The lettering in the granite above the entrance didn't say "Archives Building," of course. Rather, it said "CITY LIBRARY," and although it had obviously been there for a long time, it was perfectly legible.
The building itself was at the edge of the Old Quarter, only one street away from the boundary that separated that part of Zeltiva that had been spared in the Valterrian from that much larger portion that had been annihilated. It was firmly in the Royal period style, with ornately carved columns and a high, arched entryway. The doors had obviously been replaced, but the brass and oak fit in perfectly with the architecture.
Before the Valterrian, this building had, as the signage indicated, housed the City Library, as well as the Museum of Art. This much was well established. What was somewhat less clear was how much of the contents had survived.
After the Valterrian, the building was shuttered, as the remaining inhabitants of Zeltiva had more pressing matters than books on their minds. In the middle of the first century AV, the reemerging University of Zeltiva had purchased the building, and set it up as their archival repository. The University issued a statement, which was repeated on several subsequent occasions, that all materials of value had either been stolen, destroyed by rats or insects, or suffered irreparable water damage due to the broken seals around the windows. There were, according to the University, absolutely no pre-Valterrian materials of any kind that could reveal formerly known knowledge or shed light on what had gone before.
However, the University's policies had caused some to doubt their veracity on this point. The Archives were completely closed -- not only to the general public, but also to students, and even to faculty. The only people who had any level of access were the Board of Regents, and the Head Archivist -- who was listed on the University's records as one "S. Cartsmith," but who seemed to have no office, no mailbox, and no way to be contacted. Various people claimed to have seen Cartsmith, but their reports varied wildly. Cartsmith was an impossibly old man, or a shapely young woman, or a four-year-old child. Cartsmith was an incredibly powerful mage, was a powerless bureaucrat, or was the relative of one of the Trustees. Cartsmith was the alias of the school's valedictorian. Cartsmith was an Alvina who was toying with the knowledge of mortals. Cartsmith was actually Kenabelle Wright, who'd faked her death to take the position. Cartsmith was dead, and the University was covering it up. Cartsmith had never existed at all, it was simply a trick to fool the student body, or someone's idea of a practical joke. The theories were endless.
What was not theoretical was the pair of armed guards that stood in front of the entrance. They looked distinctly unfriendly, and they were heavily armed with a sword, spear, and a large assortment of knives. If one was courageous enough to speak to one of them, they would rarely get anything beyond a grunt or a nod in response -- and no one was ever admitted into the building. No one.
Torc stood before the massive building wondering what exactly was in it. The University claimed it was a place where they stored old records, but you would need countless scholars and hoards of scribes to catalog everything. However, no one went in and out of the building. When did deliveries occur? Surely, books, scrolls, and catalog pages had to arrive sometime? And what about those people who off loaded the carts and wagons? Mystery upon hidden whispers, spoken in only rumors was what this building was made of.
Sadly, it made more sense to Torc that it was the rumors that kept strangers out more often than not. Sure there were wards and magic that protected the building, but there were bound to be ways in that mages had yet to find or protect against. Torc slowly put thoughts of what treasure of knowledge hid inside away. He was waiting for Hadrian in the street outside the building and watching pretty girls go about their way.
Torc felt the sun warm his face and clothes. All this time working and Torc hasn’t bought new clothes. A grey work shirt with countless patches of cloth and sewn tears was good enough for him. Besides the sturdy cloth of his pants kept sparks from the forge burning his legs. Stains of soot tarnished his work boots, but Torc paid it no mind. His dress was of a working man, and the twins preferred men to work for their own cause.
As the wind blew across the street, the smell of salt and its taste came to Torc. It was a better smell then the norm decay of a heavy lived in city, but something about it still felt odd. Torc had been away from his village for a couple of weeks and well Zeltiva didn’t quite feel like home. Yet Torc felt never really felt at home anywhere, it was only when he was working did he feel like he was home. Honestly, Torc hated thinking about himself, it was far to easy to think about the hurt Mola had given to him. Granted Torc had never told her of his intentions, nor had he ever spoke to Priestess Lara about marrying. Still somehow Torc felt betrayed and even more lonely now, because of Mola.
The color of yellow caught Torc’s eye as the dress of a young lady briefly press against her form in the breeze of the day.
