The hard part would be actually developing it, being that her default was “Iron”. While she was already there, she looked further into various cultivation tomes, one in particular catching her eye for the image upon its cover - a striking reimagining of the Four Circles, depicting the circles as three rings with a human curled up in the middle “fourth” ring, and three figures labeled as “Archons” arrayed in a triangular pattern around the outermost circle. A fiery masculine figure to the bottom left, a water-wreathed feminine figure at the bottom right, and a misty, foggy, androgynous one at the top. “The Sun Archon”, “The Moon Archon”, “The Deep Archon”

There was no coherent structure to be had within the tome, only strange, esoteric statements and imagery. Despite this, many of these disparate parts captured her attention and ushered themselves into the empty spaces of her mind, fitting together with the ideas already present.

“All is dual, all has poles.”

“As within, so without. As above, so below.”

“Nothing may happen without consequence, all acts upon all else, yet causality may be bent by those strong of will, those who have grasped their own fates and transformed Will to Power.”

“The solar principle is the driving force of creation, the lunar the mold that gives form, and naught can be made without both. In the absence of the former, Man becomes detached. In the absence of the latter, Man becomes a rabid beast.”

“Soul, Monad, Daemon - all are but different components of the natural world. Monads form the soul of nature and Man alike, and the soul of Man may become Daemon, yet this is but one among myriad paths. All may become all else, one but must be able and willing to walk the path. Few are willing, let alone able.”

Eventually, after she had idly flipped through nearly half of the book, some degree of structure emerged.

“Man ever falls to the Three Plagues;”

“Mundanism - the Lie of the Mundane”

“Nihilism - the Dread of Absolute Liberty”

“Homogenism - the Hatred of Disparity.”

“The Three Plagues, whose seeds have ever been watered by those who would see Man crawling on his knees in the dirt…”

A ghoulish caricature of a rat-faced man with a cartoonishly huge hooked nose was laid out below, his face twisted into an inhuman sneer, occult symbols drawn in blood upon his forehead, his hands stained red, a gutted infant at his feet.

“Beware those who see, yet would seek to exploit those who do not, and tear out the eyes of those who see and oppose them.”

The book went on and on about how there were multiple groups of people categorized not by race or creed, but by the degree to which they were capable of understanding or changing the world, delving into strange solipsism regarding the nature of different peoples and in what ways the manifestation of “gnosis” is influenced by cultural factors. It spoke of “spiritual pedigree”, of how ideas and “gnosis” could be passed down just the same as one’s heritage, merely through a different means. She only skimmed the next page, but something still stuck with her. A depiction of three human portraits, left to right:

A humanoid clockwork automaton, emotionless and lacking eyes, labeled: “Hylics: Those who do not see, and often grow angry when shown, unable to come to terms with Truth.”

A normal-looking person with the outline of a third eye on his forehead, labeled: “Psychics: Those who see when they are shown, yet often fear the Truth at first, lest they be ostracized by the Hylics.”

A strange, bearded man with a whimsical smile on his face, wearing a hooded robe, holding his curled-fingered hand up to his mouth in contemplation, a rainbow-hued halo surrounding his head. It was labeled simply: “Pneumatics: Those who see.”

Her delve into mysticism was disturbed by the slight sound of bootheels on the library’s varnished wooden floor, the door utterly silent as it opened. She looked up from the book, and seeing Zef’s face, a smile pushed its way onto her lips. Just below her face, hanging from her neck, a macabre skull mask hung, from its side protruding a filter canister.

“...New mask? It suits you, just need to get something suitably grim to go with it. A black dress, maybe,” she said, putting the book down as she leaned back, her smile now growing into a full-fledged grin. Still halfway standing in the doorway with one hand on the door handle, Zef glanced down at the mask, lifting it with her free hand as a subtle pink flush entered into her cheeks, murmuring with a slightly awkward smile, “Yeah, I uh… I’ll have the rest of the getup overmorrow, actually.”

She blinked, shaking her head as if to break loose invisible spider webs from her head, stepping into the room proper. Zel, at this point, noticed yet another new thing - a new gun hanging from her left hip, as strange as it was pretty, its stock inlaid in silver and brass. Was it… Folded? How curious. Questions and remarks about the gun swirled in her head, but were swatted away when Zef spoke and yanked Zel’s attention back to her face.

“So uh, for some reason the angsty tailor, what was his… Bherad, that’s the one. Bherad, the big burly chef from that one restaurant that served us bear meat, and someone claiming to represent Collier are here. They said it was important, something to do with the Blue Moon.”

Now that was good cause to interrupt her studies. In one motion she leapt from her chair and began walking towards the door, Zef hanging behind only for a moment before she caught up. As they walked - besides shamelessly wrapping her arm around the gunwoman’s waist and grasping a handful of her ample posterior - Zel remarked in double entendre on the curious and imposing new firearm and that which occupied her palm: “I’d love to get a closer look at that huge weapon later.”

Without a moment’s hesitation - and in spite of her face’s flushedness - Zefaris reached around Zel’s back and somehow managed to get her hand underneath her chest straps, smugging right back, “Of course, as long as you demonstrate how effectively you can use those earthly spirits to harden.”