All That Does Not Glitter
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Chronicle of Ulak the Drifter

Lir, Ninth Rotation, 5027


I have long struggled, like countless Wanderers before me, to understand the nature of the Wanderers' Library as the nexus and repository of all knowledge from every realm throughout the Multiverse, as well as the questions that this inevitably brings to the table. One enigma that has especially vexed me during my stays at the Library is why the individuals known as the Magpies steal books from the Stacks and even from the Archives. Though this group (if they can be called that at all, given that they lack any structure or leadership) is considered a nuisance and not a true threat to the Library by most staff and patrons, my research has led me to believe that there is more to them than meets the eye – especially when it comes to the reasons behind their ceaseless efforts to loot and plunder.

Of course, before delving into the nature of the Magpies and their relationship with the Library, one must first acknowledge what stealing from this place truly entails. While it is tempting to define this act as taking that which does not belong to you – in other words, removing an item that belongs to the Library itself and not returning it – this is an overly simplistic approach that does not account for the fact that this is no vulgar thievery. Stealing from the Wanderers' Library is a crime far more complex than merely taking a book and failing to give it back.1

Indeed, very few people are willing to commit this transgression against the Library not only because of the severity of punishment – painful transfiguration of body and mind, bondage and servitude to the Library for years untold – but also because of how difficult it is to successfully perpetrate the theft itself. All books, scrolls and artifacts found in the Stacks and Archives are intrinsically bound to the Library, linked to it by invisible and unbreakable thread, for every and all forms of knowledge belong in these hallowed halls. This means that, even if one manages to evade the Library's guardians and escape this place with a trove of stolen books, an enforcer will undoubtedly follow the thread to one's doorstep, ready to collect what was stolen and deliver swift punishment. Unless one is possessed of great magical prowess that can somehow hide them from the Library's all-seeing eye, it is unlikely they will keep their ill-begotten loot for long.

Defining theft in the context of the Wanderers' Library is further complicated when considering that – at least here – stealing a book is not the same as stealing the knowledge it holds. Ink and paper are mere vessels for knowledge, a means of preserving and accessing meaning. A book must be understood as an object just as much as it is understood as the summation of symbols representing words within said object; whoever steals or even destroys a Library book is at most depriving readers from being able to perceive words, not annihilating the words themselves.

It should also be remembered that, since the Library contains every medium of knowledge that exists, has existed or will exist throughout the Multiverse, it also possesses infinite copies of every edition of every book ever written or published – and even those that were never written or published to begin with.2 Any harm caused to the Library or its patrons by the theft of texts is thus negligible, for making a text truly inaccessible requires a power far beyond that of the common thief.3

With no benefit to be found in book thievery, one is pressed for an explanation as to why the Magpies – who have pestered the Library since at least the time of the Fifth Archivist – risk life and limb to sequester tomes. My research into the history of those who align with this way of life, those who identify themselves as "Magpies", has presented me with different theories to answer this quandary. The most popular one posits that the Magpies once idolized the legendary Magpie who followed the Fourth Archivist4 during the Sacking of the Archives.5 According to the chief proponent of this theory, Kiphian Nii, these followers of the Feathered Exile held the Serpent to be profoundly selfish in its hoarding of books, and sought to reform the Wanderers' Library and democratize (in their own view) access to texts and knowledge. For this reason, they decided to take books from the Library and distribute them amongst the poor, the downtrodden and the underprivileged – people who knew nothing of the Library and could thus never enter its halls and learn how to uplift themselves.

However noble this goal may have been, Kiphian Nii explains that these proto-Magpies eventually succumbed to the sin of greed, giving in to the same desire to own and possess that they once held against the Serpent. They abandoned their mission to educate and emancipate the peoples of the Multiverse, focusing instead in accumulating knowledge for themselves and attempting to deprive others of it. Through the ages, this greed gave way to an irrational want for books that obeys not to the value of their content, but to superficial aspects such as the beauty of their cover or the renown of their authors. Thus, the current Magpies are nothing but a twisted version of their predecessors, their goals and intentions long reduced to an instinctual impulse to collect "shiny" things.

While Nii's theory is not exempt of skeptics and detractors, it has grown to be widely accepted by the current Library administration. It is the opinion of Chief Archivist Jericho Benalsh that, even if the original Magpie had no intention of inspiring others to follow her example, the formation of an organization devoted to her ideals was inevitable given the circumstances of her exile – as was the corruption of these misguided followers into forsaking their original purpose. Thus, the Seventh Archivist agrees that the origin of these pestering thieves can reasonably be tracked to the Sacking of the Archives, even if details have been subjected to some embellishment.

However, there is another theory that has circulated mouth to mouth through the Library in recent times, though it has yet to be more deeply researched. This theory finds its origin in an ancient story still told to this day by the Fair Folk – specifically Elven-kind – about a magpie who wished to be a dragon. I have transcribed it here as was told to me by Vethel Red River, elder Elf and Guardian of Lore. As an additional note, I must warn that no dragon should ever be asked about this story, for they regard it as "calumnious nonsense spread by Ghijron,6 nothing but irksome maledictions," and they will not hold back from burning or eating whomever dares to mention it in their presence.

Once upon a time there was a magpie who wanted to be a dragon. Every time she flew, she daydreamed of being one of those immense winged reptiles that roamed the skies in times of yore and whose shadow could eclipse the stars like a storm cloud. She imagined herself as a scale-covered giant, a colossus with membranous wings and fiery breath capable of melting any metal. This was the deepest desire of her heart, the most precious longing her soul held.

But nature is severe and inflexible, and by her design the magpie had been born as a tiny being with black and white feathers instead of as a great dragon. Her body was weak and frail, incapable of ravaging cities or abducting maidens; she could barely lift a few medium-sized stones. Her beak was not sharp and had no teeth; she could not pierce armor or devour knights with it. Her wings did not stir up whirlwinds nor made a great noise when she flapped them; her flight was barely a whisper lost amidst the howling of the wind. In short, the magpie could never be part of the species she admired so much, and that would probably have caused her deep sadness had it not been for the fact that she was a very stubborn bird.

Every day, the magpie was determined to find a way to become a dragon. She would perch in the lowest branches of the trees to listen to the wise Elves who knew ancient magic, trying to discover some secret incantation or miraculous potion that would cover her body with scales. She would spy on the will-o'-the-wisp as they danced in the moonlight, wanting to imitate them and learn to spit torrents of scorching flames. She would infiltrate the great subterranean cities of the Dwarves, searching their libraries for a map showing where the dragons, who had long since left the world, had gone. Maybe, the magpie thought, only a true dragon can tell me how to become one of them.

But she never found what she had so longed for: the magic formula that would allow her to become a true dragon. The magpie felt great despair, for the life of her species is short – only a fraction of the life of man – and she knew that her time would run out in her futile quest.

One day, pitying the magpie, a Dwarf with a long gray beard – a veteran witness of the world – approached her and said: "Little bird, if you really want to become a dragon, speak with the many-colored fish that live at the foot of the great waterfall, out where the sun rises. They know how even the most insignificant of animals can become a being of fire and air."

The magpie thanked the Dwarf and flew eastward, where the wise fish who knew the coveted secret of transformation lived. After many days of travel, she finally reached the place where the water fell majestically from a great gray stone cliff as old as the world itself. At the foot of the promontory was a shallow lake, where large fish of intense colors – white, red, gold, blue, black or silver – swam placidly. The magpie perched on a rock in the middle of the lake, bowed politely and, trying to make herself heard above the roar of the waterfall, said:

"Honored carps, I seek the secret to becoming a dragon. I beg you to teach me, for this is the greatest desire of my soul."

A fiery red fish surfaced.

"You have come in vain, wandering magpie," he said. "All of us journeyed here from distant lands, wishing the same as you, but found only disappointment. Many hundreds of years ago, any fish or bird that managed to cross the mighty waterfall through their own power would be turned into a dragon, but now the magic has vanished, and all we can do is pray for some sign of its return. So we remain in perpetual vigil, awaiting the day when we can once again celebrate the sacred ritual of metamorphosis."

The magpie bowed gratefully and spent a few moments in deep contemplation. She was a very stubborn bird and would not give up easily. If she had flown so far – farther than any of her kind had ever flown – it had been to find the magic that would allow her to fulfill her dream, and she would not leave without one last attempt. If there has been powerful magic here, perhaps there remains some of it hidden behind the waterfall, she thought.

The magpie flew to the waterfall and, holding her breath, threw herself against the thundering curtain of water. An excruciating cold flooded her, suffocating her plumage and almost dragging her to a liquid death. She managed to flap her sodden wings a couple of times and landed awkwardly on icy, hard ground, where she gasped for several minutes as her lungs burned. When she recovered, she shook the water from her feathers and looked around.

She was in a cavern of monstrous proportions, a deep gash in the face of the mountain. The little light that entered through the waterfall allowed her to see countless sharp protrusions growing from the ceiling and floor as if they were the teeth of a great sleeping beast. In that stony abyss, nothing could be heard but the roar of the water. There were no other sounds, no other animals… no magic. There was only water and darkness.

Disappointed, the magpie prepared to make the sad flight home. But before she could flap her wings, a great clap of thunder – more powerful than the roar of the waterfall – echoed through the cavern. Startled, the magpie turned her head and looked into the blackness, towards the place where the fearful sound had come from. She could make out nothing but stone, but her curiosity was greater than her fear, so she flapped her wings and flew into that black maw with sharp fangs.

She did not have to fly for long. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out a colossal serpentine form, coiled on itself, rumbling with the same sound that had alerted her. Gradually she made out claws, scales, spikes and a pair of gigantic membranous wings. Finally, she landed on a stalagmite and gazed in fascination at a head as large and long as a carriage with horses and all, crowned by a majestic crest. It was a dragon.

The magpie wanted to say something, to utter some polite words of admiration. But when she opened her beak, she stifled a screech. The dragon's eyes, as wide as a man's torso, were now open and gazed at her with curiosity.

"What are you doing here, little bird?" The dragon's voice was like the crumbling of a mountain, like the clash of frigid steel. "Why do you dare interrupt my thousand-year slumber?"

The magpie struggled against her surprise, against her disbelief. Here, in front of her, was a flesh and blood dragon, one of the lords of the sky who had long since retired to sleep beneath the earth, awaiting the day when they could once again soar across the firmament. With great effort, without looking away, the magpie bowed to the dragon and said:

"Great dragon of ancient times, I have flown far and wide in search of my greatest desire: to be like you and your divine kind. I have searched in a thousand and one ancient tomes, in the darkest caverns and the remotest plains. Today I stand before you and implore you to answer me: How can I become a dragon?"

The dragon looked at her in astonishment. Never before had anyone asked him such a question. He did not know whether to be flattered by the bird's intentions, take offense at her audacity, or burst out laughing at her ridiculous request. He mused for what to a magpie is an eternity, but to a dragon is but a blink of an eye, and replied:

"What you seek has not touched this world for countless generations. Once, this waterfall might have granted you your wish, but the magic that flowed from it vanished long ago. Few are left who know the ritual and its consequences, for my brothers and sisters all sleep beneath the imperishable stone. There is no power that can grant to you the form you long for, but I offer you this knowledge, if you still desire it."

A light flared from between the dragon's maw – deep blue at first, but quickly turning blazing orange, an incandescent inferno that illuminated the entire interior of the cavern. The magpie then saw that the dragon's colossal body rested on a golden bed that glittered on a par with his emerald scales – loot plundered from countless kingdoms, treasure accumulated over hundreds and hundreds of years. There were jewels as big as a human heart, priceless artifacts of silver and ivory, great idols adorned as if they were emperors or gods, and gold beyond the dreams of the greediest man. And all of it glittered before the magpie's fascinated eyes, cleared at last from the haze of her dream.

"This, magpie, is what makes a dragon. This is the essence of our being. And if your soul truly craves to be one of us, so must your beak seek all that is precious and coveted – all that glitters."

And the magpie knew she had found the answer to her longing, the secret to becoming a dragon.

This story posits that the Magpies were inspired by an actual bird, a creature who – in its longing to become a dragon – began collecting precious things: everything that glitters. Of course, since this story's magpie would have no understanding of monetary value or basic economics, her pursuit of wealth would not have been motivated by greed, unlike a dragon. Instead, she would have simply sought out whatever she considered "pretty," much in line with the instinctual habits once attributed to mundane members of her species.

Whether one chooses to believe this story or not, the theory remains that the Magpies were very much inspired by it. Their seemingly random acts of theft could thus be explained as them deeming a certain book to be pleasant to the eyes, and nothing else.

Certainly, this merits further debate, but for now I am content to present these theories about the origins and behavior of a group that – thanks to a stricter enforcement of the rules under the current administration – is now endangered in the Wanderers' Library.

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