Overdue Book

[amongus 816]

 

Art: Hall of Wisdom, Alexander Dudar

 

im planeswalking lol dont metagame my loot!

He was lucky to land somewhere promising; the section on rings brimmed with curses and useless things. Veluc followed a simple process to filter what he wanted: pick up a tome, scan its spine or cover for anything of note, then toss it aside or dive into its contents. Care was taken when he placed them back, so as not to garner the ire of the realm’s recordkeepers. Words never spoken for the very same reason. He craved more than the endless wealth of experiences Gal Elnath had offered him–the pride and inklings of greed that it and the specter Tobin eschewed into his mind the thing to bring him here in the first place, as well as a break from Aevos’ worldly affairs. The beginning of it all was slow, but it certainly had to yield results.

 

Each month Veluc spent searching along the shelves only ticked him off further. What was meant to be respite from chasing marshals clad in black and yellow, facing off hordes of soul and bone and speaking politics felt enervating compared to even war. The repetitive sound of Garumdir’s bronze clocks emanated throughout the infinite expanse of the Universal Archive, ringing faintly yet noticeably from beyond the reach of the library’s polyites and visitors. Most of the leather tomes bore pages filled with near-worthless records and experiments, their smoky scent overbearing on the elf’s nose. Worst of all was the mild, yet persistent ache at the back of his mind–an interloper, or his anxiety? He wasn’t sure, and knew he wouldn’t be until it was too late. 

 

Knowledge came and went, drabble littering his mind with ideas only to be forgotten after the next meaningless book. Blurs swished across Veluc’s haggard visage in this never-ending slog of constant work. Every flip of a page wrenched some life out of him, the publications he invested his time into never truly grasped. He seethed with frustration, tempered only because his body was too tired to muster a more lively response. In time, he finally found something worth keeping: the writings of a shunter, assumedly greater than he, glimmering like a jackpot accumulated from the coffers of fools. The elf snatched the scroll from a crack between a metalsmithing manual and a treatise on aurum jewelry within undead hovels to read for himself.

To Veluc, the art of planeswalking was selfish and profane; yet Benedicta’s findings suggested otherwise. Worlds kept secret from the public were shared experiences among her fellowship, people of all sorts who had heard the Dictate’s words written to have accompanied her. Pilgrimages and expeditions in the name of God were spread across the realms, taken not for penance or personal gain but for growth. In the eyes of an elf like him, one so far from the graces of a God he believed uncaring and with a lifespan immortal compared to the fleetingness of mankind, it made little sense.

 

Even so, whether he was coping due to ‘wasted time’ or believed it genuinely, the thought that it could be more than simply self-indulgence became a lingering goal in his vision. The chance that, through a joint effort among peers, the stars could serve a greater purpose for the descendants. At the very least, it inspired hope rather than dwelling in bleakness. 

 

Discreetly, he noted down the long-dead author’s rites and returned to the Material with his discoveries: both knowledge garnered on Benedicta’s creations and a change in perspective. The next few days, months and years after his return home were spent meticulously chipping away at some jewelry. . . every day spent trying to perfect the enchantment’s sequence.