Post by eleisiakhartou on Mar 23, 2006 2:21:04 GMT -5
Evening settled over Karador, a thick misty blanket full of intrigue and starlight. The imposing construct that was the Library of Karador took on a new face in twilight; the gothic arches and stone gargoyles casting eerie shadows in the meagre lamplight. Torches would only cast so much illumination, their flames not licking out much beyond the edges of their bowls.
The building itself had once served the people of Karador as a kirk. As is the way of the public under any formal government, peacetime brought with it agnosticism and a studied disregard of all things spiritual. Attendance fell, but a few industrious, curious individuals remained, keeping the illuminated codices and vellum parchments in good repair. Over time, the volume of documents increased, until bound volumes had taken over not only the transepts and all of the rectory, but had even crept into the nave, filling the walls of the soaring archways with the silence of dust motes and shuffling feet.
Librarians from time immemorial had maintained some sort of sleeping arrangement within the building, one even using the convential building as an official residence. The current reigning head librarian found having her own home a welcome respite, though she could not seem to hold the books back from encroaching on her territory. Still, there were times when her animals could care for themselves, and no matter how much she missed Khazimir and Khazandra, she simply could not leave her work. In the wake of the curfew placed on the town, it simply wasn't prudent to go traipsing through town at all hours of the night. Times had changed.
The old kirk had been surrounded by a low stone wall, which had been dismantled six or seven centuries before by an ambitious librarian with a penchant for exterior design and landscaping. The wall had formed part of the exterior wall of the old city, but as the population of Karador had increased, so had the area of its protectorate. Still, one corner of the kirkyard did border the edge of the 'safe zone,' and the few random animals who passed through the kirkyard often had random bones in their teeth and odd smelling bloodsmears in their fur.
When eleisia khartou had first arrived in Karador, she had spent every available moment she could find poring over the history of Karador, the variegation of species in spell-bound earth, the legends of lycans and the ancient experiments of doctors who were really only glorified butchers with more curiosity than the rest. She began babysitting small children and walking them about the kirkyard; the soaring grey stone behind the children seemed less frightful when she was busy telling stories of the absentminded geniuses who had named the flora and fauna of this land. Eventually, she asked permission to restore the musty convential building, and her hard work evenings and weekends had created a welcoming children's library and play room separated from the main building by twenty yards of free space within the kirkyard.
Morning found eleisia hard at work, directing the movement of an entire collection of ancient manuscripts to a preservation room. The first transept required restoration, and would have to be emptied to allow workmen to erect a scaffold. The tremendous quantity of priceless ecumenical and botanical treasures alone would require careful movement to a small anteroom within the nave.
A toppling urn of indeterminate age (sixteen centuries at least, though two millenia would not be an overestimation) caught eleisia's attention, and her outstretched arms caught its belly moments before the marble floor claimed it. No matter how much she might have liked to continue, her assistants were exhausted.
She dismissed them gently, and they departed, some with sighs of relief, others clinging to their burdens and offering another eight hours of loyalty. She turned them all away, sending them off for food and family; she could continue on her own just fine until the next day's shift came on duty.
eleisia stepped outside the peaked arch doors, squinting against the bright morning sunlight. From the main entrance of the library, she could see the town square, and, standing at the top of the steps, she allowed her eyes to rove the streets, anticipating whomever might seek sanctuary in books this day.
The building itself had once served the people of Karador as a kirk. As is the way of the public under any formal government, peacetime brought with it agnosticism and a studied disregard of all things spiritual. Attendance fell, but a few industrious, curious individuals remained, keeping the illuminated codices and vellum parchments in good repair. Over time, the volume of documents increased, until bound volumes had taken over not only the transepts and all of the rectory, but had even crept into the nave, filling the walls of the soaring archways with the silence of dust motes and shuffling feet.
Librarians from time immemorial had maintained some sort of sleeping arrangement within the building, one even using the convential building as an official residence. The current reigning head librarian found having her own home a welcome respite, though she could not seem to hold the books back from encroaching on her territory. Still, there were times when her animals could care for themselves, and no matter how much she missed Khazimir and Khazandra, she simply could not leave her work. In the wake of the curfew placed on the town, it simply wasn't prudent to go traipsing through town at all hours of the night. Times had changed.
The old kirk had been surrounded by a low stone wall, which had been dismantled six or seven centuries before by an ambitious librarian with a penchant for exterior design and landscaping. The wall had formed part of the exterior wall of the old city, but as the population of Karador had increased, so had the area of its protectorate. Still, one corner of the kirkyard did border the edge of the 'safe zone,' and the few random animals who passed through the kirkyard often had random bones in their teeth and odd smelling bloodsmears in their fur.
When eleisia khartou had first arrived in Karador, she had spent every available moment she could find poring over the history of Karador, the variegation of species in spell-bound earth, the legends of lycans and the ancient experiments of doctors who were really only glorified butchers with more curiosity than the rest. She began babysitting small children and walking them about the kirkyard; the soaring grey stone behind the children seemed less frightful when she was busy telling stories of the absentminded geniuses who had named the flora and fauna of this land. Eventually, she asked permission to restore the musty convential building, and her hard work evenings and weekends had created a welcoming children's library and play room separated from the main building by twenty yards of free space within the kirkyard.
Morning found eleisia hard at work, directing the movement of an entire collection of ancient manuscripts to a preservation room. The first transept required restoration, and would have to be emptied to allow workmen to erect a scaffold. The tremendous quantity of priceless ecumenical and botanical treasures alone would require careful movement to a small anteroom within the nave.
A toppling urn of indeterminate age (sixteen centuries at least, though two millenia would not be an overestimation) caught eleisia's attention, and her outstretched arms caught its belly moments before the marble floor claimed it. No matter how much she might have liked to continue, her assistants were exhausted.
She dismissed them gently, and they departed, some with sighs of relief, others clinging to their burdens and offering another eight hours of loyalty. She turned them all away, sending them off for food and family; she could continue on her own just fine until the next day's shift came on duty.
eleisia stepped outside the peaked arch doors, squinting against the bright morning sunlight. From the main entrance of the library, she could see the town square, and, standing at the top of the steps, she allowed her eyes to rove the streets, anticipating whomever might seek sanctuary in books this day.