[P] Bibliophile

[Willfur]

Willfur


"Oriens..." The name is quiet when he says it aloud, the mule finally lifting his nose from the thick sheet of vellum he's been studying, whiskers springing outward after long hours spent pressed against seams and cramped between pages. "Research and exploration, a little side of mediation. Knowledge, wisdom. Well, he certainly seems like the right patron, and this the right place for someone like me, hm?" He addresses a pair of small, foxlike creatures, the two of them curled together like a single entity and leaning against the stallion's broad side, sound asleep. He's run the poor things ragged with his insatiable appetite for books and scrolls, tomes and pamphlets, requesting where to find this and that, and they so eager to assist.

"You've been very helpful, little ones. Thank you." He only murmurs it, knowing they won't hear, but hoping the sentiment, at least, permeates their dreams as he gently extricates himself and steps away from the nook they've all been tucked into. A smile softens the curve of his mouth and puckers his upper lip as he glances back at them, crouching into a deep stretch and flapping his ears. "You've certainly earned a break, but I'm afraid I'm a restless sort, never to stay in one place for too long." He bends to gently ruffle the canids fur, exhaling warmth and gratitude as he pulls away. "Onward and inward."

Thus far he's spent all his time inside the library here, in the main foyer, roaming the countless stacks and shelves and aisles, but there are doors leading off of each exterior wall and he's seen the foxy helpers ducking in and out of them from time to time, so he's curious to see where those might lead, too. As far as he can tell, all the doors are exact replicas of each other - which are themselves just smaller, less intricate versions of the magnificent front entry - with no signage or markers of any kind to differentiate between them. They probably all serve a similar purpose then, meaning the choice of which door to open is of little consequence.

Based on that, he simply heads for the nearest door, ears held stiffly forward, listening for any warning of activity on the other side. He'd hate to bumble into someone carrying important documents or interrupt the helpers on their altruistic errands, but all he can hear are the soft, internal sounds of his own heart and lungs, big and exuberant as they are. Pressing one shoulder lightly against the timber, he swings the door open and peers inside.


@Andras

[Andras]

a shard of god
in my mouth
turning
my tongue into
rivers of blood.

I

t’s easy, to get lost in the library– metaphorically, of course, but also literally. The structure is labyrinthian and seemingly endless, each turn branching into another, and another, and another, like the very arms of the trees wound together to make up its shell. 

–but Andras could walk it blind. He often does, in the dead of a summer night when the cicadas are too loud to allow him to sleep, accompanied only by the warm glow of a single candle. 

This is not one of those times. Today, the sun is high and new, bright buds grow on the fingers of each sapling trying to worm its way into the light. In the library, it is surprisingly busy, alive with the hum of Deluminians and tourists alike, all come to the woods after the long, cold winter. (A quiet winter, too, he thinks– which is a blessing compared to the one before.) On days like this Andras retreats, wound too tight for his own good or anyone else’s, stalking through each hall until he reaches a dusty, unused room with the typical bookshelves but also a hearth, and a crackling fire, and hanging pots of monstera.

After the festival–after every festival, Andras lays on one of the plush, green pillows laid out beside the fire and opens a book. It is a thick, leather tome with yellowed vellum pages, at least a dozen generations old if not a little bit longer. The pages tell him something about Terrastella’s rulers since its inception.

It does not really matter what. The Warden is not reading anyway.

As usual, instead, the Warden is staring at the crease in the middle, the gray mortar of the hearth where the bricks don’t quite line up in the same pattern each time, the shaft of slightly green light coming in through the windows after being filtered through more leaves to count– really, anything but what he’s trying to focus on.

Focus, peace, privacy– these things don’t come easy in Delumine these days. Least of all when Willfur barges through the door shoulder first, and Andras is almost glad for an excuse to look up from his book, over the rim of his glasses, and leer.

Almost.

“Do you need something?” he asks, mirthlessly. A fork of blue static float off his shoulder with an electric buzz.

ANDRAS, Warden of DELUMINE

@willfur

[Willfur]

Willfur


Light spills into the not so private room from behind Willfur's massive silhouette, winking across the two crystalline disks balanced atop the Warden's nose as he raises his head, the lenses flashing a warning that's almost as convincing as the eyes behind them. Freezing, aghast to have interrupted not only someone's study, but someone that he recognizes from the public records of the Dawn Court Counsel's study, the mule's ebullience instantly wilts. "Oh!" He exclaims, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize anyone was in here."

Public records may have given him names and basic descriptions of the Delumine governing members - and his first surprise of the day, in reading Thana's name there under 'Regent,' only the second-most important ranking in the Court, which she hadn't bothered to mention to him during either of their previous encounters - but they certainly didn't do any of the members justice. They didn't say, for example, that the Warden was so young, nor that neither his age nor his diminutive size could take the intimidation factor from the severity of his features.

Well, it's too late now to slip away. He's not the type to blend into a crowd or have his face easily forgotten and even with standing awkwardly over the threshold as he is, half in and half out of the room, there's more than 500 pounds of mule and a foot and a half of ear, if you count them collectively, already inside the supplemental office. Make the best of it, his mother had always told him, and she'd rarely given poor advice.

"You're Andras, aren't you? I know you probably don't appreciate the interruption, but I'm glad to meet you. I'm Willfur." He nods his blocky head politely and glancing around the room, notices that the scrolls and book bindings stacked neatly along either side of the hearth appear significantly older than those on the shelves of the main atrium. Again, his curiosity is piqued, but he holds it in check, just barely. "Ah, is there anything I could help you with, since I'm already here?"



"talk talk talk"
@Andras

[Andras]

a shard of god
in my mouth
turning
my tongue into
rivers of blood.

S

ometime, but not often, it occurs to Andras that he will be written about, in some capacity, if it hasn't happened already. He has never stopped to ask what will be said of him, if it will be a few short lines (Andras lived as Andras died: snarling) or some prolonged peek into his particular brand of long-suffering anger.

If he were the type, he might wonder what they would say about him as he is now: tired, strained, crushed to death by the weight of his heart and its year-long fixation with a certain Solterran prince. Maybe it would be more insight than he is capable of having, himself. But Andras isn't the type to ask questions, or wonder, especially about himself. As far as he's concerned, he is the same as he has always been. Andras is Andras and he never changes.

I didn't realize anyone was in here, the mule says, and Andras closes his eyes for a moment, trying to will himself to breathe. In, hold it, out. In, hold it, out. He is waiting for Willfur to leave, kick the door softly shut on his way out, but when the eyes open again there is no change in his new acquaintance, just a sort of nervous skittering on the threshold. Willfur isn't going anywhere, he now sees.

It's fine.
Everything is fine.

Willfur then says, you're Andras, aren't you? and Andras takes a moment to draw then exhale another deep breath before he folds his book closed and sets it on the floor next to him. "I am." He says this with the strain of a wine bottle trying not to blow its cork. "Where are you from, Willfur?" His eyes skim over the long ears, the mottled brown-gold of his coat. Not here, he thinks. But who knows.

The man offers to help, and now Andras heaves himself up from his bed of pillows to stand with a stiff shake of his neck, curling one wing over his chest to brush the dust off his elbows. "Would you like to do some cleaning?"

ANDRAS, Warden of DELUMINE

@willfur

[Willfur]

Willfur


It's the first time he's been asked about himself in so long, since coming to Novus, in fact. Passers by are always delighted by the opportunity to sit at the center of attention, content to answer question after question - and he never runs out of them - to narrate their own stories from their own perspectives in front of an interested audience. Maybe it's vanity, maybe it's the eternal search for meaning and validity in life, or maybe it's just that he doesn't look like a very intriguing character himself, with his course features and plain outline, but whatever the reason, having the tables turned is a rare and pleasant surprise. He's happy to answer, happy to revisit that time and place, even if only for a moment.

"My mother's herd was called Silvertree, because our home was dotted with birch forests. Not a very creative naming convention, I know, but there weren't gods and goddesses to dedicate things to there, not that we knew of, and the forests really were stunning." He smiles, eyes softening in recollection and focusing on some landscape far past the Library or young Warden. "White trunks shaded yellow and green under springtime growth, contrasting the reds and oranges of autumn, creating an entirely black and white landscape in winter. I haven't been back there in many years, but I think of it fondly." Pausing, he shakes his head a little sadly, ears swinging loosely atop his head. "I'm not sure I even could go back, now. I was travelling south when I crossed the Eluetheria Plain, but when I turned around and went north again, all I found was the sea."

Finally he returns to the office, blinking away more scenes, more explanations for questions that haven't been asked, questions of his own crowding at the tip of his tongue, but the winged stallion is visibly tense, jaw locked in what the mule can only assume is annoyance at best, and fury at worst. He doesn't seem like the type to pour his heart out to anyone, let alone a bare acquaintance, and he probably doesn't appreciate others doing it around him, but he had asked. "I'm sorry, I know you're a busy man and I don't mean to ramble. I can certainly do some cleaning. What did you have in mind?" Taking a step back, he clears the threshold so that Andras can pass, assuming from the relative organization inside the study that they'll be going somewhere else.



"talk talk talk"
@Andras