Atharen, A Fantasy Roleplay Forum

Alaric was beginning to wonder if this entire endeavour was just a laugh at his expense. Really now. Visiting Schattige Mulde for some esoteric Artificing book? Schattige Mulde, known among certain circles as "Shivering-My-Ass-Off"? Somewhere back in the Northern Lodge, a Lector was surely cackling at the thought of his misfortune.

Even if it was a legitimate request, it was frankly a misuse of his talents. Alaric Koenigsmann was more than a simple errand boy. He was a mage on the rise, an excavator of secrets, a man whose tongue was turning to silver. Any old peon could pick up a book and carry it; he was far more suited to knowledge that needed a little more to extract.

Alas, it was far too late to grumble about such things. Even as his quiet complaining had kept him company on the dimp ride there, the fact remained that Alaric had accepted the task without a complaint. At the very least, he was going to make sure it wasn't a complete waste of time for him. Books were meant to be read, after all.

The mage also stood out like a sore thumb, but in a different way to Podvrak. While the Rathor differed by being a towering bull-man, Alaric differed simply by the way he dressed. While the people of Schattige Mulde went about their business in well-worn hand-me-downs, the man from Essen went about his in fine furs meant to protect him from the cold.

Cohesion. Even in a quiet, middle-of-nowhere place such as this, it was important to look your best. Whether or not he drew stares as he walked onto the port, he paid no attention; it was of little consequence.

The rest of his journey to Fallen Tree Library was equally of no importance. The door swung open, and Alaric stepped inside, snow settling around him as he closed it.

Now, where was this book? 400, 500… damn it all, how did this ordering system work again?

Any old peon could pick up a book… The echoing thought made Alaric lightly grind his teeth as he peered through the rows of books. He was not going to tell anyone about this. Defeated by the organization system of a library… yes, this one minor humiliation was going to firmly remain a secret. Thank the benevolent and glorious Von Rabe that any cackling at his expense was miles and miles away.

A sudden (and incredibly deep) clearing of the throat behind him paused the mage's book hunt. Turning around to see who was there, Alaric found himself having to shift his gaze, looking up at Podvrak's face rather than staring at his chest. A Rathor, in a place as remote as this? Considering how few of them lived in Lorien as a whole (come to think of it, he didn't think he'd ever seen one in the country before), it came as quite a surprise.

“Oh, that's very kind of you,” Alaric replied, offering his hand and a cordial smile. “Alaric Koenigsmann, the pleasure is all mine.” With a breath, he swallowed his pride, cutting away at any indignity felt towards needing help, until it no longer existed. It was a better course of action than fumbling around like he had been.

Regardless of whether his hand was taken or not, the Rien man would continue: “If you don't mind, then, I'm looking for the Artificing section of this library. I'm looking for a specific book, really: ‘On Runic Script: A Metaphysical Analysis of the Language of Contrivance’.” Perhaps it was a little ambitious of him, wanting to learn from such a text without knowing any of the language itself. And yet, Alaric was here to get the book, regardless of his own understanding. In that case, what harm did a little light reading do?

It had been… the next section over… the entire time. Alaric gave Podvrak a listening nod, even as he internally cursed his own narrow-sighted incompetence. Such a simple task to slip up on, and such a simple way to resolve it.

No matter. It was better to discover one's own shortcomings in a place like this, where they could do no harm. Better still, to learn from the Rathor in order to avoid this ever happening again.

Alaric gave an amused smile as Podvrak spoke of mages and magic. Truth be told, it was a refreshing reprieve from the mistrust the general public held. A plain and simple ignorance.

“It is rather… esoteric, isn't it?” Magic was more than esoteric; it was inherently dangerous to learn. Everything had danger to it, of course — even a farmer could suffer an unfortunate accident — but few things required a brush with death simply to start learning. That trait, and the fact that most people didn't begin to understand the inner workings of magic, left it maligned rather often. In the end, Alaric's first-hand experience was more or less limited to Lorien and the Pact, with the complexities of a religious order slowly peeling away from the main body weaving itself into the mix.

“I come from Essen, though I tend to move around a fair bit. And I suppose it's both, really. While I haven't really dipped my toe into Artificing, that's not to say I'm not interested in the subject.” There was practically nothing on the face of Atharen that Alaric could say he was not interested in. Disdain was a feeling that did nothing but trip you up on your own feet.

“With that said, I'm technically getting this book on behalf of someone else.” There was also no point in lying to Podvrak about his own inexperience with the craft, or his reasons for being here. What good would it do? No need to tangle the web with pointless threads.

“It's interesting, don't you think? The way they keep everything organised, I mean.” If Alaric had his way, he would never suffer through this again.

Certainly, Podvrak was different to the common folk of Lorien. Magic was not well-loved in Alaric's home country; Essen was by and large the one place mages gathered, and even then they were mostly relegated to its nightlife. Only in the Northern Lodge was it truly accepted, owing to its status as a bastion of the Pact.

He was hard to place. He seemed friendly enough, and had been willing to help locate his book, but the looks he gave ran counter to that, with his grimaces and hard amber eyes. Perhaps that was just how his face was, though.

“Well, it'll be rather far from the library… better to be safe than sorry, I'd imagine.” Naturally, he wasn't thinking of footing the bill. Alaric was here on behalf of another; likewise, his wallet was nothing more than a surrogate. Extra fees didn't bother him in the slightest, and why would they? They would pass by him like detritus down a river. Well, that was assuming the old man was willing to loosen his coin purse to pay his dues. If not… Alaric was flexible in matters of payment.

“Perhaps it's a little peculiar, taking a book to a different city… It does seem especially hard to follow up on returns when the books travel all over the country. Nonetheless, I will ensure it is returned in one piece.” Throwing around the Omen's name should sweeten them enough to make any needed exceptions, or that was what Alaric assumed. The weight of names was such a convenient thing when trying to step out of the norm.

There was in fact a pause, a few free seconds left dangling in silence, before Alaric decided that was the end of the conversation. Apparently, Podvrak had become engrossed in his own thoughts or some such; he wouldn't take it too personally. Strange men had their strange quirks and oddities; Von Rabe knew he knew enough people like that.

"Well, thank you for your help, sir," the mage inclined his head, before departing. The rest of his experience in the library was a drone, not particularly worth documenting; a simple matter of going through the formal process of taking out a library book. As expected, the Pact's name smoothed over most of the doubts that had arisen. After giving the name of the man who actually wanted the book (and quietly sidestepping giving out his own) he was finally free to get away from the middle of nowhere that was Shivering-My-Ass-Off, back to the modern comforts of the Northern Lodge.

As for the book itself, it largely yielded theoretical knowledge, rather than practical know-how. If Runic Script was an altogether more mundane language, it would have been similar to studying the grammatical rules before knowing any vocabulary; useful for the future, but not so much in the present. As the title said, it was a metaphysical analysis, focused on why it was the language that made Artificing work, assuming (or perhaps just not caring) whether its reader was fluent or not. Still, even theoretical knowledge was valuable in his eyes. It wasn't as if he had the technical expertise to use it, anyway.