((Chae only please))

Zephyra had taken to her room this day, despite the fact that it was a perfectly lovely day and she ought to be out riding or picking flowers of whatever young girls of her age normally did. The thing was is that she did not feel like a normal and ordinary girl and truly she was not. She was a Rosenite and she had copied all of why that made her special in her journal that was now very worn on its leather facing. She had written about how she was a combination of plant matter and vampiric blood and how, most importantly, she was created by her mother who so happened to be Mother Earth to many.
 
In her book there were also tales of her adventures. Most recently was her journey to Apoy Island to the grand volcano with her phoenix friend Pyzis to search for a plant that she believed had certain alchemical properties. On these pages she had dried and pressed samples of some of the exotic plant life along with long written descriptions and what conditions they likes and even guesses at what plants they might be. Also there was a phoenix feather stuck in the book and with it a rudimentary sketch of her friend and a description of physical and other characteristics.
 
Back at the beginning of the book was where she did not like to look. On the first page was a fading pink ribbon with really old bloodstains found on it. It was surrounded by drawings of dark trees and one drawing of a particularly hideous ogre. It told the tale of how she and her friend Nyssa had gone out adventuring for her nameday and how they had come across the ogres who had killed her friend. It told of how her mother, sensing her daughter’s despair, came to aid and slaughtered all the ogres. It told of how they buried her and there was a rough drawing of her burial site.
 
She made a few marking on the last page of the leather-bound journal that was worn and worse for the ware before tying its two ribbons together that sealed it shut. It was hard to tell but the front of the book once bore intricate etched designs of roses and magic glyphs but it had not lasted nearly as long as it was supposed to.
 
Zephyra was making the walk from the Wyllmochvar Mage Academy proper towards a place that did not appear in her book on the city. It must be because it had not been there when the book itself was written. She lugged that heavy tome along with her precious journal on top. Rumors had it that this strange creature who upheld knowledge did appreciate a good book with knowledge and stories and hers had both. When she passed the wooden doors, finally, she noticed the velvet carpets and stood in amazement for a moment at the amount of books and tomes lined the shelves.
 
But a pointed archway called her name and even though the stench of foulness and death permeated her nose when she entered, she did not back down. “Goddess,” she called. “I have a personal tome of mine I wish to gift to you. It has seen many adventures and knows knowledge. I would also like to speak with you of things, if you don’t mind.”

“Alas, the language of the private mind,
which crisses, crosses, flows, and intercedes,
through trails of sense and nonsense intertwined,
by pen and paper finds the sense in needs.
And we keep its verse in notes and tomes:
the best ideas lovingly entombed,
experiences trapped in catacombs
of shared intelligence to be consumed.
Is it hubris, then, to write it down,
to put a secret thought onto a page,
to turn a memory into a noun,
to give a dear belief a lettered cage?
Or is it just as well to live and die
but live again in books we leave behind?” 

From A Scribe’s Journey
By Wilhelm Pratt

The throne was empty, as it often was, but the room was not. High in the rafters beneath the vaulted ceiling sat a giant nest, trees and bones and refuse knotted together in a different sort of throne. Atop its high pedestal sat Erathis, the dire owl. Her dark feathers were knotted and disheveled, revealing in places the rotting skin beneath—like her divine mistress, she was risen by fell magic and subject to the ill effects of undeath. Her eyes, on the other hand, glowed with the pale light of intelligence as she peered at the newcomer. The feathered disk of her face turned with a sort of predatory curiosity. Her talons curled on the edge of her nest, breaking off pieces that fell unceremoniously onto the dirty floor beneath, beckoning the girl to look up at her.

Then she spread her wings and, with a great gust of putrid air, leapt down.

“Play nice,” came the voice of the goddess, who herself had since appeared on the steps beneath her throne. Her back was turned to Zephyra, her little arm wagging at the beast as Erathis flapped into balance atop the high back of the chair. The bird cooed inquisitively, but ultimately abstained. Chae turned around to greet her visitor, a smile of anticipation on her withered lips. “You have brought me a gift!” She exclaimed, not acknowledging the words that had preceded her. The rest could wait while she quenched her thirst.

Chae skipped down the stairs and took the book from Zephyra’s hands, feeling every inch and aura and bloodstain with cherished thoroughness. A part of her had known all of the events this journal entailed as soon as the ink had flowed from the confines of its writer’s mind, but another part of her prized the having of it—now that it was hers, it was no one else’s. It was a secret that she shared with this generous guest, and perhaps whichever unknown soul would stumble upon it in the Library of the distant future. It was intimate, and beautiful, and worthy.

After a few minutes with only the noise of turning pages to fill the silence, Chae drew the book to her chest in a cross-armed hug. Her gaze turned upon Zephyra. A cursory examination of her blood orange aura revealed her age and race and well intentions, but the witch would not prolong the arcane intrusion enough to learn what would be revealed in due time. Instead she nodded, her gaunt face seeming somewhat fuller in the wake of new knowledge.

“Thank you,” was all she said. But the expectant look on her face invited the rosenite to speak her piece.