The day was less than picturesque, what with the snowdrifts piling along the window sills and the wind blowing bitter and harsh against the parapets. Llewelyn had taken one glance at the thickening blanket of snow along the floor of her balcony and discarded her emerald cloak; there would be no morning walk in the meadow. Indeed, any sort of travel in such weather would be more accurately described as a tromp, and if Llewelyn knew nothing else, it was that ladies did not tromp. 

And thus, with a nose ever so slightly wrinkled in distaste, the maiden braided her mane, painted her leg bands, and sashayed out of her chamber toward the Library. The short journey to the towering stacks passed in a blur of marble and tapestries, serving staff and glimpses of the frigid courtyard; all things were as they should be, quiet and orderly as the Dawn itself. At last, drafty corridors gave way to the welcome warmth of hearths and candles as Llewelyn stepped through an arched entryway. Already, the grand Library of the Dawn was filled with curious souls and disgruntled students — that, or those in attendance had spent their night within the yawning expanse. 

There was the familiar sound of parchment sheets sliding over one another paired with the shush of pages being flipped. Everywhere there was a creaking — of book spines, of table tops, of shelves, of old bones and joints — it was as if the entire structure were some giant, sleeping beast and the equines scurrying about within had to remain silent lest they wake the monster and lose centuries of knowledge engraved in the walls. She blinked, tossing away the fanciful visions and sighing with delight. What would she study today? Would she even study? There was a new addition to the lifestyle section that outlined some techniques for mane braiding via innate telekinesis and the courtier had been close to biting the head off of the last mare who had borrowed it. 

Llewelyn had never been patient, but to make matters worse, the mare had been a Fjord — what mane could she had even braided? The trollop. 

Wandering through the shelves toward the Lifestyles section, a slight tension creeping along her spine at the possibility of yet another maneless idiot nabbing the booklet, Llewelyn found some peace of mind in appreciating the particular coziness of the library’s atmosphere. Where else could she have gone and obsessed over something so comparatively trivial to the world as hairstyles? A barber’s shop, she supposed, but it wasn’t quite the same. 

Interests developed while in a Library had a sort of manically enthusiastic edge to them — it was a sort of mad scientist urgency instigated by having any and all knowledge concerning a niche available at any time. One could become an expert on Pre-Dawn Novusian bridal veil beadwork in a few day’s time, or they could spend the next months of their lives studying the social classes found within the long-dead Denoctian and Solterran death cults. 

There was truly no limit when it came to the feverish joy with which a Library’s hoard was wielded. 

So, if Llewelyn found that abominable Fjordian mare perusing the manestyling  section again, it was possible that the aforementioned madness would overtake the scholar and she would be entirely at the mercy of her intoxicating quest for knowledge.

And that twit would lose what little mane she possessed.