Muirne
”I wonder if these pages breathe for you.”
The words were uttered into the comfortable quiet of the library, tones muffled by ancient pages, sound absorbed by well-kept bindings. Within the shelves, the voice of the stranger settled into the soft whispering of poetry, collected in the upturned hollows of prose. The expansive collection breathed in a collective gasp, as if the library itself was waiting for a response. Shifting scales, warmed by the honey glow of the dotted lamps, flash like inspiration on the tongue of a mad poet, glittering with elegant phrases scrawled desperately upon fresh white parchment.
”Assistance is freely given to those who require it. What do you desire?” A lie, smoothly spoken from lips that rarely knew dishonesty. Delumine’s Library did not breathe for them.
Yet, the fluttering pages of stories were given life upon the tongue of their companion. He was ghostly pale, as if an apparition of a prose-addled mind. A creature spun from poetry and madness with the seeds of innumerable worlds upon his silvered tongue. Muirne heard his name, the notation to scrawled into their mind in stark black ink, underlined thrice. A name, if only to define the erratic collection of observations they made.
Aerie. The Ghost. The Storyteller. Words spun by a silvered tongue, his every exhale giving life to the dandelion seeds of innumerable worlds. They were entranced by the very prose he crafted, fine enough to be written in their neat script, bound in gilded spines and kept upon the shelves of their Library.
”My Dear Storyteller, you may call me Muirne, for I am neither the gem of which you speak, nor am I a dragon. I merely am, as I have always been.”They held their companion’s soft pink eyes in a mirthless, fractal gaze. Every word was spoken with a fractured superiority. Their world had shattered around them, their Library lost to shadows and time. These pages did not breathe for them, and they never would. Delumine’s Library was not theirs, these books were not theirs. But the histories they had witnessed and penned in neat letters upon flawless pages were theirs. And they were not forgotten.
”What strange, fickle things stories are. Perhaps a Storyteller would like a trade? One story from a Ghost, exchange for the tale written by a Keeper of knowledge. You may learn something, dear Ghost.”
The words were uttered into the comfortable quiet of the library, tones muffled by ancient pages, sound absorbed by well-kept bindings. Within the shelves, the voice of the stranger settled into the soft whispering of poetry, collected in the upturned hollows of prose. The expansive collection breathed in a collective gasp, as if the library itself was waiting for a response. Shifting scales, warmed by the honey glow of the dotted lamps, flash like inspiration on the tongue of a mad poet, glittering with elegant phrases scrawled desperately upon fresh white parchment.
”Assistance is freely given to those who require it. What do you desire?” A lie, smoothly spoken from lips that rarely knew dishonesty. Delumine’s Library did not breathe for them.
Yet, the fluttering pages of stories were given life upon the tongue of their companion. He was ghostly pale, as if an apparition of a prose-addled mind. A creature spun from poetry and madness with the seeds of innumerable worlds upon his silvered tongue. Muirne heard his name, the notation to scrawled into their mind in stark black ink, underlined thrice. A name, if only to define the erratic collection of observations they made.
Aerie. The Ghost. The Storyteller. Words spun by a silvered tongue, his every exhale giving life to the dandelion seeds of innumerable worlds. They were entranced by the very prose he crafted, fine enough to be written in their neat script, bound in gilded spines and kept upon the shelves of their Library.
”My Dear Storyteller, you may call me Muirne, for I am neither the gem of which you speak, nor am I a dragon. I merely am, as I have always been.”They held their companion’s soft pink eyes in a mirthless, fractal gaze. Every word was spoken with a fractured superiority. Their world had shattered around them, their Library lost to shadows and time. These pages did not breathe for them, and they never would. Delumine’s Library was not theirs, these books were not theirs. But the histories they had witnessed and penned in neat letters upon flawless pages were theirs. And they were not forgotten.
”What strange, fickle things stories are. Perhaps a Storyteller would like a trade? One story from a Ghost, exchange for the tale written by a Keeper of knowledge. You may learn something, dear Ghost.”
@Aeranas
![[Image: dcbyy9r-dee8a664-de75-42a3-b412-a74273a5...op3w8Wwe_4]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/0ef0eeab-274c-4e93-b955-868e0d8f464f/dcbyy9r-dee8a664-de75-42a3-b412-a74273a529d7.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzBlZjBlZWFiLTI3NGMtNGU5My1iOTU1LTg2OGUwZDhmNDY0ZlwvZGNieXk5ci1kZWU4YTY2NC1kZTc1LTQyYTMtYjQxMi1hNzQyNzNhNTI5ZDcucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.fG4G4vcQwaigPlfmxmk_7czfKWoyXsLAuop3w8Wwe_4)
"I have written you down, now you will live forever."
- Open to all interactions
- DM me for plots
- Powerplay/metagaming allowed with permission
