The Royal Library of Dawn was truly a monument to the nation’s, if not the world’s curiosity and subsequent quest to quell it. Despite what may be said by others or the mare herself, Llewelyn had always admired how equine-kind and their ilk had pursued *understanding* through the ages. The simple and the complex and all grades of learning between were sought out, dissected, and —hopefully — recorded in scrolls and tablets to be later transcribed into tomes.
It was a love of learning and that insatiable curiosity that had allowed her ancestors to thrive in places such as the Solterran Desert, to develop an innate understanding of social structure, to build palaces even when it may have seemed like bulky equine bodies lacked the grace and finesse to achieve such heights. The feats of mortals were forever a fascination for the young maiden; how each magnificent mountain of learning was crested and used for the future. The concept lit her up from within, setting her heart ablaze and causing those molten eyes to glow with fervor.
Yet, it was not the magnificent feats that truly caught the mare’s attention, but the smaller science of whispered words; the gossip and the secrets that changed the course of existence to such an extent that whole nations had fallen at a few weaponized syllables murmured into the correct ear. So she found herself on a winter’s afternoon ensconced in her notes, combining each snippet of information — truths, lies, mixtures of both — into a carefully scribed compendium.
The thick tome was generally kept in the library Vaults, an old and dusty room beyond, beneath, and a little to the east of the secondary stacks. A wholly unremarkable item, the cover was of well-worn leather over wood, and the pages were off-white, though not quite yellowed with almost believable neglect. Ever since she had began chronicling the whispered underbelly of Delumine’s territories, Llewelyn had taken great pains to make sure that the compendium was not discovered; and even then, she made sure to adapt the phrasing of each quip to outdated and archaic expressions. She had even learned to recreate the ponderous and rather difficult style of penmanship that had been used predominantly by Dawn Court scholars approximately three and two-thirds centuries past. As a final security measure, the mare redacted full names from the recordings and instead wrote rank, name, and file as a series of initials.
All this effort for what was essentially a glorified gossip column may have seemed paltry to some, but Llewelyn adored the details and effort that went into her compilations. Even then, as her brow crinkled in concentration, at the task of transcribing her many notes and slips of parchment, the mare felt the tug and pull of pride in her gut. Nestled as she was in an almost-nest of coded information, bent over a low table before a crackling hearth, Llewelyn was entirely engrossed in her work. The Compendium would be her Magnum Opus, the anonymously penned and nearly ageless record of her time spent upon the earth. Sometimes, she fantasized that someone like her — a scholar, a lady, a shrew — would stumble upon the tome many centuries in the future and fall into the intrigue and treachery of Novus’ Courts.
Would that she could see the expression on that unknown lass’ face.
For now, though, the maiden would busy herself with what little mark she could leave upon the ever-changing mortal realm.
Yeeeeeehaaawwwww, Boys! @Ard (and Erd! C:)
