☾* Stands an elegant 16.1hh
☾* Long-legged, graceful but strong
☾* Athletic in build, like poetry in motion, all elegance and ethereal beauty, like they could be stardust or moonlight
☾* White like marble, like a statue, like the pages of a crisp new book
☾* The soft pink flush of life stains their hooves, their nose, their trim underside
☾* Elegant horns twist from their head, curling possessively around their jaw. They shimmer and glint with the rainbow, opalescent and divine
☾* Plating like the gems of a dragon’s hoard cover the arch of their neck, the curve of their shoulders and trail down their spine, colours shifting in more brilliant fractals than their horns
☾* Thick, luscious hair, soft as silk, soft as the curls of smoke from a candle burned to the wick
☾* Hair white by nature, but dyed pastel blue and soft pink in a gentle gradient from base to tip
☾* Often pulled back in a functional ponytail, as the hours required for intricate styling are reserved for special occasions
☾* Moonlight and poetry, are you sure they were not just a figment of a prose addled mind?

Words whisper from tightly bound pages, black, blue, red, ink of all colours worn from the weight of many eyes searching for meaning, for reason, for solace, in the letters neatly scribed onto the flesh of trees. They know the words, they hear them murmuring, sobbing, screaming. They are not your solace, nor your reason. They only know what every book says, what every page turned in hunger, in grief, in anger, will return to the reader. They have seen many, known many, and they will see and know many more. Time passes regardless of them, the world spinning onwards without touching the soft caress of skin like ancient paper. They do not care for you, for your desires and reasons.

They speak with a condescending softness, with a voice worn from innumerable years of quiet. They talk with the weight of ages, of knowledge, but will not share their burden. There are secrets too dangerous to be spoken, words too heavy for young souls to bear, and the librarian knows them all. They are always measured, never candid. Friendship died long ago. You are nothing to them, a soul too young for their lonely world.

Ask for their knowledge, and they will find what is you need, but only the bravest seek to know the one who grants the boon of wisdom.

No one can say when the Library was built. No one could name the date the unimposing, inexplicably expansive building was given its rough-hewn limestone foundations and sturdy, polished walls. It has stood for as long as the collective memories of innumerable dynasties can recall, a monument to knowledge and power, a hidden gem rich with books from every corner of the known world and strange, foreign tomes written in languages indecipherable to all but one. Within the cool walls, as inexplicable and mysterious as the rest of the ancient building, the Librarian lurks. They have existed, untouched by time, for never and always, since the first wandering, knowledge-hungry traveller stumbled across their home. A ghostly figure like the soft white pages of the books they watch, as unimposing as the humble building they inhabit. They are the fleeting imagery of moonlight and poetry, woven together with the whispering prose of innumerable books.

Many a scholar has called them friend, confidant, advisor, teacher or lover. They have known a great many rulers, a great many tyrants. They have witnessed the rise and fall of good and evil. Though many have known them, coming to find solace and companionship in their timeless wisdom, they are but fleeting moments in their life. They have had friends, lovers, students time and again. Unique individuals with so much curiosity and potential. Each one written, bold and unashamed, in black ink over yellowed pages. Words, fragile with time, whisper sweetly of inseparable friends, lovers hidden behind sturdy shelves and tucked into the comfortable nooks of the Library, and clever, quick-tongued students devouring every thread of information they made available.

The most recent histories they penned, clean white and freshly bound in leather and history, speak of where the Library last lay with its foundations strong and rooted into the world. The era was just beginning, history on the cusp of change to be recorded by the Librarian, written into their expansive collection. The ink yet to dry, the pages left open, paused mid-sentence. If the Library were to return, that is how it would be found. For the Librarian was driven from their home, tossed to the world and left without their collection of knowledge. An immortal in a mortal’s world, they roamed, guided by the hands of those they had met before the cataclysm. They knew a great many things, of gods, wars and rulers.

But what they are, and where they began, is a mystery lost to stardust and intrigue, to worlds only entertained in the imaginings of madmen and dreamers.