Out of Place, Right at Home [Erudite|Montaine]

[Montaine]

Out of Place, Right at Home Spring 40 512 AV SMASH Montaine shuddered at the noise. There were few worse noises to hear in a glassmaker’s workshop than smashing. Perhaps there were a couple, he’d heard a number of ‘Smash! Smash! Shyke that’s hot!’s over the years, and once a ‘Petch! I’m on fire! I’m on petching fire!’ but for sheer frequency of occurrence, smashing was hard to beat. It was a particular annoyance, however, when the workshop was on a very tight schedule. The university, or more specifically the philterers up in the East Wing, had ordered a shipment on new bottles and phials to be delivered as soon as possible. Calbert, seeing an opportunity to ingratiate himself further within the circles of the university, given the ever increasingly unstable political climate, had promised the full load the very next day, and for only half the usual cost. Much of the citizenry had become either far more charitable, in light of the shared devastation at the hands of the Djed Storm of the first day of Spring, or selfish, given the scarcity of funds and food. Calbert had found a middle ground, a proverbial fence to straddle. Always looking for ways to boost his status yet still unwilling to lose out on potential profits, Johann refused to do anything gratis, instead making a great show of how much it pained him to lower his prices even fifty percent. The show was important to the trader. It was for this reason that he was so upset when taken ill suddenly overnight. In his desperation to keep up the good front, he was forced to select his most promising protégé to carry out the task in his stead. This, alas, boded poorly for Montaine, said protégé, as he now had to make the trek up to the university, a couple of workers laden with expensive, delicate pieces and ensure their safe arrival. Worse than that, he’d probably have to butter up some academics on Calbert’s behalf. He hated small talk. And now, not two bells from the time he had leave, and smash. Montaine thanked his luck and said a small prayer to Lhex under his breath as it was just a single bowl that had bought it. But, on closer inspection, it was the delicately etched one that Calbert had fashioned himself. Shyke. He sighed and motioned for the rest of the glassware to be packaged appropriately, and carefully, and for the smashed remnants to be swept away. The last thing he needed was one of his couriers to get a shard of glass in their foot. He moved round to the oven and slid his pipe in. There wasn’t much glass left, the pipe had to go awful deep before he saw its glimmering reflection on the molten surface. He gathered up what he could and blew. The bowl was large and wide and Monty needed another apprentice with a leather padded hand to help mould it into shape as he span. The glass cooled as he worked and finally, when it was sizeable enough, the apprentice to his jacks and worked the piece away from the pipe. It was placed on the marver and Montaine took the cutter in hand began to remove the excess glass from the top. The others worked around him as he shut himself off, engrossed in the process, praying that he wouldn’t hear another smash. Or, gods forbid, another ‘I’m on petching fire!’

OOCThe majority of this thread will take place on University grounds, so I placed it here, hope that's okay.

[Erudite]

"My goodness," Erudite gasped.

No other words could be uttered, no other sounds could be made. The Wright Memorial Library had her looking like a lost tourist, with her wide eyes staring up at the arched ceilings. The wooden furniture matched the building's interior structures, with each wall and corner adorned with an inticate carving that had obviously been carefully toiled upon by a masterful artist. The shelves, the desks, the chairs and the ceiling were all obviously made from high quality cedar, all of them polished and smooth, and never once were they neglected. The floors were a rich, light mahogany, carefully placed and nailed, without a stain or scratch in sight. There were no squeaks or creaks whenever people walked upon it, and it was so well swept that it mirrored every foot, every table leg, and every book that sat neatly upon their respective shelf. The bookshelves were even two-tiered, but from the looks of it, the second floor was empty of any students. The hallway seemed to go on with no end; it was a breathtaking, almost surreal sight.

She fought the urge to peer down and gaze at her own reflection. Everyone else in the vicinity had their noses tucked beneath a thick book, while others had their faces completely concealed by multiple towers of tomes and journals. The studious of the studious spent most of their days burning the midnight oil around here. But it was the early morning, and so most of the students were having their classes. Still, the Konti took her time admiring the handiwork of whoever designed the library.

"The blurry-eyed would be cursed," she thought ruefully, shaking her head as she examined the carved ocean waves and the swirling vines littered with leaves, all packed into a delightful scenery that, if painted, could've fooled the untrained eye into believing that it was all real. She brushed her hands along the end of a bookshelf and bit her lip; it was like the skin of a pampered child. She felt guilty bringing in a small, yet goudy ceramic pot partly filled with fertilized soil, but she walked through the wide hallway in slow, casual strides, as if she had been carrying a stack of books for returning.

There was no one to glance at her strangely, anyway. The few students that lurked the bright aisles and sat along the many well-equipped desks were too busy to take notice of the strange things she had with her. A soil-filled pot, a wooden herbalism toolkit, and a beige woven backpack containing her journals and other necessities for her schooling. She had the time to observe the other students around her, though. One had an alembic by his side, and he wore gold-rimmed spectacles as he read. Another had so many books around him that she could only be sure of his presence through the sight of his feet below the table. There was a group sitting on a table close to the reception, all huddled up to read just one book.

"Don't those have copies?" she pouted, as she walked passed the focused trio. All the other tables tucked between the monstrously large shelves were left empty. For a moment, she wished she could stop to view the way there was not even a single space left over in each shelf, as each book fit snuggly upon their assigned places. Everything was catalogued and organized, surely.

As the light tapping of her leather boots came to a halt, her cerulean eyes met with the sharp, yet kind eyes of the head librarian. They were a deeper blue than hers, with pale gray rings surrounding them, a notable mark of old age. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her sincere smile brought out the crow's feet that formed along the sides of her eyes.

"Welcome to the Wright Memorial Library," she gazed up at Erudite from the reception as she spoke, turning her milky blue eyes away from a certain book that appeared to be of a foreign language. "How may I help you?" Erudite's mind suddenly filled to the brim with questions as she perched her little pot on the desk and hummed. "Who carved the tables, the ceiling, the chairs, the walls!?" she rambled silently, "who cut out the marble statues, who arranged all those books, who, wh-what..."

Her questions gave her quite the migraine. Instead, she attempted to sum up all her deprived questions into one simple query. "Could you kindly tell me a little bit about the library's history?" she nodded with a beam. The woman seemed just as knowledgable as she was warm and welcoming. Lisaelis, as her nameplate addressed her, replied with a tilt of her head. "But of course," she replied confidently.

"But before anything," she cleared her throat and peered into her little book. Erudite casually leaned in to take a peek, only to swiftly jerk back as Lisaelis raised her head to face her. "That pot," she stated, as she gestured over to the clumpy, poorly molded mug. Erudite chuckled. "It's for my herbalism project," she responded meekly, curling her slender fingers around the rough ceramic and holding it close. The librarian merely nodded, as if she had expected that to be her response.

"FIrst of all, the Wright Memorial Library was named after Kennabelle Wright, a famous Zeltivan navigator who had traveled all throughout Mizahar," she began, as she rose from her cushioned seat and began to usher Erudite down the wide hallway. "It was named after her, and built in honor for her, by the University's regents and the Sailor's Guild," she stopped next to a pale marble statue and turned towards Erudite, "Construction began around 460 AV, a year after Kennabelle perished during her circumnavigation around Mizahar. Hence the name, Wright Memorial."

Erudite nodded vigorously, now she understood. They spoke in hushed tones, ones that barely even touched the ears of the other students in the area. "You know quite a lot, did you have to learn about the history of the library, before being allowed to work here?" she inquired. "I was practically raised here," she gushed, her eyes misting over with the memories of her childhood, "my father was the previous head librarian, you see."

Erudite grinned at her as she paused to get ahold of herself. There must've been things about the statue before them that held a special place in her heart, a sentimental importance that was beyond the Konti's knowledge or experience. This woman obviously had much to share. "As you can see," she turned to place a pale, veiny hand on the intricately carved marble. "We have an exceptional selection of statues displayed, all of dieties," she wore a proud smile on her lips as she elaborated, "a majority of the statues are of Eyris, Gnora, and Qalaya; of knowledge, order, and writing, respectively."

"Are they for sale?" she thought of joking, but decided against it. Despite her friendly demeanor, a jest like that might offend her. All these statues must mean a lot to her, more than she could ever understand. The pair strolled down the hallway and stopped next to the herbalism aisle, where the desk tucked in between was empty, as if it were saved for her. "Let me know if you need anything, my dear," she murmured, as she prepared to turn around and head back to her desk. "Thank you," Erudite whispered back, as she prepared to take a seat and lay down her things.

"Oh and, another thing," Lisaelis peered into the aisle with an amused smirk. Erudite turned around just as she opened her medical journal into an empty page. "Yes?" she smiled politely. "I suggest you refrain from entering the library at night," she warned, though it sounded more like she was challenging her, rather than intimidating her. "And why is that?" she furrowed her brows and chuckled. She knew that the library was open to all and at all times.

"Nothing huge, just a little rumor about a ghost, but, there's nothing conclusive. I merely suggest that you be careful."

The pair exchanged friendly nods and promises to take time out of their schedules to converse. "Careful," Erudite repeated with a playful smirk as she took out her glass inkwell and her feathery quill. Careful indeed she will be, when she does go ghost hunting. Perhaps not tonight, but in the near future, she'll be careful.

[Montaine]

‘All right you slimy vagiks! Let’s get up these crates up to the university so we can get down to the pub!’ The glassworks crew let up a rowdy cheer. The campus was a bit of a trek uphill, so the temporary taskmaster was freed from any responsibility in transporting the goods. Early on in his career he had been quite offended when his colleagues had suggested he was incapable of such a job, to the point that he had insisted once or twice, despite the others’ protestations. It had not gone well. He had dropped a crate and fallen into what those present called a fit, he didn’t remember the occasion all that well, and had caused the destruction of a number of valuable pieces. He learned to accept his frailties as integral to his person, and enjoy what few advantages went with them. He did no heavy labour. Indeed, on this trip his sole burden was the unreasonably expensive imported bottle of wine for ‘Mister Sanderson’ that Calbert insisted he drop off with the shipment. He shook it lazily from side to side before his eyes and watched it swish about behind the glass. The last time he’d been this close to such an expensive beverage had been the night of the terrible storm. Gadger never had discovered who had taken his rare vintages and after learning quite how pricey they were, Monty felt obliged by his conscience to console the bartender and rue whatever barbarous hooligans had broken in that night and smashed them. He’d gone to the authorities, but a lot of things had gone missing that night, including more than too many people. A couple of bottles of Bluevein 480 were not at the top of their priority list. As the crew moved steadily and carefully towards the university proper, Monty’s thoughts remained on the bottle in his hands. Mister Sanderson must have been someone important, or perhaps simply influential. Calbert seemed a little dim on occasion but the glassworking chief was crafty, Monty was sure of it. Why flatter someone of a high rank, when someone lower down is likely to be able to do more for a lot less. The delivery itself took no time at all. The bottle disappeared over a desk without comment and the crew was directed towards the East Wing, crates now freshly stamped with the symbol of the Department of Botany, though what botanists would want with a half dozen vials and ampoules the glassworker dared not think. The crew and their load made their exit through a pair of deep brown, oaken doors that were far too tall for any reasonable egress and stepped out into the campus air. Monty stopped in his tracks and voiced his astonishment at what he saw. ‘Petching…’ To say the university was impressive would be to say the harbour was wet, it would be to say the ovens were a tad warm and that Montaine Redsun could be a tad vulgar at times. ‘Petching Lhex,’ he muttered, eyes wide, ‘Petch me, this place is incredible!’ The pre-Valterrian architecture that filled the city peaked at the tall, stone columns that bulged ever so slightly at punctuating points along each building, supporting grandiose eaves hanging high overhead. A well kept lawn of such vivid green as to look almost supernatural. Students and teachers and labourers scurried to and fro, some in deep conversation, some shifty and suspicious, some gleefully in their own worlds. Where once the Astronomy Tower rose proud and tall, penetrating the heavens, there was such a great heap of debris and rubble, the spires immense magnitude still visible above the West Wing roof where it lay. Even in its devastation it could do nothing but inspire awe into the uninitiated. Banden slapped Monty on the back and laughed, ‘She’s a beauty ain’t she? Went up with me ol’ Ma when she was still around. We dropped off the crates where’n they’re needed and’re off fer a drink, you tek a look round, s’yer first time righ’? Just don’t go goin’ inter places yer ain’t s’posed ta ‘n’ you’ll be fine,’ Monty didn’t know what to say. He looked to the most grand doors he could find and made his way inside. The plaque outside read The Wright Memorial Library.

[Erudite]

The smell of worn books filled the air and mixed with the powerful scent of herbs and ink. She sat in front of a large, ornate window that reached all the way to the very top of the well-painted wall, just below the second tier's wooden floorboards. Its arched top and silvery hue gave a rather daunting impression on the observer, while at the same time, a magnificent one. It provided a full view of the scenery outside of the library; the pruned topiaries, the well-trimmed lawns, and the intricate buildings and facilities that made up the university. Despite the storm that transpired not so long ago, it remained an ethereal beauty to both students and visitors. And from the scene projected by the large, multipaneled window, it looked as if no such disastrous event had occured in centuries. She sat for a moment with a dreamy sigh as she took in the beautiful view, all the while adjusting to the enormous size of their desks. They seemed fit for five students sitting altogether, with enough space to place all their bags and materials onto it while still having enough space to write, rearrange things, and move about. It had little cubby holes and built in charcoal and quill holders, with even a place to keep your inkwell in place so it would not spill or be toppled over. The edges were carved with stylized swirls and leaves, while the legs were formed to look like the feet of an animal - a tiger, it seemed. She had to take the time to admire the comfortableness of the chairs; they were cushioned and covered with velvet, with their wood and carvings matching that of the table's.

Feeling a little rebellious and excited, she allowed the rest of her backpack's contents to fall haphazardly onto the polished flat surface. Her personal journal spewed out along with a plain wooden herbalist's kit and a paper pouch. She had already secured her inkwell onto one of the holders, and had her trusty quill sitting inside one of the holders. Glancing at her ceramic pot, she stood up and made her way towards the intimidating shelves, her eyes scanning for a particular book. "Chamomile, basil, toadstool, anise, aloe..." she subvocalized, as she ran her forefinger across the selection of tomes relating to herbs. She'd planned to start her class project today. It was a simple, yet interesting activity that was given to them by the talented Professor Henry, who'd instructed them to each plant a specific herb in a pot, care for it and cultivate it, and then showcase it on their next session. It wasn't very tasking, yet it was still very hands-on and educational. He'd even quipped that the three best projects would win prizes. It brought life into Erudite's competitive side.

That obviously had her choosing a more difficult plant. She needed a challenge, she wanted a challenge, and thyme was the answer. Her eyes grew tired from running past the colorful books, her arm growing heavy and painful as she paced from one side of the shelf to the other. Finally, her eyes caught sight of the word "thyme," and she immediately tucked her finger along the upper spine and pulled it out. With a child-like grin, she brought the wrinkly book back to her little nook. It was worn, wrinkly, and made of soft leather that had been dyed a beautiful deep blue. The yellowing pages had thankfully kept its text clear and readable, despite its apparent age. "Growing and Knowing Thyme," she read silently, as she opened the flexible cover towards the first page. The book looked rather informal and unprofessional, but no other book on or related to Thyme would appear. She placed the open book to the side and brought her medical journal closer to her and prepared to take down notes. She turned a couple of pages until she found the information that she was looking for: how to grow thyme.

"Thyme grows best in dry, lean soil. Watering the herb far too much, whatever the stage, can be harmful as too much moisture can cause the herb to rot or mold. Ants often build their nests in Thyme beds, so be wary of those. There are three ways to propagate Thyme. One, is through cuttings, another is through division, and the other is simply utilizing its seeds. The last one is, basically, just planting the seeds and caring for it until it is mature. For cuttings and divisions, however, it's a little more complicated."

She raised her right eyebrow as she read the text and wrote down the key concepts. It was a rather interesting way of writing things, it was more like a narrative or a lecture, rather than a literary work. "It's must be a journal," she noted, as she capped her inkwell and rested her quill. She was just at the first paragraph of the chapter, yet it was already wracking her brain and making her nervous; it wouldn't be good at all if she failed.

"Cutting is when you snip a part of the thyme and plant it elsewhere. It takes a lot of work and carefulness in order to effectively take out a part of the herb without damaging both the cutting, and the main plant itself. Once you plant the stem elsewhere, it will eventually grow roots of its own and in time, mature. It's much easier than the division, but it's best to work on having steady hands so you do not accidentally cut a vital part of the plant. Division, on the other hand, is when you cut out the thyme's root, as well as its stem, and plant it elsewhere. It takes some practice in order to successfully do a division, and once more, it is best to work on having steady hands and being gentler, as it's rather hard to separate the roots of the plant from the soil. While you're still new at growing and cultivating herbs and plants, it is best to start with simpler kinds and with the most basic technique of growing them: through seeds."

She breathed in deeply and sighed just as heavily. This was a lot of information and detail on just one little herb. She thought it was going to be easy to absorb, but the tome only proved that hands-on was more educational that simple reading. The information barely gave her an idea on where it would be best to cut, how it would be best tu unearth the roots, and the like. It seemed that the writer had a hard time with cuttings and divisions as well, and preferred the use of seeds. She wrote down the information with pursed lips; at least now she knew that there was such a thing as cuttings and divisions, now.

"As aforementioned, Thyme grows best on dry, light soil. If you want them to be healthy and hardy, let them grow on their own pace and refrain from making too much of a fuss when cultivating them. Make sure that you are using well-drained soil, and that you do not water it too much. They thrive in dryness, and so often times they are grown in hot, sunny areas, and can easily survive draught. They can also survive the cold, as long as there isn't much moisture. It is best planted in the spring. When planting the seeds, place them on the earth and cover them with a thin layer of soil. Water it very lightly, and then allow it to grow."

"Well, that sounds simple enough," she mumbled hopefully, but doubt continued to linger as a thin layer above her confidence. She licked her lips and finished writing all of the information down, quickly capping her inkwell everytime she stopped writing in order to keep the ink from drying up. She was saving money, after all, for reasons that even she could not think up of, or comprehend. For a rainy day, perhaps?

"It will take around seven days for it to sprout, and around 31 days before it will be mature enough to be harvested. Remember to water it sparingly; give it attention whenever it is parched and in need of pruning. Keep them in a very sunny area, and away from moisture!"

"Alright, that's enough!" she groaned, as she leaned back against the cushioned backrest. She dropped her feathery quill on top of her journal and gazed up at the ceiling. "I'll probably need to know a little bit about Thyme, the professor may ask us about our plants," she pondered, as her blue eyes scanned the floorboards above her for signs of life. There were no creaks, nor any puffs of unsettled dust; the second tier was barren of students or guests. "He'll probably ask us why we chose our plants too," she thought, as she cupped her cheeks with her hands, "I better get started with it first, though."

She sat up straight once more and dug a pale hand into her sunken backpack, bringing out a pair of brown leather gloves. She reviewed her notes on the journal as she put them on slowly, mouthing specific concepts that mattered the most. With one hand, she plucked out the paper packet filled with seeds, and with the other, her soil-filled pot. She peered into the ceramic and pouted. "I hope this is light and dry enough," she mused, as she dug at the soil and evenly distributed some of the thyme seeds onto it. They were thin and light, and they reminded her a little bit of wheat, strangely. She then gently layered the seeds with the bit of soil that she pushed towards the side, and then reached into her backpack once more for her waterskin. "I need a watering can, or something," she furrowed her brows as she uncorked the bladder and slowly poured a bit of the water onto the soil. With a happy giggle, she secured her waterskin and placed it back into her backpack along with her gloves. With her worries slowly dissipating, she picked up the little blue book and began to skim the first chapter.

"Can be used for embalming, incense, and tea, aside from their medicinal purposes..."

"Is widely used in cooking, where it is utilized to flavor meats, soups, and stews, as it is very flavorful but not overpowering..."

"Sold and used either fresh or dried, but the former is rather inconvenient as it's storage life is a mere week or even less..."

"The oil of thyme - which is for medicinal purposes - contains twenty to fifty four percent thymol, which is a chemical found in thyme that is very similar to alcohol..."

"The oil of thyme works well to prevent bacterial infection, and is often is used to medicate bandages, while its tincture, tisane, salve, or syrup helps for respiratory infections and throat problems..."

Learning on your own was much more difficult and takes much longer. It takes time to absorb and understand all the concepts, and without guidance or experience, the information is never fully learned or developed. She realized this as she read through the book and furrowed her brows with exasperation. It was much easier learning when you had someone to ask questions, or someone who can demonstrate. When she'd spent time studying at the Isle, she had many knowledgable acquaintances at her own expense. There was no question left unanswered, no demonstration left undone. But here, at the university, she hardly new the professors, and assumed that they were too busy to spend time tutoring a student one-on-one. Still, she continued to read the book again and again, from cover to cover, until she'd practically had the information memorized and committed to memory. She may not have fully understood what she'd just engrained into her brain, but it was a start. She could ask Professor Henry about the things that remained unclear to her later on, anyway. The concepts in the book that were unknown to her drove her to want to read more and borrow more books on herbalism; thymol, what was that?

She sighed and closed her journal after adding a few more notes on what she'd discovered from repeatedly reading the book. She began packing her journals and materials into her backpack and secured the flap over the opening. "Might as well find some more books on herbalism, and maybe even medicine," she pondered, as she arranged her backpack and her potted thyme by the side of the desk and turned to view the bookshelves. "Maybe they'll even let me borrow some books," she thought with a hopeful smile, as she made her way towards the colorful selection and began to take her pick.

[Montaine]

Books. This whole, huge building was packed to the brim with brilliant, beautiful books. Loose sheathes of documents and weighty, leather-bound tomes adorned the ornate shelves from the floor to the very heights of the vaulted ceilings. The Wright Memorial Library was such a vast repository of knowledge as could be found across the world, so many words recorded across the centuries by so many hands. So many countless stories for those that should wish to hear them, so many countless stories for those that could read them. Footsteps echoed down the halls and hushed whispering seemed to echo round the chamber as students’ hushed conversations seemed to be magnified by their attempts to quieten their voices in this splendid, silent place. Monty gently caressed the stone busts, feeling the smoothness of their design beneath his fingers. Crisp parchment rustled in one of the alcoves as a student turned a page. In all his years in the harbour city he had never once entered the university grounds, never once tread the halls of the sagacious, the learned. He took a few more tentative steps forward to a shelf and felt the thickness of one of the hefty publications under his hand. The skin of his palm ran down the bumps and ridges of the work’s spine. He took a breath and eased it out from its spot amongst its brethren and gasped quietly at the detail decorating the cover, the delicate curves and arcs of gold leaf tracing patterns of such intricacy as the glassworker had seen outside one of the boss’ more expensive pieces. The book was heavy and the pages crisp and browning. The paper was thick, however. Evidently whoever had composed this work had meant for it to last, perhaps it had been made specifically for the library, so that its knowledge, its wisdom would never be lost. He had once heard a rumour that pre-Valterrian texts yet survived in the deepest recesses of the university library. Information recorded by long dead hands. Was the author of the work he held deceased? Were these the words of a dead man? Monty opened the tome a decent way through and looked at the page in wonderment. Male elephants, once progressing through adolescence, begin to form small groups among one another called bachelor herds within which there is often much infighting as each male attempts to assert its dominance over its rivals. Monty traced his fingers over the symbols. His ignorance of their meaning imbuing the words with an arcane quality. Only males who have asserted physical prowess, who have achieved a dominant position within the herd, are allowed to breed with females. These bulls are often between forty and fifty years old. The glassworker wished he could read the words, sure that with understanding they would impart great knowledge upon him. His finger ran across the page and landed on an illustration of a most remarkable creature. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, with a great grey body and great grey legs, and the biggest ears, and longest nose. What was this thing? He was sure the words would have told him. He had spent so long with this ignorance, not an uncommon one amongst his peers, and never missed it until now. Is this how the scholars lived? Did they spend their whole lives, all their days just reading and learning and growing ever more knowledgeable? It sounded like a good life.

[Erudite]

"Herbs, herbs, herbs..."

Erudite hummed to a tune that looped in her head as she searched for books that would strike her interest. She found herself subtly bobbing up and down to the beat of her little song, a playful smile gracing her lips as she plucked out a thick tome covered in painted thick wood - a delightfully light chartreuse, so rich in color that she almost expected it to stain her pale fingers. She opened it up to find that it was rather new, and seemed to be a copy. She tapped her boot against the floorboards as she scanned the pages, though nothing in it seemed to compel her to borrow it.

"Chamomiles are herbs that resemble daisies..."

Her humming was cut short and her boots halted midway into a tap. The book was an extensive, informative take on the Chamomile. She quickly returned the tome back in its place in between a pair of blue books, and sauntered over towards the end of the shelves. She shivered at the memory, of when she'd discovered how Professor Henry had lost his wife to a sickness that he must've expected to be able to overcome. She stood by the edge of the aisle, where the light of the main hallway graced the books there with an even brighter illumination than the windows that adorned the ends of each row of books. Looking up at the books that were much higher up, briefly wondering to herself how they could be reached and examined, and thought what it'd be like to lose someone dear to her.

Did her sisters count?

A strange, lingering pain rose from the pit of her stomach to her chest, one that swirled around her heart and remained there. Was it anger, hurt, sadness? It felt strange that she couldn't place the emotion. She raised a forefinger and laid it against a particular book, but her mind lifted its wings and soared out of the windows, away from the Wright library, the university, and Zeltiva itself, only to land above her home in Mura. Her mother, her grandmother, how were they? And her sisters, where were they now? The first two who had passed on are undoubtedly in a "better" place, but what about the third? Where was she?

Her finger pressed against the book and ended up pushing it into the shelf. A light gasp brought her back to reality, and she tugged at the spine to fix it back into place. A sigh escaped her lips as she allowed herself the liberty to wander and imagine. Her sisters, they were gone. Like Professor Henry's wife, they were gone, and she was never going to see them again. The pain escalated as it dawned on her; she knew exactly how he felt.

"I could've done something," she furrowed her brows at another thick book, "I should've done something."

She angrily tapped at the second book and wondered if it would be a good read. The spine was a faded yellow, but was decorated with silver swirls; it did seem like it would be nice.

"I should've told them to be careful, I should've told them to train and learn."

A bitter feeling, mixed with anger, regret, and lost opportunities, enveloped her body and burned her skin. The blistering feeling had a pair of books toppling out of her shelves. "Uck!" she muttered, as the tomes fell against her arms, yet she was thankfully able to catch them and cradle them against chest. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief as she returned the pair back into the shelves, her head quickly tyrning to the hallways to check if anyone had seen.

And then she saw him, by the opposite aisle, grabbing a small plain book and curiously opening it somewhere in the middle. It was Montaine. His unmistakable attire, sickly pale skin, and shaggy dark head of hair stood with awe as he read with a finger tracing the rough parchment. She gingerly made her way over to him, quietly, discreetly, as to not disturb him.

He read strangely; she'd never seen anyone read that way, with their fingers running through the text. She leaned over his shoulder and watched. "Why do you read like that?" she quipped softly, as her eyes followed his bony finger.

[Montaine]

Monty startled at the voice and dropped the book to the library floor with a slap of leather that resounded and was magnified by the silence of the hall. He remained still and quiet for a second or two, half expecting some monstrous gorgon of a librarian to pounce on him and berate him for his sacrilegious noise-making. The voice was familiar and when he eventually turned slowly around to find her face looking down at him he recognised the fair doctor of the storm. Erudite, a woman of great learning and paper stomach, inexperienced in the ways of the drunk. She seemed somehow more imposing here. She loomed over him and he felt so very small, like a child who had been caught misbehaving. Perhaps it was because the tables had turned. This was the university, the seat of knowledge, more than that it was the library, the repository of all the wisdoms and witticisms of past ages. This wasn’t the cellar of some two bit drinking house in the back streets off the market road, this wasn’t his world, it was hers. He felt foolish, embarrassed by what he had been doing. She assumed he was reading, she probably assumed he was a moron for having to follow the lines with his finger when the truth was worse. He wasn’t ashamed by his inability back home. You’re average sailor could barely string two sentences together let alone read or write. Monty only knew his numbers because Calbert had taught them to him as part of his training, and that was fine. It was fine for down there, down dock ways. Up here? Up here, in amongst the ornate halls of the greatest university, the last true university remaining in the world? He felt like an idiot. To them it was like breathing, so natural, so simple. If they knew, they would laugh. They didn’t understand how the world worked outside of their laboratories and study rooms. They would laugh at him. The glassworker looked up at Erudite’s face. She wouldn’t laugh. They’d survived the storm of the century together. Admittedly it was only twelve years into the century, but they wouldn’t, or at least he prayed they wouldn’t, see the like of it again. The doctor hadn’t a glimmer of mockery or of jest in her eyes. They remained serious, calm. He’d seen this woman at the height of inebriation and yet even then she retained a certain respectable composure. She wouldn’t laugh. Monty picked the book back up off the floor and offered it up to her, ‘I-I wasn’t,’ he began, how could say it to her? Could he simply say it, just an I can’t read and let’s move on? She’d think him stupid. He took a breath and asked. ‘What does it say, Miss Erudite?’

[Erudite]

She jumped slightly as Monty flinched after she had blurted out her question, only to end up dropping the book in his hands. The flimsy tome landed with a noisy thud upon the polished wooden floor, its yellowing pages flapping out like the wings of a bird in flight. She stood there, in a still and awkward stance, as Monty immediately scrambled to retrieve the book from the floor. Fear seemed to strike the both of them, and the Konti couldn't help but turn her head around to see if anyone had noticed, or if anyone was approaching. Not a living being seemed to scuffle or move a muscle, not one even appeared within her line of sight.

"Did it scratch the floor? Did the book break?" she thought, as she gingerly peered over the young man's back. Such a fall could have easily broken the spine, damaged the cover, or loosened the pages, as most of the tomes in the library were old enough to sink into itself from even the most gentle of hands. She wouldn't be surprised if some of them would crumble into ashes. It was an exaggerated assumption that was meant to be more of a joke than the truth, and often times she would tell herself that it was another reason as to why they required to be hushed and silent in the library. The books were sensitive to loud noises.

He held the open book with his two hands, his fingers wrapping around both ends as he twisted his torso and looked up, presumably to identify who had spoken. She'd hoped that he would recognize her, and based on the fact that they had spent an entire day struggling through a massive storm, it was highly probable that he remembered at least her face. She smiled softly at him, a simple gesture that occasionally went unnoticed because of her blank, expressionless eyes. She hoped that he could see through it, however, as he had seen her in her worst.

"I wasn't," he replied meekly, as he offered her the book. It seemed unscathed, and as Erudite took the tome with both hands and gave it a brief glance, she found that it was on elephants. She furrowed her brows at him, her smile faltering for a moment as she found herself questioning what he meant by his response. Another thing that struck her was his attitude; it seemed much more mellow, shy, and gentlemanly. It was refreshing and new, and she wondered if this was just another side of him, or if there was something going on in his mind that made him so. Either way, it was a remarkably endearing sight.

"What does it say, Miss Erudite?"

Well, he remembered her name alright. But the warm sensation that enveloped her body was not that of happiness, that he'd recognized her, that she was familiar to him. Her smile faded, and her eyes widened at the realization. The warm feeling pooled in her stomach, and then the rest of the heat that surrounded her body was overcome by a ice cold wave that had her spine tingling from its base, to the very hairs on the nape of her neck. She couldn't imagine what it must be like to be unable to read, to be unable to comprehend written words. There was a lot to be learned from books, a lot to be discovered, and to be felt. Stories and poetry are both different when they are heard, and when they are seen.

She wasn't quite sure how she felt about it. It wasn't all pity, it wasn't all sadness. It might've been a mixture of both, but not at all was it mingled with a sense of superiority or pride. If anything, she felt compelled to share the beauty of reading with him, the satisfaction of going through a book from cover to cover, and being able to understand and explain its contents. It hurt her, knowing that he couldn't see past the shapes and letters, the text and the ink, it was like being color blind, in a manner of speaking - he was deprived of a certain kind of beauty.

She cleared her throat nervously, as her eyes left his and fell upon the worn pages. Her sad smile parted as she began to read the text out loud.

"Male elephants, once progressing through adolescence, begin to form small groups among one another called bachelor herds within which there is often much infighting as each male attempts to assert its dominance over its rivals.

A momentary pause, as her eyes slowly left the book, climbed across his torso, and met with his eyes once more. They quickly darted back onto the pages.

"Only males who have asserted physical prowess, who have achieved a dominant position within the herd, are allowed to breed with females. These bulls are often between forty and fifty years old."

She wondered how it must've sounded to him, to know now what the walls of text meant, to understand them. It must've sounded a lot like music, the way notes on a string of four lines could only be deciphered by a musician, but the sounds that he would make out of said musical pieces could be understood by many. Common folk would gawk at a fiddler's music book and wonder how he managed to string together beautiful notes out of the little dark buttons and swirls, but once they hear him play, they feel nothing but appreciation.

Or perhaps, it was the opposite; instead of feeling the satisfaction of knowing, he felt the pain of being unable to know by himself. Like a poor man peering into the windows of an expensive restaurant and watching the well off eat from their colorful plates, the generous amounts of food forming mounds on their spoons enticing his senses and attacking his empty belly. He could see the delicious meals that were served, and if he had a good enough imagination, he may even be able to assume how they all tasted. The red must've been spicy, the yellow must've been sweet. He could assume as much as he wanted, but he knew that it was all unfortunately unattainable.

She stopped and looked at him once more. She tried to read the expression on his face, but felt that it would invade him of his privacy. His feelings were his to share, not for her to pry into. Her eyes seemed to ask him a question, and her pout seemed to ask him to talk to her, to tell her more about him. They knew each other's names, but that was just about as far as they went.

"Do you want me to continue?" she implied with a blink.

[Montaine]

Elephants. That’s what they were. Big, bulky, grey elephants with long trunks and great, big ears. The sentences didn’t make all that much more sense though, they sounded scientific and complicated. He had a wide vocabulary, difficult not to collect a veritable linguistic lexicon when drinking among scholars and academics but those words in that order made little sense. Elephants was a new word though. It rang a familiar bell, perhaps he had heard them discussed once or twice before, but it hadn’t really registered until now. An elephant was a big, grey animal. He didn’t know what to feel now that the mysteries of the object had been revealed. He had gained knowledge yet it came with a bathetic twinge. Surely to learn this information would have been more exciting, more impressive and interesting and altogether more brilliant if he had done so by seeing an elephant wild. To encounter one wherever they may roam and gasp in awe at the discovery. Surely that would be more worthwhile than this. Learning by words, rather than by experience, seeing one for real, not drawn in a book. One day he would see one for real. Monty looked up at the fair doctor. She was an odd specimen. There was something about her that seemed closed off, sealed away and yet she was so very… Monty didn’t know all that many women. There was Gertrude and her daughter, the former being a formidable, terrifying woman of stout proportions and perpetual scowl who broke a man’s nose for leering at her daughter. The latter was quiet and impenetrable, certainly when her mother was around at it was the sailors trying to do the penetrating, but she was both talented and uninterested in conversation. No, Montaine knew very few people of the female persuasion and wasn’t sure if the fair doctor was typical of her gender, but she seemed so… Kind. Yes, that was it. She was kind. ‘Thank you,’ Monty frowned. Somewhere in this library was information that could help him. It was the largest repository of knowledge this side of the Suvan Sea and within these halls, within these tomes lay the answers he sought to the questions he possessed and before him stood one able, perhaps willing, to unlock those secrets for him. Secrets not pertaining to elephant breeding. But there was something else he wanted first. These scholars, these men and women from all across the world who gathered in this place to increase their knowledge did so by shutting themselves away from the world, away from the information they were trying to learn. There was a better use for books. Montaine took the book from Erudite and carefully reinserted it into the shelf from whence it had come and stood up, dusting himself off. His frown remained steady. ‘Tell me,’ he said, his voice low, ‘Is there a fiction room?’

[Erudite]

She tried to be cheerful, but she simply couldn't. Her somewhat stiff, stoic features have always been a barrier to any sufficient expression of emotion. But what truly prevented her from smiling was the situation they were in. It was awkward and filled with pregnant pauses, ones that she couldn't fill with any words or actions. He seemed to be absorbing the words that she'd recited, as he continued to kneel on the floor, as still as the marble statues that lined the hallway.

She quietly turned a few pages until she was met with charcoal drawings depicting the animals themselves. Large flappy ears, beady eyes, stump-like legs, and tiny tails. They were strange, so very strange, with their gray rubbery skin and their incredibly long noses. She wanted to see one, pet one, or perhaps even ride one, but their tusks seemed to tell her otherwise. Her mind went from the young man perched below her, to the remarkable creatures printed in muted parchment. Somehow, that was enough to keep her preoccupied.

"Thank you."

It was a whisper, barely loud enough to rouse the other students within the premises out of their studying; they were all far too engrossed to listen in on any nearby conversations, it seemed. Even so, it caused the Konti to flinch in surprise as she looked up to find him on his feet and taking the little book out of her loose grasps, his features schooled into a faint scowl. She let her hands fall to her sides, her eyes following the book as Monty gingerly tucked it back into its respective shelf.

She thought of what to say to him, to make him feel better, to stop him from frowning, but no words would come. What does one say to somebody who cannot read? "You can learn," she thought, "I can read to you." The little voice in her head rambled on and on about the possibilities of cheering him up, of making him smile or at the very least, chuckle. Nothing good came to mind, however; everything sounded incomplete, useless, or unecessary.

"I can teach you," her mind squeaked. It was the winning response, the one that could undoubtedly cause him to smile. Would he let her, would he want her? She wanted to see his face light up at the offer, she wanted to see him eager to learn. She bit her lip and prepared to say the words, but he'd beat her to it as he turned to face her once more. "Tell me," he murmured, "Is there a fiction room?"

Her blue orbs shifted towards the side as she opened her mouth to speak. It was her first time in the library as well, and so she wasn't very familiar with the sections, or where everything was. Nonetheless, she could read and understand the labels on every end of the bookshelves, so they'll just have to go looking for it. It seemed simple, and it seemed possible; why wouldn't the library have a place for fiction?

"I'm certain there is," she smiled warmly, in the hopes that the gesture would be contagious and that he would do the same. She turned around and made her way into the hallway, her blonde curls bobbing as she turned her head left and right. "We'll just have to find it," she added with a soft chuckle, as she glanced at Monty and made her way down the hall.

OOCFeel free to take us to the fiction section already!