Elisabeth Scrivener (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raisedbybooklice) wrote2019-08-29 10:38 pm
raisedbybooklice) wrote2019-08-29 10:38 pm
Great Library of Summershall, Austermeer
Apprentices were forbidden from entering the reading rooms. Elisabeth and Katrien had snuck through the hidden passageways that honeycombed Summershall, accessible only by accessing certain grimoires in certain areas. To get to the eastern reading room, Elisabeth had searched for the bust of Cornelius the Wise that she used as a place marker, then cast around for a familiar crimson binding. She'd found it halfway up the shelf, its gold title too worn and flaked to read. The grimoire's pages had rustled a drowsy greeting as she'd reached up and scratched it just so. A click had come from inside the bookcase, like a lock engaging. Then the entire panel of shelves had swung inward, revealing the dusty mouth of a passageway.
"I can't believe that doesn't work for anyone but you," Katrien'd said as she always did as they ducked inside. "I've tried scratching it dozens of times. Stefan, too."
Elisabeth had only shrugged. She didn't understand, either. It must have been something she'd learned as a small child in the library, too little to properly remember. She'd just...always known how to work it and the right books to touch.
Besides, her uncanny knack for opening the passageways was hardly interesting compared to the thrill of sneaking where they weren't supposed to be. Katrien didn't waste any time, either; while Elisabeth looked around the forbidden room, she went straight to the desk and started rifling through the drawers. "For science," she explained, which was frequently what she said right before something exploded.
Elisabeth drifted towards the hearth. "What's that smell? It isn't the fire, is it?" Katrien grunted something, not noticing whatever had caught Elisabeth's attention. Sniffing industriously, Elisabeth tracked the smell to one of the armchairs. She inhaled above the cushion only to recoil at once, her head spinning.
"Elisabeth! Are you all right?"
She sucked in gulps of fresh air, blinking away tears. The caustic odor clung to the back of her tongue thickly enough she could almost taste it: a scorched, unnatural smell, like what she imagined burned metal would smell like, if metal could burn. "I think so," she wheezed.
A moment later, all concern about the smell and her poor sinuses fled as footsteps approached the door. Both girls glanced at each other before darting over to the row of bookcases lined up against the wall. Katrien fit easily, but the space proved cramped for the much-taller Elisabeth. She kept her arms rigid at her sides and breathed shallowly, hoping to appease the grimoires who were muttering in disapproval at the intrusion.
"What's happening?" Katrien breathed below her shoulder. "I can't see anything from down here."
Elisabeth's perspective consisted of a horizontal slice above the books' spines, so she couldn't see much, either. Slowly, carefully, she inched sideways for a better angle. She could see more of the magister now; he was staring out the window at the grounds and had taken down his hood. His hair was pitch-black and wavy, longer than the men wore it in Summershall, shot through at the left temple with a vivid streak of silver.
He's hardly any older than we are, she thought in surprise. Both the silver streak and the title had prepared her for someone far older. Perhaps his appearance was deceiving. He might maintain the semblance of youth by bathing in the blood of virgins - she'd once read something to that effect in a novel. For Katrien's benefit, she gave a slight shake of her head. His hair was too thick for her to tell whether or not he had pointed ears. If he had hooves, the hem of his cloak concealed them.
She followed up that signal with another, more urgent shake of her head. The magister gad turned in their direction, his gaze fixed on the shelves. She didn't share Katrien's confidence that if he found them, he wouldn't hurt them. She had grown up on tales of sorcery: armies raised from mass graves to fight on the behalf of kings, innocents sacrificed in gory rituals, children flayed as offerings to demons. She'd even been in the vault once or twice, had seen the most powerful of Summershall's grimoires bound in iron chains and kept in salt.
As the magister drew nearer, Elisabeth found to her horror she couldn't move. A grimoire had seized her robes between its pages. It growled around the mouthful of fabric, tugging like an angry terrier. The sorcerer's gray eyes narrowed, searching for the source of the noise. Desperately, she grabbed her robes and yanked, only for the grimoire to release at the exact same time, throwing her against the shelves--
And the bookcase collapsed, taking her with it.
[NFB for pre-Fandom shenanigans. Adapted from Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson, Chapt 2]
"I can't believe that doesn't work for anyone but you," Katrien'd said as she always did as they ducked inside. "I've tried scratching it dozens of times. Stefan, too."
Elisabeth had only shrugged. She didn't understand, either. It must have been something she'd learned as a small child in the library, too little to properly remember. She'd just...always known how to work it and the right books to touch.
Besides, her uncanny knack for opening the passageways was hardly interesting compared to the thrill of sneaking where they weren't supposed to be. Katrien didn't waste any time, either; while Elisabeth looked around the forbidden room, she went straight to the desk and started rifling through the drawers. "For science," she explained, which was frequently what she said right before something exploded.
Elisabeth drifted towards the hearth. "What's that smell? It isn't the fire, is it?" Katrien grunted something, not noticing whatever had caught Elisabeth's attention. Sniffing industriously, Elisabeth tracked the smell to one of the armchairs. She inhaled above the cushion only to recoil at once, her head spinning.
"Elisabeth! Are you all right?"
She sucked in gulps of fresh air, blinking away tears. The caustic odor clung to the back of her tongue thickly enough she could almost taste it: a scorched, unnatural smell, like what she imagined burned metal would smell like, if metal could burn. "I think so," she wheezed.
A moment later, all concern about the smell and her poor sinuses fled as footsteps approached the door. Both girls glanced at each other before darting over to the row of bookcases lined up against the wall. Katrien fit easily, but the space proved cramped for the much-taller Elisabeth. She kept her arms rigid at her sides and breathed shallowly, hoping to appease the grimoires who were muttering in disapproval at the intrusion.
"What's happening?" Katrien breathed below her shoulder. "I can't see anything from down here."
Elisabeth's perspective consisted of a horizontal slice above the books' spines, so she couldn't see much, either. Slowly, carefully, she inched sideways for a better angle. She could see more of the magister now; he was staring out the window at the grounds and had taken down his hood. His hair was pitch-black and wavy, longer than the men wore it in Summershall, shot through at the left temple with a vivid streak of silver.
He's hardly any older than we are, she thought in surprise. Both the silver streak and the title had prepared her for someone far older. Perhaps his appearance was deceiving. He might maintain the semblance of youth by bathing in the blood of virgins - she'd once read something to that effect in a novel. For Katrien's benefit, she gave a slight shake of her head. His hair was too thick for her to tell whether or not he had pointed ears. If he had hooves, the hem of his cloak concealed them.
She followed up that signal with another, more urgent shake of her head. The magister gad turned in their direction, his gaze fixed on the shelves. She didn't share Katrien's confidence that if he found them, he wouldn't hurt them. She had grown up on tales of sorcery: armies raised from mass graves to fight on the behalf of kings, innocents sacrificed in gory rituals, children flayed as offerings to demons. She'd even been in the vault once or twice, had seen the most powerful of Summershall's grimoires bound in iron chains and kept in salt.
As the magister drew nearer, Elisabeth found to her horror she couldn't move. A grimoire had seized her robes between its pages. It growled around the mouthful of fabric, tugging like an angry terrier. The sorcerer's gray eyes narrowed, searching for the source of the noise. Desperately, she grabbed her robes and yanked, only for the grimoire to release at the exact same time, throwing her against the shelves--
And the bookcase collapsed, taking her with it.
[NFB for pre-Fandom shenanigans. Adapted from Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson, Chapt 2]