Entry 3: 11th day of the month of Arborie, Spring of the year 897 Ibx. 10th Era:
As is common among mage colleges, Daimon was dedicated to lessons on theory. Unfortunately, this did leave a sorrowful smudge upon my timetable, as my sole lecture this morning – Astralism theory– was at the 11th hour. Naturally, I was none too pleased by the early morning on the first day of the week.
Discipline strengthens the mind and affirms the soul. My father would have said. I ceased my protestations and rolled myself out of my bed as silently as possible so as not to wake Pyotr. Daimon was his only day of classes which did not include an early morning, so I did not wish to disturb the poor fellow.
Having crept about through my morning routine, I finally retrieved Carnelius from his slumber and departed for the day. I swept down the flight of stairs to the front door of the terrace, my mocha trench-coat billowing behind me as I rushed out into the street. I had chosen to wear my olive coloured wool suit today, and the coat (which I inherited from my human grandfather, a trophy from a slain corsair in the days when he liberated the eastern Levonic coast of its pirate problem in the 8th century) complemented it well.
[The Elsevier household was well placed in the Ecreslory hierarchy, with much of their fortune being owed to Enri’s grandfather, Benfien. In his youth, the man had been a noble adventurer, going about his deeds without the registration of the empire as an act of defiance against the bureaucracy. Without the heavy taxation of the empire, Benfien built up quite an estate on his travels. By the time the empires fell and the revolutionaries established the Levonic republics in 870, the old man had established no small name foe himself, and was placed as the first Chancellor of Ecreslory. Enri came upon much of this inheritance, including many of Benfien’s more decorative possessions — and what a luxurious taste he had! A. E.]
At far more than a dribble, life had already taken its course through the night-dried rivers of the Academy’s streets. Students thronged in flurries around corners and cafes, clergymen bubbled and gurgled in their prayers, crowds rumbled and roared in the courts before the thrum of the day’s labours.
I scurried my way up the brick steps of the North-Eastern Hill clutching my satchel, which seemed to grow in the heaviness of tomes with each step. The grey grass reached up from its peripheries, welcoming my return to glory. The quick tap tap of my leather boots on the pavement reverberated through the arched colonnade that marked the halfway of the hill.
Behind me, a voice called out, “Enri!” I calmed myself to a halt, twisting to behold Niamh Esmer, my fellow soul mage and cloud elf. “Good mornin’ to ye sir! How goes th’ weather?”
Niamh was in the habit of asking me this, what with the stereotype of cloud elves knowing the weather. She had the archetypal appearance of a Clodalf youth, tall and grey-faced, her raven hair coifed neatly behind her head, and donning a traditional student’s attire — a white tunic under a pale, tasselled cloak that would be marked over time to commemorate key events in her life.
We continued up the hill, recounting our vacations as we went. Niamh had spent her time completing her pathway to spiritual trichotomy — a rite of passage for more orthodox Clodalf in which the individual receives the essence and memories of two ancestors into their soul to guide their way. She promised to show me some of the rites necessary to undergo the process if I was willing.
For my own part, I described the literature I had pursued in my time at home, including Estile Marieve’s Stielheim, a story of an imperial who fled to Korvai, (the land where the hexed fled during the goblin diaspora) and his subsequent struggle to justify his morals to the people there.
We soon found ourselves at the gates of the Elegiad court, huge and Isthral. The frieze upon the towering facade depicted a hunting scene, with herons and panthers decorated in gold and silver leaf.
[Isthra is a precious metal found deep in mines near holy sites across Haestha. It has powerful insulating properties against magic. A very effective door indeed! A. E.]
We proceeded into the central court, and beheld the most magnificent tree. Just as a roaring fire bursts forth from the coals beneath, licking up in a central trunk of swirling heat and billowing out plumes of shadow from its reaches, the Elegiad Elm grasped at the sun with its wrinkled leaves, so that the cobbled stones which it grips tightly as a wand are mottled with morning light, only shaded by the peaceful leaves on high. The court was placid this morning, so that one might hear the drop of a mighty petal from a flower, and look about in time to watch it be scooped up by a creature or some love-sung student, who would take it along to their next class, pinned to their breast.
Finally, we overcame our awe, and the pair of us climbed the steps into our small classroom that had become oh so familiar to us. The room was simple and sterile, to keep the minds of students in focus: only a single granite bench at the front of the room spared space for the few students left in the course; a blackboard was mounted on the wall beyond, and a small wooden desk with few possessions sat before it on a platform; about the room, only low cabinets lined the flat-brick walls, revealing magical trinkets and items for the sharp of mind; finally the majority of the room was reserved for a large astral sigil carved into the wooden floor boards, illuminated by the sun which oscillated under elm-ed shade through the windows.
See, our class only comprised of 10 students. Being such a difficult and time-consuming course, it also came to be that the majority of us came from high standing families that could support the expenses for our studies.
There is of course Carlos Noixe, the Alrean heir to a great silk empire and nephew of the Calik. Indeed, Carlos wore fine and delicate silks and pursued theological studies, frequently quoting The Chronicles of Divinity whenever he could. The young man’s kind eyes were often cast watchfully over crowds, like a shepherd over his flock, a tendency which only rarely explained his affinity for arriving just in time to halt a disaster.
Niamh is a member of House Esmer and was in a position to become a Duchess in her future. House Esmer is well known for its Orthodox practices and outright rejection of external influences — including the current alliance the Clodalf state of Berria has with the Cave Elf empire across the water. Niamh is, as such, highly invested in political matters, though this does not impede her passion for the fine arts. The walls of her home are a bounty of modern art, her collection being worth enough to make the college gallery gape.
Besides myself, there were three other Levonic students in the class. Charles Crigex, Pierre Moren, and Vivienne Minieux. The Crigex family has a monopoly on commercial alchemy in the Western Hemisphere, and the Moren family were luxury designers of mage robes, and so Charles and Pierre strutted about campus in their pristine dress shirts and powdered faces, looking down upon their peers from heeled boots. The only person that the boys accepted into their circle was Vivienne, whose family produced the finest wands in all the republics (her wand was ashen white, with a silver cap at the base and a gorgeous Elven floral design). The three of them fell subservient only to cigarettes and sex, both of which they frequently shared between themselves — and only themselves.
Somewhat more controversial, at least to my father’s mind, was the presence of Ier Erke Xammar, the daughter of Baron Soren Erke Xammar II. The Erke Xammar house were a more recent addition to the Pastrieran nobility, having themselves immigrated from the homeland of their nomadic people, the Harak Khan. Upon arrival in the West, Soren I established his own city on a plot of land he won in a duel, thus beginning the new fate of fortune for his lineage. Ier shares the grey complexion, round features, and silent disposition of her people, but lacks not —though others of her kind do — in her mana reserves. Ier was born under the star sign of the dark magus during a shadowed moon, causing her soul to abnormally plentiful, even for a human. As a result, the young noblewoman was raised with reminders of her inescapable fate and her inspiring soul, leading a profound interest in astronomy and astralism.
[Editor’s note: Enri’s father finds Ms. Erke Xammar’s attendance controversial due to a long standing feud between the Harak Khan and their neighbours, including the Cloud and Cave Elves. During the 7th era, a demigod known as The Grey Prince of Storms, or Harak, caused a mana storm that greyed the skin and muddled the souls of all those it enclosed, including the peoples of the Cloud, Mountain, and Cave elves, the Orcs and Goblins, the Patharaka, and the Argalt.
While the Patharaka and many Argalt rejoiced in this storm, being freed from the astral serfdom they had been subjected to, the elves suffered greatly under Harak. Due to the traditional elven method of magic being somewhat volatile already, many souls were destroyed instantly.
Eventually, a Clodalf hero named Tripa and a Cevalf hero named Urpa defeated Harak in an epic battle, and the storm subsided. The storm had permanently altered the astral signature of those effected, and left their skin greyed. Since those days, Tripa and Urpa became heavily integrated into the ancestral worship of the central elves, and many of the Patharaka and Argalt named themselves Khan, or children, of Harak.]
The other three students in our class each originated from the southern trading islands of Alrean occupied Hallad, Sea Elven Eleusis, and the trade and guild lands of the Frieres archipelago, respectively.
Biruk Elalsha comes from the historic city of Old Hallad, where his family have mined Isthra since the 3rd Era. The young man was rather fanatical about hunting, and often attended classes in hunting jackets or leather coats — his spoils of war. Carlos once reported that Biruk had confessed to him his love for soul magic came from a desire to see a death deeper than the physical.
Finally, Usirmeno Falaxides and Maria Perrandez were each heirs to trade empires of the seas to the east and west of the Great Continent. A prophecy in the vaults of the holy city of Lihat foretold their union, combining the two families through a naturally formed soul bond between the two youths. As such, they are betrothed in both name and deed, lacking only the official ceremony to mark their union. Usirmeno and Maria’s combined fates and souls sparked an interest in them for the more absurd phenomena of the soul, and often seek to witness as many spiritual marriages as possible.
Usirmeno was a quiet, well mannered boy, with the deep green complexion of a northern Sea Elf. His long silvery hair was always tied up in a top bun, revealing his long ears which tapered to two distinct tips. He bore on his wrist the scales of a black and gold sea snake grafted into his skin — a rite of passage for Sea Elves of all stock. Due to the death of his mother last year, he wore a washed denim jacket dyed in red coral to mark his mourning and a silver coin amulet around his neck to ensure her passage into the afterlife.
Maria was highly animated, in her own lady-like way. She could talk for hours on any topic mentioned, and often did — much to Usirmeno’s joy. Most days they would sit and people watch while they read or while Maria explained the intricacies of photosynthesis or experimental hyper-focused wards. The heiress always wore the dandiest of clothes — summer-y walking jackets and feathered hats — often at the detriment to her mobility.
In any case, Niamh and I claimed our seats at the bench. Biruk and Carlos were already seated, and were currently discussing the invasion from the north and south of the Hallad islands. Meanwhile, Charles stood at the window, his one hand in his waistcoat with the other smoking a cigarette, the line of smoke reaching out to cut across the far off river.
By the time the cigarette was ash on the sill, the entire class had convened, seated at our desks. Soon enough, we were standing once more to herald the entry of our good teacher.
Dr. Afir was a muscled Alrean man, with long mustachios and an unremittingly grave expression. The professor dressed in an almost militant garb, with clean cut linens and a long coat with golden lining. At his waist would always sit a curved sword in its sheath known as a Shemiir.
Carved into the ivory hilt and bronze blade of a Shemiir blade is a poem from an ancient prophet of Sojer and a promise of devotion made by the bearer. At the end of their education, a Sojeric mystic (the forefather of Carlos’ religion of Ynx mysticism) would devote themselves to protecting an ideal, and would only draw their sword in either protection of the ideal, or in solemn defeat of failure to do so.
Sometime last year, Pierre decided swords would be the newest piece of high-end wizard fashion. He began to don a rapier on his belt as he went about his classes on campus — and an exquisite one at that. Dr. Afir would often glare daggers into the fool during class-times, and even made remarks to Carlos and Biruk in Old Veld, much to their secretive amusement. During the last week of classes, Ier challenged Pierre to a duel, in which he instantly lost, falling to the Khana’s quick and clever manoeuvres of the blade. Needless to say he did not find rapiers quite so attractive after that.
Once he arrived at the front of the class, Dr. Afir surveyed the room through his spectacles with satisfaction. Finally, he nodded, and turning, said, “Please be seated and take to opening Iravais’ On Systems of the Aether.”
We each scrambled into our seats, reaching for our fountain pens and books as the professor began scratching an equation onto the blackboard. Without much room for pause, we immediately began to investigate the information exchanges between the physical realm and the aether, and the dynamics that it poses for mystic and aethereal mages.
The aether, being the categorical expression of reality which ‘retains’ in the simplest terms all knowledge past and future. For mystics, the aether is exploited to gain and manipulate information. Aetherists are more concerned with how this information is expressed to a human soul, asking such questions as, “does the aether have a language, and is it the Original Tongue?” or “why did early Hominids develop the capacity to connect to the aether?”
By the end of the class, we had entirely deconstructed our understanding of basic metaphysics. We were also assigned some “light reading” as Afir put it, meaning in truth complex metaphysical scholarship and dense scientific literature.
As we all departed, Dr. Afir nodded to each of us, promising to see us two days hence on Daihumet for our practical lesson on aethereal magic.
After our lessons, we would often convene in the common room in the north-west corner of the Elegiad Court to recline. The room was an adequate space, with windows that looked on one side upon the Elegiad Elm and on the other upon the viaduct to the north-western hill. The midday light illuminated the leafy wallpaper, which sat behind wooden antiques and velvet lounges. Upon the sandstone mantel sat a majestic painting of Exian Kovach, an old Chancellor of the college. He stood by a desk, one hand clutching an old-fashioned cane-wand, and glaring down upon the recliners about the fireplace below him as if to say ‘haven’t you anything better to do?’
In fact, we hadn’t. With most of us not having any more theory classes to attend, we each made our way into varying degrees of reclination. Maria leapt right to the small piano pressed against the wall and began to play an upbeat melody as Pierre went and fixed himself a cup of tea at the small cabinet in the corner. Meanwhile, Charles lit a cigarette, claiming a tall chair that looked out on the fields to the north. The rest of us took up positions around the hearth, and soon enough Biruk and Niamh were playing a game of chess.
Given its proximity to so many classrooms, it was surprising that so few students utilised Elegiad’s common room. We typically had the space to ourselves, especially on Daimones.
Today, we were joined only by a young Lunalf woman, whose pale silver hands were frantically flitting through reams of paper strewn across the dining table in the southern vestibule of the common room.
Usirmeno leaned over to me and whispered, “That’s Seon Jeru, president of the Cartography Society. Apparently their archive has maps as old as the 5th Era. Maria and I have been considering the joining of a particular adventuring party known as El Chito Eiro. I have a feeling that a dungeon map from her may be our way in…”
He rose from the couch and twisted his way into a seat on an old wooden bench. Curious, I pursued, lingering somewhat at the far corner of the table. Usirmeno began his proposal:
“Excuse me, I would like one of your dungeon maps. I will give you a hefty sum of cash in exchange. What say you?”
A concerned expression washed across Seon’s face. (Admittedly, he is not very skilled in the mercantile arts.)
Scowling, she said, “I beg your pardon sir, but these maps are not at all for sale. Please take your money elsewhere.”
Just as Usirmeno motioned to leave, I made my move.
“Perhaps you’re willing to trade a copy of one in exchange for something other than money? Perhaps, a promise?” I suggested.
Seon frowned once more. “A promise? Who do you take me for, a schoolgirl?” She paused. “… Perhaps we can trade something, however. Suppose I give you one of these maps. I would like a 30% cut. That seems fair doesn’t it? There are three of us here after all…”
Usirmeno shook his head in disapproval. “I need those maps to get myself into an existing party, I can’t make any promises like that.”
“But perhaps I can,” I said, grinning. “I can even provide a further deal for you. I am forming a small party of my own. Provide us two maps, and I will register you as a member. Adventurer’s rights, an even cut of the spoils, and a good amount of glory, with absolutely no risks. Final offer.”
“I suppose that the travel benefits of an adventuring license would far outweigh the risk of—”
“Of earning money all cosy in your apartment? Yes.” Usirmeno interrupted.
In any case, we spent the next hour discussing the terms of our agreement, and as the last of our class dwindled away (Niamh won the game of chess and Charles had smoked 3 different cigarettes) we completed the trade. At some point, Maria had finished her private concerto for the common room and had joined us at the table to watch the exchange. As it turned out, Seon was also a well trained mystic mage, being currently an apprentice to one of the professors at the academy. It seems to me she may turn out even more valuable than just her cartography in providing us some foreknowledge on our adventures.
By the end of the hour, the president and I were shaking hands over the freshly copied maps of two dungeons in the Mevilles foothills to the north.
Stuffing the one paper in my bag and handing Usirmeno the other, I excused myself and left Elegiad court altogether. As I descended the steps of the north-east hill, I congratulated myself on a job well done, and noted to give the new plans (and the news of our new member) to Estoban.
Seon had transcribed the maps using a mystic spell known as ‘transcript’, a spell which I was all too familiar with due to my time volunteering at the Mevilles City Museum and Gallery’s archives. Indeed, that was where I was headed now, intending to catch a train city-ward.
After a brief visit to my vacant apartment, where I relieved myself of the burdens of my textbooks and Carnelius (animals are not allowed in the archives), I returned to my procession to the train station.
Today’s locomotive (all things being in good order) would be a sleek black machine, entirely powered by magic with all-new Academy engineering.
Having purchased my ticket at the station, I investigated the notice-board — always a good thing to do as a student with plenty of free time. Besides the odd announcement of orchestral concerts or small band performances in some backwater bar, there were two fresh, government issue posters:
NOTICE: DUE TO RECENT PLUNDERING OF TEMPLE VAULT,
ALL BUILDINGS ON CAMPUS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED
BY ORDER OF MAYOR MARCUS DELIUS.
SEARCH WILL BEGIN ON 14th OF ARBORIE.
PLEASE COMPLY WITH AUTHORITIES DURING THIS TRYING TIME.
WANTED: AUGUSTUS XIRFIRE.
DO NOT APPROACH. HIGHLY DANGEROUS INDIVIDUAL.
IF SEEN ALERT AUTHORITIES IMMEDIATELY.
At the mention of the Temple attack, my breathing quickened and my vision grew blurry. I had the clarity to recognise my soul begin to falter somewhat at the edges before…
Blinking, I found myself aboard the train, already halfway through the journey to Mevilles proper. I figure that following my soul somehow… assumed control over my body in an act of perseverance. An act which it then promptly forgot…
Looking out the window, I saw that we were still progressing through the national forest between Mevilles and the Academy.
With an hour left until arrival, I hunkered myself down into my seat. Inverting my attention inwards, I began to attempt manual repairs to my soul.
Mevilles city was often called the capital city of the aesthete in the west. With its glimmering monuments and abundance of artists, it truly lived up to its name. With Mevilles Castle sitting up cliff-high lake-side, our train chugged its way through the heart of the city, past splendid shopfront and roaring hotel lobby, where the artist — having already completed his commission for the morning — now caroused, enjoying the not-so-gentle extravagancies of the new world, free of imperial levies.
Over and across the way, a wizard shakes hands with her business partner at a street-corner cafe, no doubt concocting a new contract for her conceptual magic services, or perhaps she was purchasing a new studio apartment from which to go about her experiments in the absurd and divine. These tall buildings lined the streets, which as such reached high like canyons into the sky. Those plaster facades, with their great marble friezes, hid the powerful and the viced, the impoverished and the enlightened all the same.
Aboard the train, two lovers giggled and canoodled in the next booth, the sounds of their joy carrying across the rest of the car. They had been on a summer vacation in Ecreslory, where they had enjoyed the canals and the riviera. Now, they would return to their jobs operating the telephone lines that run along the streets, connecting citizens via electrical signal across great distances. For now, they enjoyed the last moments of their holiday, reminiscing on their time together, hand in hand.
Finally, as we pulled in to Grand Central Station, a hush fell about the carriage. Before our very eyes, the city-scape transformed, and an illusion formed around the entire train. Beyond the panes, millions of stars floated in formations about us, as if we were soaring through the open skies. As we finally pulled in to the platform, which was suspended amidst the constellations, hoards of people jostled off the train and made their way up the stairs which led to gates fashioned in the style of the portal doors of yore to create the impression of stepping between realms.
Beyond these gates, the grand concourse welcomed the people of Mevilles city. A huge brass dome rose up above marble colonnades. Affixed into the ceiling were depictions of constellations, with small circular windows at each star that lit up the mosaic floor in a haze of colour and motion. The citizens of Mevilles shuffled about the space in droves, queue-ing at tram terminals or congregating at ticket booths to be served by people in uniforms of brilliant blue.
Having weaselled my way through the crowd, I arrived at Mevilles city’s immortal ‘Central Square’. At the very epicentre of all Mevilles was Central Square, a large cobbled space colonnaded by trees and flanked on all sides by public buildings. To the north, where I stood, Grand Central Station. Opposite me, a monument to Levonic history and culture, was Mevilles National Art Gallery, sporting a classic botanical frieze and bronze statues of great historic artists from Mevilles. In the east was the Veriki Monument; glittering with ten glass ‘pillars’ that arced to an apex at the centre and a much older conical stone structure in the within, the Monument was an ancient temple to Thelonius, and during the Festival of Glass attracted many worshipers from the south and east. Beyond and through the glass one could see the entire length of the Primary Parade, which stretched all the way along to Mevilles Castle, now transformed into a museum in collaboration with the National Gallery. To the west, with its sturdy brick facade, was City Town Hall, containing the Senate House and the Starik Office, where the President and her advisors would meet daily to discuss the matters of state. At the forefront of Town Hall was a magnificent marble stele depicting a funeral procession, beneath which was affixed a bronze plaque of the constitution — the Levonic Memorial, a monument to all those who fell revolting against the empire.
I paused a moment to take in the view and watch the Mevilles socialites stroll about the reflecting pool at the centre of the Square, each one a thin mimicry of the other in their high collared shirts and feathered hats.
Circumnavigating the perimeter of the Square, I let myself in to the back door of the Gallery and proceeded down into the basement.
Within, I was met with dry and dark tunnels of shelves. Shelves and shelves and shelves for what seemed to be endless leagues and across several levels of basement. Sighing at the thought of the enormous task ahead of me, I navigated my way towards the main office of the archives nearer to the front of the building. The office was always a mess, despite (or perhaps because of) its proximity to the archives, with piles of books, papers, and (shamefully) a small selection of artefacts that certainly belonged on a shelf somewhere.
There, I found Thibault Caphon, the primary archivist in the city, surrounded by his collection of reports and archival notes at the desk in the window from the main chamber. He was an older Tarrinian man, with greying hair, wrinkled skin, and spectacles that hung about his neck. Today, as he always did, he wore a bright yellow robe, its long sleeves wrapped up around his fore-arms. I cleared my throat, drawing his attention away from the extensive map he had collated of the archive. Looking up, a smile crept across his face and a chuckle rose from his throat. He lifted a gnarled finger a wagged it at me playfully.
“Ah, Enri, so you have decided to return to my dungeon! You will face me for the last time!” He shouted, leaping up, and with a flourish he procured his wand and cast a spell at me.
Instinctively, I erected a hasty ward…
…and watched as flurries of harmless vapour caught in the seams of the spell, trickling down its front and onto the floor.
I scowled at Thibault, his laughter now rising to new heights. This wasn’t the first time he tried catching me off guard, but he had still never lain a spell on me.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur Caphon,” I said, composing myself (composure is the warrior’s greatest weapon in the words of my father) and ignoring entirely his foolish idea of a welcome, “how may I be of assistance in the archives today?”
Still bent over in laughter, the senile archivist said, “it is good to see you too, Enri! Thank you for your help. Would you please begin transcribing the files in basement three?”
Nodding, I turned and left the office and its sole inhabitant. Mr. Caphon had taken me on board his extensive archival project when I first came to Mevilles as an old friend of my father, who had written to him of my interest and capability in such matters. The project involved the texts of the archive onto safer paper which could then be used by visitors to the museum and gallery, and thus far our joint efforts had resulted in the transcription of just about every text in basements 1 and 2. Now, I was to move on, much to my anticipation to basement — historic texts of the 1st-3rd eras.
Having arrived in the sterile and shadowed chamber, I collected for myself a trolley and began my work. In essence, I made my way along each shelf, carefully removing texts from their positions and casting the ‘transcription’ spell — thus copying entire texts at a time. With the help of a ring of transcription and a mana battery, I was typically able to complete about a cabinet an hour at little to no cost to my personal magical reserves.
However, I had entirely forgotten the nurse’s orders from yesterday not to cast any spells, and found myself tiring much quicker on account of my weaker constitution (and a possible leakage of my mana reserves).
Eventually, I conceded to my weakness and found a seat. The archives have an array of viewing rooms at one end of each level, which I decided to take advantage of and went in to. The space was stark white and totally featureless besides a table and a setting of chairs from which one might view an object or book laid out before them.
Collapsing into a chair, I let out a breath of relief. Having been on the move all day, I had hardly given myself any kind of respite, and now, with early evening approaching (at least by my watch’s mark) I was finally giving myself a moment of rest.
Growing somewhat bored, I fiddled with the fobs on my watch chain: a diptych locket of my parents in their portraits; the interlocking key symbol of my father’s ancient house in Berria; a featureless bronze circular charm of good fortune known as a ‘Kourix’, and; a small coin enchanted with a soul ward. Fingering the Kourix in my hand, I began looking about the room when something caught my eye.
The wall opposite the door appeared to have a broken skirting board. For whatever reason, I felt compelled to investigate it, as if it had a strong mystical or aethereal presence (which we had just today learnt of).
I looked about myself with some degree of sheepishness, hoping not to be seen investigating a broken skirting of all things. Satisfied that nobody was about, I rose from my chair and knelt down near the broken board. The wood appeared to have mildewed somewhat due to mistreatment (or simply by exceptional level of age), and even at a touch it dissolved quite rapidly. Behind it, there appeared to be a small recess and within it I discovered to my amazement…
An old book!
By the state of it, it appeared to have been in there at least for the past century or even two, which may indicate it had been hidden there during the early years of imperial occupation in 700 Ibx., sealed in to the wall by previous keepers of the museum. Many of the pages had been torn out or even entirely destroyed by some disaster or another, but from what I could see, it appeared to be written by hand, rather than by type, in the Original Tongue (the ancient language of western mystic and divine spells and texts).
My heart began to beat with excitement at this new discovery of mine. What could be written in these pages that was so important, so fundamentally dangerous, that someone had decided to hide it?
In an act of defiance that almost surprised me, I stuffed the old book into my satchel.
Having thereby caught my proverbial breath, I returned to archiving. For another few hours, I transcribed pages and pages of text, but none could draw my mind from the book in my bag, which seemed now far far heavier than ever before. It seemed to pulsate with such an essence that nothing in the world could have been more important. Before long, I decided to finish my duties in the archives, and bidding farewell and adieu to Monsieur Caphon, I handed him the reams of copied paper and departed.
The train home seemed to be so excruciatingly slow that I wished I had chosen to learn teleportation over warding when I was given the chance.
In any case, with the evening sky now blue as the deep ocean or dark as a fatal river, I returned to the Academy and raced across the campus back to my apartment. Within, I found Carnelius, who psychically scorned me for abandoning him, and Eugeny, who did no such thing.
Ignoring both, I leapt into my desk chair and opened the first page for translating. After a brief questioning of syntax and a good second trying to separate names from common nouns, I had discovered with beating heart what I believed to be the title of this book:
Welcome, dear reader, to the good and honest diaries and letters of Sarochon Kulsun, who, during the 1st Era served as the first student and ward of the great Primamagus Ibex. These are his great insights into the lives of the Triumvirate, their allies, their enemies, and their plentiful and truthful wisdoms.
Now I frantically write out all of this in my diary, so that my re-discovery and translation of this knowledge may be properly documented for historians to come.
Ah, but here is Pyotr with what appears to be dinner. Until tomorrow, dear journal! Farewell…