As had been predicted, Flip did very little to find the journal he had been told to look for. Only once before had the Finnigan arcanist found himself in a library full of knowledge that he hoped to know; a library full of secrets and mysteries. And he had read every book in that library, his uncle’s library. And he had been disappointed. Disappointed that all the library had held were the ravings of a mad man, several books in a language that by all accounts did not exist, and a handful of basic spells. But this, this unknown mage’s collection was consistently what he hoped it would be.

“The Treatise of the Stars…” Flip muttered, brushing the dust off of the spine of a tome with his thumb. “Arcanum From the Elf Lands… Mutagenisis and Artifice… Artifice of Many Eyes…”

Flip couldn’t help but speak the name of each title wistfully. He knew them. He had read the names of the books, seen them in the collections of book hoarders and vendors. But they had been too expensive, too expensive to even open and peek at. He had had access to a few hundred shackles of expense money under the debt he owed, but any of the books he was beginning to stack in his arms now were worth hundreds on their own and more to a collector. And now they were free. Philosophers of the arcane, poets, historians, mages of great power and influence, he had access to all the words they had ever written. Or so it seemed to him. And that was enough to distract him, and neither of his companions faulted him for it.

Had they been at sea or in a house of pleasures, the other two would understand the desires of the one who would be distracted. Though, perhaps they wouldn’t always agree with the reason. But they understood each other, that was enough.

There was still a great deal of searching for Velsaffe’s journal, though Flip participated only in the most passive way possible. Dovhran had searched every desk for a trace of the holy changeling’s notes, and found nothing. Selian had begun to trawl the shelves that lined the room, in search of some organizational system or the journal itself. Both found nothing. The books were shelved seemingly at random, regardless of content or language, and the tomes at the desks had likewise proven indecipherable to the untrained eye. After Flip’s first trip with an armful of books, however, Selian began to notice a pattern that Dovhran had missed.

“Faengil… why do you want to read those books?”

“As opposed to the rest of the books in the library, do you mean?”

“Yes. Why not start with different books?” Selian could tell she was on to something, perhaps even a pattern that Flip himself had not picked up on.

“That’s quite simple.” Flip grinned widely as he gingerly placed down his stack of tomes on a mostly empty desk. “These are all fundamental texts, they discuss the principles of magic and likely had a great deal of influence on the way our dear friend in the glass box built his studies.”

“So, all the books you’ve brought to this desk… are on the same topic?”

“Yes.” Flip stared blankly back as he answered. Not because he did not comprehend, but because he was eagerly awaiting the opportunity to be left alone again.

“And if you wanted to study a certain type of spell, you would round up the relevant texts and bring them to one desk to have at them all at once?”

“I would do just that.” Flip nodded, a sly grin growing on his face as he was being pulled back into the task they had ventured to the library for. “Though perhaps you might be interested to know that I would keep a book of notes on what I would like to text and develop at that same study desk, and not at a desk of personal journals.”

“So you think Velsaffe’s journal would be lumped up at a desk studying… disease?” Selian prodded.

“If our friend was interested in such a thing.” Flip nodded. “Or it could be strewn randomly about the shelves as the rest of the tomes here are… wizard’s are not known for their organizational skills.”

“Chains…” Selian swore under her breath. “I thought I was on to something.”

“You might have been!” Dovhran called out from a nearby desk. His head was peering over a lectern by the side of the desk and he had a finger pressed firmly to the page of an open book. “This is a medicinal text, and it’s open to a chapter on lesions and boils.”

“A fabulous discovery.” Flip said in a mildly condescending tone. “I think you should verify the discovery, Farwysher. I’m not entirely sure Dovhran can read. He may have found a military cookbook open to a page on how to prepare legion sized soup pots.”

The insult earned a tired sigh of a growl, but Selian did make her way over to verify. Not just the page that was open, but the names of the other texts as well. She read them out loud in hopes that the wizard would offer some opinion if it was a decent place to focus their search, but his face was already buried in a book of his own.

“Crato’s Innocent Healing, Pestilence and Arcanum, Rodent of the West, Diverging Disease, Valifactor Biologic… They all seem to be about sickness.”

“This one in particular sounds the most relevant.” Dovhran nodded, pointing again tot eh text on the lectern. “The Spreading of Viral Symptoms, authored by one Arwinnius Peck. There are notes in the margins as well. Our dead wizard has taken a look at the symptoms of the disease that killed Velsaffe. Tumorous growths, hardening of the skin, brittleness in the bones and joints… and… mother of stars…”

“What?” Selian moved next to Dovrhan to see the notes he was reading through. “… seems to have avoided the most severe symptoms by gradually having exposed bone gilt in electrum…. That can’t be real… Can changelings even do that?”

“I have no idea…” Dovhran whispered. “I’ve never tried. Revealing anything under my skin is already really painful. Obscurity… even stowing something in my body leaves me sore for a day and that’s a common practice.”

“But wouldn’t he have been able to shift the bones in his body easier than having molten metal poured over them?” Selian was whispering now as well, unable to raise her voice in the face of the disgusting amount of pain her mind had conjured. She nearly felt ill.

“That’s the one thing we can’t do.” Dovhran sighed. “Which I don’t blame you for not knowing, it’s not a very public piece of knowledge. We can’t change the shape or density of our bones. Nearly everything else is incredibly plastic.But bones are bones. The space between them, the cartilage around them, and the skin that holds it all together… that’s as flexible as hair. I think it’s why the disease mostly just killed changelings.”

“I didn’t know that. I thought it killed everyone.” Selian put a sympathetic hand on the mercenary’s shoulder, but he didn’t respond. “But it explains why there are so few of you now.”

There was a silence following the elf’s remark. Dovhran continued to read the notes in the margin of the tome, while Selian scoured the desk in hopes of finding some form of journal. Whether it was Velsaffe’s journal or the wizard’s, either would suffice. Any real knowledge of their predicament was welcome in her search, though she struggled to find anything.

“What about that one there?” Dovhran had caught sight of a thin soft leather bound volume pressed almost invisibly beneath the tome that Selian had called Pestilence and Arcanum.

“Ah hah…” The elf smiled as she carefully separated the two books and flipped open the first page of the soft leather volume. “…here accounting for what I am confident what the world will consider the first year of a third age of the continent of Apyrea, I, Gmid, leave behind this record of my final studies in the medicinal field… why does that name sound familiar?”

“Gmid?” Dovhran pursed his lips as he attempted to recall any information or shred of memory about the name. “I’m not familiar with it. You think that’s him? Or maybe someone he was reading?”

“I’m not sure. But I think it was him.” Seliam frowned as he eyes continued to dance across the page. “That’s my guess at least.”

Dovhran sighed and made his may over Flip, who was now a good way through the first tome he had cracked open. He put a hand down on the wizard’s shoulder, startling him greatly and causing him to nearly leap out of his seat.

“Chains… Faengil, calm yourself.” Dovhran hissed. “Does the name Gmid sound familiar to you?”

Flip stood, swearing under his breath, and dusted himself off before addressing the changeling directly. “That’s a strange name. And no. I would remember if I heard such a name, especially if it belonged to a clever wizard like our friend.”

“Faengil Hasterath Finnigan is a strange name.” Dovhran frowned at the wizard. “What makes Gmid strange to you?”

“Every name is strange, of course. But we all call different sorts of names strange… and it all boils down to location. Names are geographically distinct. So while you may call my name odd, because it stems from the western hills and my family traditions, I call yours strange as it no doubt stems from the heart city of our commonwealth and your cultural traditions. Gmid is a strange name to the north. The truncated mmm sound is more common in the Viclen tongue of the southeast.”

“So you think the name Gmid stems from… what? Probably Linivult or Cardona?”

“Perhaps.” Flip’s hands began to fidget with his beard in contemplation. “Though I would wager that there are a great number of networked mages in the Cords, more so in those regions. It may simply be the journal of a colleague.”

“Oh for the love…” Dovhran growled in frustration. “Isn’t there some sort of spell you could cast to determine if he’s the one that wrote that journal? Or maybe find the one we’re looking for?”

Flip’s expression drooped in realization. “Hm… You should have asked that some time ago… I might.”

“And you didn’t think to use it earlier?!”

“I am quite tired.”

“We’re all tired! Farwysher nearly burned her arms off! I’m still nauseous from the circling room! We’ve all nearly died multiple times!”

“Yes. But I’m old.”

“You’re the youngest one here!”

“Are you counting the dead…”

“NO! HE’S DEAD!”

It was at that point in the outburst that Selian decided to intercede. “Calm down, Dovhran. I can answer one of the questions without having to use magic.”

“What?” The changeling asked as he began to take in deep breathes to calm himself.

“The handwriting in the journal and in the margins of the book your were looking at is the same. I’d say it’s most likely him.” Selian pointed to the glass case at the other side of the room. “But what kind of magic would you use to confirm that, Faengil?”

“There is a very simple divination that I perform to locate my hat when I misplace it.” Flip began. “I could attempt to cast it on our wizard in the case, using the name Gmid as an incantation catalyst to refine the spell and verify his name. The same spell might also be able to point us towards the journal as well, but I stand very little chance of being able to use the spell for that end. Dovhran, however, you have much better odds.”

“By all means… show me how it’s done.” Dovhran sighed. “But I’ll need a scroll to do it myself.”

With a shrug and a wave of his hands, Flip began to speak his incantation. As he spoke he retrieved an odd implement from his pouch of spellcasting materials. It was a small glass orb, no more than three inches in diameter, hollow and sealed with a clear liquid and needle within.

I have practiced losing...

farther, faster...

I've lost thoughts and musings...

victory and disaster.

So new eyes bring

light and aster

that pull on strings

faint as alabaster...

Find me Gmid

And reveal them to your master.

The needle within the glass orb began to spin wildly and Flip held the object out away from his body as if to prevent damage were it to explode. For a moment Selian feared it might. But then it slowed and the needle floated level with the floor and began to sway back and forth like a compass needle. And finally, when the needle ceased to move, it pointed to the glass case at the other end of the room. Flip moved perpendicular to the needle, just to be sure, and it stayed its course as the wizard traveled.

“A confirmation.” Flip grinned as he stowed the glass sphere. “But it will not be so easy for you, I fear.”

Dovhran received the wizard’s gaze nervously. “Can’t you write it out on a scroll so the spell is ready to cast?”

“Perhaps… if I had several hours to spare.”

“We have hours…”

“Nonsense. It is a basic enough spell that a child could do it.” Flip shuffled over to the changeling and produced the sphere again. “Here. Try.”

Flip forced the sphere into the changeling’s hand and nudged him to raise it as he had.

“I have practiced losing…” Dovhran began to repeat the words Flip had used, but was stopped by a waving hand.

“No no. You cannot just speak the words. You need to cast the spell.” Flip huffed in exasperation. “Cast the spell, Dovhran. Call out the magic and present it to the physical catalyst for the spell, speak the words with power coursing through you, draw your mind to the item. You have seen its twin, search for it.”

There was a wrinkle of frustration on the changeling’s brow, and he took a deep breath in an attempt to iron it out. It did little to help, as did Flip’s chiding instructions. All the ironing, or liquor, or deep breathing in the world wouldn’t have been able to ease his mind. Suddenly all the stress of their task was on him; something he had been attempting to avoid since he was paid to accomplish his task. It didn’t matter that he had as much time in the short term that he needed, or that he probably could have convinced Flip to write him out a spell scroll to use. Dovhran had been challenged. Not in a condescending way, or the way that a wild animal challenges another for territory, but in the sort of way that a complicated puzzle challenges a master puzzle solver. The changeling was no mage, but he was… focused.

“I…” Dovhran began again, focusing now on what he had lost—which was quite a lot.

The changeling had lost many things. The thought of lost homes, gold spent in regrettable ways, time lost to a clouded mind or a bad decision, and precious years of his future slowly burning away as he began to realize how likely his demise was on his current path. He had lost quite a lot… and he would lose more. The thought made him clutch the sphere in his hand, and had it been made of normal glass it might have shattered from his grip. Instead the needle began to spin.

“I have practiced losing… farther… faster…”