Run By: Dokuganryu (3 xp)

Players: Shadows At Noon, Philokrates, Azami, Guffawing Fool, Hunting Mist

Summary: Within the mysterious Library, led by the music -La Concerta De La Ligier-, the group discovers secret images of the Deathlords becoming as they are.

 

 

 

There are few things in life as beautiful as music. Be they the trumpeting of the, well, trumpet, the fluting of the flute...

 Hm, let's start over.

 There are few things in life as beautiful and swaying as music. Song holds a mysterious sway over humanity, a strong and powerful pulse over the heart itself, and the mysterious music radiating from the old library atop the hill is no different - wafting beautifully over the trees and into the nearby town, the song pulses and thrums with an odd rhythm, an infectious sort of hum through the night. Bum, ba bum, ba-ba-ba ba-bum, bum, ba bum, ba-ba-ba ba-bum, bum, ba bum, ba-ba-ba ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum...

Philokrates is not one who passes through cities, by necessity, but he travels accompanied by another man, who can tell him of this strangeness, and draw him to it - for such mystery is the duty of the Exalted to unravel.

Sensing the oddness of music this late at night, Hunting Mist perks up from his camp activities to listen for a moment. "Sounds like a kind of march tattoo, maybe a drill of some kind.", he mutters to himself, while securing the campsite and setting the fire up. Yoshi is nearby, still, listening himself, and wondering at the meaning of this noise during the hunting hours.

If there ever was a lure more effective and perfect than an old library for the Winter Rose, it would have to be a library with /music/.

 

 Azami looks up at the building in a sort of apprehensive fascination. What is this music? Who is playing it? She pauses before the door, biting thoughtfully at her knuckle, teeth just pressing the skin. Her white hair is in a tousle about her face, straying into her eyes and spilling in chaotic waves down her back. A ruan in its leather case rests there, the strap securely laying across her chest and it is there that her free hand strays.

The enigmatic Guffawing Fool walks alongside Philokrates, unsure of why exactly he chose to accompany him. Perhaps it was the curiousity of the man's intentions or power. Maybe it was the rumors of the man that he heard in Great Forks before... Or maybe it was to learn more of this Lawgiver's abilities to decide if Great Forks was still an option for thievery. As he hears the music, the strange man peeks curiously from under his cloak and obsurd scarves and blinks. "Music... Odd beat. Pleasant, though." He speaks almost to himself, although he looks to Philokrates while he speaks.

 "It has a roof, and it has people, but it is far from the city proper; it is suitable for our purposes. Let us seek shelter there for the night," proposes Philokrates, already gamboling forth upon his strange bounding feet.

Upon the road, a darkness comes. His hat tilted low, the black rider's lion-horse mount clomps at the ground with steel-bound hooves, a glittering irradescent shine in its vermillion eyes. At the music, the mount slows to a stop, and the rider sits there, still as death, for several moments. Finally his hat tilts ever-so-slightly towards the house upon the hill. After a moment's silence, the simhata of charcoal black turns, heading towards the Library instead--heeding the call.

On the doors are an arcane-looking set of knockers, one appearing to be some sort of tentacled beast, the other some sort of inverted bat. From within, though the music is the most overwhelming of the sounds, there are echoes of things unknowable, ineffable, dark and bleak and perhaps things better left untouched, squelching and splucking their way through what sounds as if it were miles of swamp, though the music still trumps it, lending the sounds and odd, 'backup' sort of air, as though they were exotic instruments the sort one might see in Malfeas or Yu-Shan or the Wyld.

Azami looks dubiously at these knockers.

Philokrates approaches the library and discovers that, like, thirty other people are arriving! What the hell!

Philokrates says, "What strange convergence is this?"

"Oh curiosity," Aza murmurs to herself. "You awful thing." Stepping forward, she puts her hand upon the strange bat, shunning the tentacles. As she does she can't help but hear the approach of Philokrates and Fool, black ears slanting back to catch the sound of their voices and feet. "Hello Philokrates," she says, and gently swings the knocker.

As Fool approaches the building with Philokrates, he cocks his head slightly to the right. "What strange carvings for such a thing." He notes the other people approaching as well and looks back at Phil. "You aren't too good at finding... discrete places, are you?" His voice, as always, is without humor and whispers like the wind from the tallest mountains, with breath hot and smelling of sulfur.

Heading into the clearing almost last, Hunting Mist is able to take in the others quickly enough. He recognizes Azami, and Philokrates, but the others are...new. "Phil, 'Zami. We were all in th'same area? Fate's pullin' its strings again, it seems."

Philokrates says, "None of you, I trust, need to be reminded not to lie in my presence?"

In the darkness of the night, the man upon the simhata is little more than a shadow himself. His wide-brimmed hat casts shadows dark enough to leave his face a mere silhouette of a jawline, and the duster he wears seems featureless and without substance--much like the rest of him. He says nothing to the others, looming twelve feet tall on the back of his sullen bearer. Ropes, a shovel, an unlit lantern, and the artifacts needed to properly bury the dead line his saddle. Unlike him, they show texture and substance, and reflect the light of the stars.

Philokrates says, "And the undertaker as well. Did you follow me here from Box Town, to bury my victims?"

The man upon the horse answers quietly, "...Perhaps."

Hunting Mist says, "Phil, last ah heard, you were in Yu-Shan. What th'hell happened up there?"

Philokrates says, "Basir is in tremendously deep shit, and so will I be if I continue to associate with him."

Philokrates says, "Heaven's security forces detained me at length."

SPLORK. SPLORK. SPLORK. The knocker sounds just the same, as though the swamp were sucking in it, and a howl of something not quite a wolf - something garbled, as though tentacles were extruding from its very mouth - pierces the night as the music rises to a crescendo. Within, the sound of something - THUMP, THUMP, THUMP - slowly walking down wooden stairs, perhaps with a cane of some sort, penetrates the spleching and splucking, and the door opens with a loud creak. The music's pulse heightens as the group is exposed to the interior of the library, odd, multicolored lights bursting into being to illuminate dusty bookshelves and an odd blue carpet.

 "Come in, come in," says an old, creaky voice - probably belonging to the old man standing by the stairs, leaning against his cane. His nose is disproportionately huge, as though it were more beak than human appendage, and a monocle sits over his right eye even as a handsome blue outfit rests over his hunched frame. "How odd to have visitors so late."

Guffawing Fool looks at the unknown people with a curious eye before looking at Azami, staring a bit at her. "Hello again." He says quietly as he stares, unblinking at the woman. His hand twitches a little as he pulls a flask of water to his scarf and pours it there. The water seems to pass right through that place and is drank by the man. As the door is answered, the Fool pauses for a moment and looks at Philokrates again. "... Terrible judge of places for rest. Ashamed should you be."

Philokrates says, "The music drew me here, as did your rooftop."

The man upon the smoke-black steed is not immediately affected by the brilliant luminance, or so it seems. For a split-second he remains a mere shadow, merely the outline of a man in black. But the illusion passes too quick for examination as he lifts his head slowly...and brings a tanned face with vermillion-brown eyes to the light. Without a word to the greeting, the traveler dismounts heavily from the horse. Without comment to the alien sounds, he strides forward. He has been called. Now the house will reap the bounty it has wrought.

Azami nudges up her specs, a little taken aback by the man who answers. In fact, she takes a step back, blinking as though something is sensed, smelled perhaps, and glances up at Fool. "Oh-- Hello, mister all-wrapped-up." Turning her gaze once more to the old man, she clears her throat and bows her head politely as one does to an elder. "Excuse me, grandfather, but is this your library? Are you playing that music?"

The old librarian thumps his cane against the carpet. "Ahhh, fellow music lovers. Yes, I am most fond of the great masters of the craft - I often listen to them when I've a chance. Do come in, come in. But I warn you - be careful what you open," he adds, waving his cane at the group and offering them shelter beneath the odd library's roof.

"Indeed it is my library, though I am merely listening to the performance. I am afraid I lack talent in that area, though not perhaps for wanting. Do come in! I shall put on tea for you." He thumps the top of the roof, and something burbles in the air. "Be silent, *unpronounceable proper name*. We have guests."

Azami's green eyes widen.

Azami can't help it. She goes in, curiosity being the primary ingredient in any proper No Moon.

Hunting Mist stays quiet, looking around. He meekly follows the group in, unsure of this place, and the name just said. Nyarlothotep?

Philokrates strides in calmly. Ritualistically, he politely warns the proprietor: "I am Philokrates of Great Forks, and I can both faultlessly detect lies, and am prone to murdering those who lie in my presence. I must beg of you to speak only truth, and keep your private matters unspoken."

The man with no name, his layered and ancient duster seeming to move in the wind when viewed only out of the corner of the eye, stands still, having already entered the dwelling without fear or hesitation. His hat tilted down, his grim expression is all that he leaves visible...except perhaps to the lower-vantaged Azami.

"The truth," the old man considers, "What a troublesome young man you are, to want the truth from a man who collects stories. Very well then - I promise you this, my young visitor. All that I speak within these walls is true, from a certain point of view. Will that do you?"

Philokrates says, "I apologize for the inconvenience. You appear to have become host to a gaggle of mighty heroes."

Philokrates says, "...It will do so long as you do not speak with the intent to deceive."

Fool sighs a little and goes into the house, having now been formally invited in. He looks about curiously, wondering what strange place they have now walked into. He is as calm as he always is, as unemotional on the outside as the mountain. "Interesting." The sole word is spoken by the man as he walks looks about, eyes flashing back at Philokrates as the man speaks openly once again. He snorts at the word 'hero' a little.

"And I have promised you I wouldn't. Problem solved. Come in, come in. I suspect rain will be here soon." The old man waves everyone in - conspicuously not leaving the premises - and the door shuts by itself once everyone has entered.

The bookshelves in the library are filled from top to bottom with rare, exotic, and unusual books - some first editions, some unheard of even to the most scholarly. Many books read to be names - proper names, like 'Silent Night' or 'Midnight Reveler' - as though they were autobiographies of some sort. The old man shuffles his way up the stairs, pushing open a door to a pleasant little room where an unusual contraption sits, playing its odd waltz-like song through the night around several red chairs. In one of the chairs sits an absolute horror - a shapeless, formless creature with tentacles splayed all across the chair, somehow oddly sipping tea. It burbles at the visitors as the old man moves to sit in another chair. "Do sit down, my young visitors."

Philokrates glances around. "What strange dischord is this?" he says.

Azami looks around in utter fascination, waiting for her eyes to adjust. They do, and with startling quickness, for the young northerner is quite accustomed to darker places. Turning slowly around, she surveys the library, eyes eagerly drinking in the sight of the many many books, ears catching that strange, drawing music. "What is this place?" As she turns, her gaze happens up within the hat of the tall stranger.

Fool follows the man carefully, looking at the horror with a curious look upon his face, but a calm one. He takes a seat when asked to sit and blinks a little. "Oddities in this place. What is this creature?" He asks as he looks at the old man a little. He glances back at Philokrates without concern but with a touch of 'couldn't just sleep outside' in his eyes.

"Ah, it's a very rare song - La Concerta De La Ligier. It hasn't been properly played in perhaps five hundred years, the last artist to draw it to its full magnificence a blind seer proclaimed to be the King of Songs. It was composed in the very First Age, in fact - its haunting radiance and magnificence meant to accompany 'The King In Green'. It is, after all, the overture." The old man picks up his own teacup. "Tell me, young ones - what do you know of history?"

The man in the black hat lingers in the hall of books, gazing at them from under the brim of the scorched and well-worn headpiece. Turning, he eventually follows the others, his silence kept save for his one word to Philokrates earlier. His spurs are fixed talons, not the fancy, jingling kind.

"Concert of Ligier?" Azami frowns, pausing behind one of the chairs. Her green eyes narrow and she gently lays her hands upon the back of the chair, fingers lightly tracing the grain of the wood. "Khhh..." She does not sit. Not quite. But she watches the old man and his oddity with cold attentiveness.

Guffawing Fool answers the question from the old man with one word. "Yes."

Hunting Mist settles the chills he had crawling up his backside, and replies quietly, "Ah know a thing or two. De La Ligier...King in Green...ya'll have a preference for them compositions, do ya?". His eyes on the creature in the chair, his jaw tightens somewhat.

"I know enough to know that you're up to mischief, o creatures," says Philokrates tersely. "What are your names?"

"Mischief?" The librarian tilts his head at Philokrates curiously. "What mischief am I up to?"

 The Untranslateable Thing blurbles at Philokrates, waving its hand.

Philokrates nods tersely to the amorphous sticky loaf.

Azami's ears lay back. What a nice little teaparty, she seems to be thinking. With such an honest face, it is easy to tell what she's thinking. Murder creeps into her eyes and sets in the line of her comely lips. Her ink-tipped ears lay back flat. Utterly out of place, the quietest of low, thoughtful growls escapes her.

The rider in black lifts his head, looking off to the side as though listening for something upon the wind. At any moment, it seems as though he could hear the thing he is waiting for. When a bell tolls within the Concerta, the man lowers his head once more, his hat tilted down far enough to shield his eyes and darken his countenance with shadow. His gloved hands hang freely at his sides. Loose. Ready.

Fool looks between Philokrates and the librarian for a moment. "Silly." He reclines in his chair slightly and just closes his eyes like an elder listening to youngsters now. He merely waits for things to unfold as he feels it is not his place to alter the wheel after it has started turning. However, a single finger is placed up at Azami as the woman growls, a subtle signal that no violence or attacks have been made, nor threats uttered. He is very expressionate with the smallest of gestures.

Philokrates sighs, and exhales his tensions. "You know that we are things ideologically opposed to that which the King in Green and the Concerto of Ligier represent and adulate. We are obliged by our loyalties to prevent such things from being performed, that the foes of Creation are not empowered. Why do you then perform them before our eyes? You know that only ruin and misery can occur from such flagrant provocations. Let us set such music aside."

Philokrates is doing his part to keep diplomatic channels open.

Azami raises a brow. She stiffens, and draws herself up to her full, unimpressive hieght as if to say: No threats? No Violence? I'm about MAKE some! but with a frustrated huff she turns round and stalks to a bookshelf, muttering under her breath. In an attempt to calm herself, she looks up at the titles, running her fingers over them gently.

"I do not quite understand how art is opposed to your very being - I no more support their cause than you do, but I appreciate the beauty of a well-composed song and a well-made play." The old man stands and shuffles over, removing the needle from the music machine. "But if you wish, then." He shuffles over to Azami, pointing at a book labeled 'SONS OF THE FALLEN'. "One of my favorite plays, my dear. Perhaps you would enjoy it as much as I have over the years."

The dark rider looks vaguely disappointed under his hat as the music ends. He turns instead to look over the books, scanning their titles, looking for subjects only he knows the significance of. With the tension dispersed, his attention moves elsewhere.

Philokrates looks pleased. He didn't have to break out the plasma weapons!

Philokrates says, "That music device is very interesting. How old is it?"

"Oh, First Age, assuredly. I managed to acquire it some time ago," the Librarian replies, scuffling over to remove -La Concerta- and replace it with a more acceptable song. Loud, trumpeting, glorious music erupts forth, and he twists a dial on the side to lower its volume. "Perhaps Sol's Grand Victory is more to your liking, mmm?"

Philokrates looks mournfully at the device. "If only I had more talent for music, I could transcribe Minus' last works to such media as this..."

Azami exhales quietly, and raises a hand to smooth her tousled bangs back from her face, giving the old librarian a somewhat apologetic look. "...I'm sorry," she says. After all, it is not in her nature to be rude to other scholars. Going up to tiptoe, she reaches for the tome, skirts murmuring about her legs as he steps up onto the bottom rung of a sliding ladder for more hieght.

The horseman strides forward, taking up a book labeled 'Lexicon of the Abyss' in Old Realm hieroglyphics. Without hurry or hesitation, he opens the book to its title, caring not for the power the book might wield.

Moving over to the rows of books, Hunting Mist looks over the titles casually. His mind is racing still from the Concerta, but with the new song his spirits lift, though not exactly knowing why. Interesting. Almost as if the expereince of any particular thing is...amplified, somehow. What kind of library *is* this?

Fool looks to the music player very curiously. It is an odd wonder, no doubt, and one that, in other company, he would cheerfully 'acquire' in a moment. Perhaps he will make a mental note to return after the others have all left and 'borrow' it. He watches the music change and seems to not prefer one over the other. Music is music, in his mind.

And then everything falls away.

 The music is gone, the old man is gone, the Unnameable Thing is gone. The group sits not in a pleasant library, but above a yawning blackness too horrible to describe, above Things more Unnameable and Horrific than the tentacled beast sitting in the library like an old man. They stand above a chasm as thirteen ghosts look down into the shadows of raw Nothing, of Death itself, into the looming, yawning Abyss of uncreation.

Philokrates 's eyebrows suddenly go up as he recalls something, glancing to the satchel he carries a gift from a friend in.

Philokrates instantly conjures his plasma weapon and begins attacking the void.

For the first time, the Rider in Black shows emotion, and it is anger. His fingers clench about the book as it attempts to dissolve away, his force of will exerting itself against the tome. Quietly, uncaring of the Darkness about him, he hisses, "...You /will/ suffer my eyes, cursed words." But then the ghostly smoke finally slips through his gloved fingers, and the Rider is defeated. Left holding nothing, he turns to observe his new surroundings.

Fool's eyes widen as he looks down and decides that this is now a bit too much for him. He disappears while everyone is busy looking at the change of scenery, a shadow in the background of the world that none can see, for who can see the Shadow in the Light?

One of the ghosts looks up, a chasmous, dark, bleak THING wrapped in hellish armor; it holds up its hand dismissively, clutching one of the plasma bolts in its hand. The essence bolt pulses and writhes in its grip, black energy creeping through the Deathlords' grip like spider-web cracks in glass. Once the bolt is nothing but darkness...

 The ghost disappears.

 It reappers, clutching the black and writhing, corrupt and blasphemous bolt of power in its massive hand, First and Forsaken Lion looming over the group larger-than-life and disconcertingly ready to blow them to Oblivion.

 STATE YOUR NAMES, LIVE ONES, the Lion demands, AND PERHAPS IT WILL BE IN THE FORSAKEN LION'S MERCY TO SPARE YOU, THAT YOU MIGHT SPEAK OF ME TO YOUR CHILDREN AND WHISPER OF THE DOOM THAT FOREVER WAITS IN DARKNESS.

The Man in Black spreads his arms outwards, his caste mark shining, runes appearing on his hands. He turns in place, the wards of Creation spreading out around him, replicating, until they form a sphere about his being, reversing the twisted essences of this place into something usable by those of Creation.

"Kaah!" Azami lets out a startled sound as the library and the ladder she stood upon dissapears into a familar sight. "The Void!" She exclaims, slipping without meaning to into Skytongue. In her fright, the bold lines of her tattoos flare to life. But where by all rights they should be silver, black just as invasive as the Void below them traces her white skin where her arms and legs might be seen in the billowing wind.

 

 To the question of the Deathlord, she says nothing at first, mouth working quite without success. Deathlords? All thirteen? Holy shit!

Philokrates leaps back, one long stride carrying him to Hunting Mist's side. "To us!" he cries. "Where Creation abides!"

Shadows at Noon stares down into the Abyss impassively. He turns his eyes upwards towards the Lion, just barely under the brim of his hat. He whispers, "I do not fear death." Instead, he draws the Black Jade Rifle from his back. Holding it down in front of him, he works the bolt-action chamber, lightning crackling briefly within the emptiness.

Hunting Mist says, "Mah name is mine, Lion! I ain't gonna give it to you, just so you can cast it there", pointing to the Void, "where yer masters are bound, an' you lost what you had fer all this!"

Philokrates calls out to Shadows, "Undertaker! Fall back to us! His power is lessened in the living world!"

Azami shudders, then bites her lip and spreads her arms out to either side. Balanced impossibly in the vaccuum. Summoning up her courage, she looks around at the thirteen shapes, not just Lion but all the rest as well. "You must already know them," she says. "Or... or you are not as you seem. Or your masters choose to keep them from you." Her green eyes return to Lion, and there they burn, seeking his within the encompassing visor. "In which case. It is not yours to have."

First And Forsaken Lion crouches, a titan before ants as he holds forth the plasma bolt, rolling it between his fingers as though he were playing a coin game. YOU KNOW MY TITLE, the Deathlord observes.

 "What is this?" Mask of Winters demands, appearing behind the Order-Pattern to loom down above it, blood seeping from his very feet as though his existence were a blasphemy even in this hellish world, as tall as a Tyrant Lizard. "What sorcery is this, Lion? What new piece have you injected into the game?"

 THIS DOING IS NOT MINE, the Deathlord replies, THOUGH I WILL HAPPILY SCORE IT FROM THIS PLACE IF OUR INEFFABLE LORDS WISH.

 "Be silent," Mask of Winters roars at the living beings, "We are TALKING!"

 At the word -talking- everything shakes and shudders, rocking from the unbridled rage of the Deathlord.

 YOU LOSE YOURSELF ALREADY, BROTHER MASK, Lion mocks, AND OVER SOMETHING SO INSIGNIFICANT?

Philokrates glances back to Mask of Winters with uttermost confusion. "We /killed/ you," he gawks.

Mask of Winters crouches, finger reaching out to poke the pattern. "You killed me," he inquires, sounding very entertained, "And yet I am still here, and do not remember you. You must not have done a very good job."

Shadows at Noon slowly turns his eyes back to Philokrates... And then to Azami with her shining steel tattoos of black. After a moment of following the tale of darkness and death woven into her, the undertaker turns and strides towards the group--reluctantly, as though more for their sake than for his. Turning about, he holds his rifle at the ready before him. To Mask of Winters, the Dark Rider Upon the Horizon states callously, "...You talk too much."

Philokrates turns to Mist, "I suspect illusion," he murmurs.

Jaw jutting forward, Hunting Mist declares, "Then this, all this, is fiction, 'cause some things can't be undone. No memory, Mask? Then it ain't happened yet, an' you have yet to march on Thorns.", looking to Phil, "Ah'm thinking somethin' like that. Different, tho."

With that, Mist recalls to himself the contents of the Lexicon of the Abyss, trying to tease out the intent of the author, the thrust of the book, the assumptions made...

OHOH, MASK. IT SEEMS THE LITTLE ONES HAVE SOME WORDS FOR YOU.

 "Lion," Mask's teeth grind, "If you speak again, so help me, I shall rend your very corpus in twain."

 OUR MASTERS FORBID IT, Lion replies coyly, crouching as well to look down at the little ones. YOU KILLED MY BROTHER, DID YOU? AND SUCH BRAVE LITTLE WORDS. The plasma ball dissipates from his hand, black essence bursting in a little mushroom cloud of nonexistance. PERHAPS I SHOULD TAKE PRE-EMPTIVE VENGEANCE IN HIS NAME AND MAKE HIM LOOK LIKE THE FOOL HE IS.

 "-Lion!-" Mask rages, reaching for his daiklaive. "I'll slay them myself if I so choose, and I say nay!"

 OH, BE SILENT, YOU IRRITATING WORM. Lion chuckles darkly. PERHAPS I SHALL LET YOU LIVE EVEN IF YOU WILL NOT TELL ME YOUR NAME - YOU MAKE HIM SO VERY ANGRY.

And then it all disappears, and the old man is looming over them, the Lexicon clutched in his wrinkled hand, pointing at each in turn with his cane. "Did you have a pleasant dream?" He inquires, staring down at him over his hooked nose, "I warned you about the power of my library."

Shadows at Noon immediately points his rifle towards the old man, "The Book. Give it to me." His words are a harsh growl.

Azami finds herself once more standing in the library, clutching at the sliding ladder like a piece of driftwood. Her hair falls down about her face as she pants silently, resting her forehead on the ladder, still holding SONS OF THE FALLEN under her arm.

The old man's mouth widens perhaps a bit further than his skin can actually take. "Now now," he says peacefully, turning to push the book back onto its shelf. "If you want a copy, I'll happily provide. This is a library, after all - but I'm afraid I'll require a contribution from you, as well."

Hunting Mist looks to the librarian, he says, "Interestin' place. What is this a Library of, then? Dreams of what never was? Secrets kept by scholars long past?"

Shadows at Noon brings the rifle to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel. He says nothing, but seems willing to give the creature one chance to avoid having its head taken off.

Philokrates gently rests a hand on Shadows' rifle. "We're all still alive and healthy, undertaker," he says with a murmur. "No need to change that yet."

"This is, like any other library, a library full of stories," the Librarian requires, swinging his cane to point at Shadows at Noon calmly, "If you want to check a story out, you have to give me a story to put in." The cane slides up to point at Shadows' skull. "I suspect you have quite a story to tell, my young friend. Perhaps you'd like to trade it for a copy of my precious book."

Azami steps down. "Mister, do not shoot him." She says, looking up at the man in the strange duster. She raises a hand. The palm of her hand bears a soulsteel swirl, unmistakable even in the dim light of this place. Peacably, she steps in the way of his aim, insinuating herself before the old librarian. "So much is lost by hasty inclination."

Shadows at Noon quietly growls, his voice inflected with the tone of the South, "How about I trade you the story of how a librarian came to the end of his days?" But at Azami's appeal, he glances towards her briefly, and back to the librarian, one of his eyes narrowing a touch. He asks flatly, "...Does the story have to be given freely?"

"Threats don't work on me, young man. I take nothing, and you take nothing - I copy your memories into a book, and I copy the book's memories for you to take. No one loses anything. If you still want to shoot me, then do so, but I suspect you will find that less than wise, and you might want to watch your temper in the future, mmm?"

Philokrates says, "Why do you want the book so badly?"

Shadows at Noon lowers his rifle, glaring at the old man. Turning his eyes sidelong to Philokrates, the rider explains, "The Lexicon is the chronicle of the Neverborn following their defeat. It holds their names and the secrets of life, death, and the beyond. With it a man gains power over death itself." He turns his eyes back towards the bookkeeper, "It should never have left the hands of those trusted to guard it. It was the book that cracked the tombs."

Philokrates glances immediately to Azami, expecting things to break in to an absolute clusterfuck immediately.

"That's quite wrong," the old man chirps happily, "I don't know where you studied your history, but whoever told you that pack of lies should have the flesh scored from his bones. It's nothing but a story - written by a rather excellent author with a propensity for blowing things out of proportion. There's no magic in the book beyond the memories it grants you access to, or perhaps dreams is a better word. It names nothing, holds no secrets, and -certainly- doesn't give you power over death." He shakes his head. "What imagination children have these days."

"It was creatively titled 'The Lexicon of the Abyss' because the one who wrote it had a bloated ego and believed himself brilliant, as though the Neverborn themselves were penning it, but it certainly is nothing mere than very exotic fiction."

Azami frowns thoughtfully "...I think you must be mistaken," she says. "Them That Sleep would never be so foolish as to leave a book with their names written so nicely."

Shadows at Noon asks the pair, his eyes on the librarian, "Are you willing to stake Creation on that gamble, Speaker of Truths?" He says nothing more. Negotiation isn't really in his purview.

Philokrates turns to the librarian. "His memories, then, are the price? Which he retains?" He glances to Shadows at Noon. "It's a fair fee..."

"That is correct," the librarian nods, "I copy his story, and he gets a copy of mine. And if the book really 'was something that could shake Creation'," he chuckles, "Then it would be safer with me, not with you."

Shadows at Noon replies, "One does not ask the Ferryman for his coins back." Referencing the canal ferrymen of Stygia, who also deal in cloven memories.

Philokrates turns to the librarian. "I would offer mine, but there are parts of my tale that I have sworn to never share with the things of Creation," he murmurs.

"You can't pay his price," the old man replies, "Nor can anyone. If he wants the book, he pays. That's the rule."

Azami doesn't offer. Though she steps away again with a glance to Philokrates, going back to the bookshelf.

Shadows at Noon narrows his eyes, shouldering the rifle, "The Book exists in your memory? Then destroying you destroys the memory..."

"The book does not exist in my memory, but I warn you - if you persist in this line of thinking, I will defend myself, and I did not get to be old enough to hunch my back without knowing how to defeat uppity little Exalted. Moreover, I know you simply aren't capable of killing me. If you want the book, pay the price. If not, get out of my library - you are a bothersome and irritating guest scoffing at my hospitality, and there is nothing more irritating to me than a guest who does not understand hospitality."

Philokrates says, "We /did/ barge in to his house..."

For her part, Azami has sunk into a deep armchair, a pile of books in her lap.

Shadows at Noon was about to reply when Philokrates spoke up. His bluff called, the dark rider lowers the rifle and turns about, striding towards the exit of the library. His plan had required at least one of them to be able to destroy the spirit.

Philokrates watches the Undertaker go. "He knew this book was here," he muses, guessing.

Finally speaking again, HUnting Mist responds, "He *believed* the book was here, an' what it meant. Speaks a fair bit about him, don' it?"

Philokrates says, "Yes. But what it says, I do not know."

Philokrates turns back to his host. "How is it that you have kept this strange and wondrous place hidden for so long in this time of tumult?"

Azami doesn't quite open the books in her lap. The top of the small pile holds SONS OF THE FALLEN. She seems to be listening though she doesn't turn her head to look at the others.

"It is my domain," the god replies cheerily, "I can move it as I will. The library is but a building I happen to like."

Philokrates says, "There seems to me that there is much potential for these magic books to be used as a training tool for young Exalted."

"Ah-- I am curious," Azami looks back, smoothing her hand over the book. "If one opens a book, does it draw in everyone around?"

"I refuse," the god says politely, "I remember well many things of the ages, my young visitor. Your kind is welcome as guests - but there is dangerous knowledge between these pages and memories entrusted to me by old friends long since passed, and I cannot have wild and dangerous Solars and Lunars and what have you scurrying through my halls tearing my books apart. I know your kind, Exalt - I know your people, and I know that Sol wishes you to rule all. But I also know that I do not trust you with free reign over my books." The librarian moves over to Azami, tilting his head down at her. "The books you've taken do not suck anyone in. Only certain books are memories - these are merely ripping good yarns."

Azami ohs! and her ears lilt up. "Is it alright if I read these?" She asks eagerly.

"The dangerous books I keep locked upstairs," he replies, sounding amused.

Philokrates looks disappointed. "I suppose I must abide by your decision, then."

"I am sorry, Exalt - but I know well of your propensity to go where you aren't welcome and break rules set for your own protection. I hope that one day that will change, but until it does, I cannot offer you my aid."

The little No Moon smiles, and the rare expression is rather like standing before a window that has been opened suddenly, letting light and warmth flood in. As quickly as it escapes however, she stifles her excitement and turns her attention to the book in her lap, opening it to read with relish.