priests. You can't help but be slightly amused by caricatures of commoners and clergy that accompany their notes. "We've run out of wine. These copies will take much longer. Oh, my hand. Let the reader's voice honor the writer's pen."

The contents of the Treatise itself are miserable. It paints a scathing image of the Church through criticisms of Mercy and Her practitioners. You practically want to burn it, but out of respect for the men who penned the book you slide it back onto the shelf.

The last book— Faiths & Heresies of the Old World— looks far more promising. Though it's crudely written, interesting entries catch your eye right from the start. It looks to be an account of lost Gods. An elaborate pantheon for halfling society is detailed that encompassed every grain, tree, rock and animal. The sacrilege of elven society is also elaborated on at great length. Accounts of humanity exacting divine punishment towards the heretical race is detailed, along with the animosity it brewed between your cultures. You suspect that the historical relevancy of the material is outdated after reading an account of peoples who worship a God of ice deep to the south. There's also reference to a fertility culture on an island far beyond the coasts of Corcaea— also north of the Cabochan.

More interesting to you than any of this are ancient accounts of worship of your own pantheon. It eerily mirrors your own experiences. "Upon prayer to the God did our most devoted suffer most hideously... from the mouth and eyes..." You cringe. "They could not be saved."

Flipping ahead, you search for anything relevant to your mission. While there is an entire chapter on Mercy, the information is ancient. The tome as a whole is large and rather heavy, but you decide to take it with you as well. You hardly have anything in your pack at the moment, and assume it won't be any trouble for the time being.

Ofelia nearly scares you half to death as she suddenly speaks up from right beside you. "You're going to ruin your eyes—" She had to have walked up to you silently. Both of your hands manage to find a place over your chest, as you fight to not gasp. "—and your heart at this rate, too—"

You give her a tired glance, and try to get your pulse to calm down as you whisper. "Any luck?"

"Yeah. Couple a things. I don't know how Gwen knows so many languages. Guess she hasn't forgotten everythin'! Come take a look."

Piles of books are on the floor along the way back to your campsite. Snaking through the stacks that the blonde has clearly left in her wake, you resist the urge to put them all back before rejoining Celegwen. Ray is still sleeping beside her. He must have been exhausted. You set down the remaining food you couldn't finish next to him, and make note to wake him properly once you're done searching. Your dog makes no motion to budge, so you cast your full attention to the mountain of research by his side.

Celegwen is positively surrounded with books, parchment, scrolls and journals. Each one is seemingly older than the last. She looks up to you with a genuine smile. "Good to see you on your feet."

It's frustrating how timid your voice sounds as you reply. "I couldn't have— I couldn't have made it without your help. I see that you've been busy—"

The elf offers you a seat next to her. "Yes. I don't know how much help this will be, but we've found an absurd amount of information regarding the ruins. It's primarily historical accounts of what these buildings were once for, but I hope there will be something of greater use for you in their pages."

Bewildered, you look over the stacks of books around her. "How much have you been able to translate so far?"

Pride puffs out her substantial chest. "Five pages."

Five pages.

You've looked at over five separate sources in the same length of time. Straining to keep your calm, you ask, "of which book...?"

The sorceress holds it up to the light. 151 Illustrated Seaxes is propped up above the elf, so it can conveniently illuminate her working area. Celegwen slowly reads aloud, "Architecture of the City of Lights: Ostedholm. I suspect this is our current location."

"What has it said...?"

"There was a lengthy introduction crediting the architects of the city. I believe I am halfway through it."

​

You take a deep breath, fiddling nervously with your holy symbol with your free hand.

Halfway through an introduction. This isn't going to work.

At least you seem to be on the right track.

Looking to the loose-leaf maps littering the piles of parchment, you say to your fellow scholar, "I know this sounds crazy. But is there any way you can dissipate all of the books that don't pertain to the Relic, its maps, the ruins, AND the Church of Mercy?"

She's visibly upset by the suggestion. "That would be nearly everything."

You nod, looking equally distraught. "I know."

Celegwen looks to her staff, as it's propped up next to one of the ladders beside her. The grief in her eyes trails off to the many books beyond. "It would be a terrible waste— but I assume that all of these books can't possibly be read or preserved."

"Fuckin' scholars—" Ofelia groans. "Get on with it!" A shooing motion is made with her hands, as she hisses, "the patrols are back. I don't think we can stay here much longer."

You give a pleading look to Celegwen. A long moment passes between you two, but it seems to do the trick.

"It's for a good cause," the elf rationalizes. "I will try."