As you dust off the cover of the first poem with green and golden details, you read it aloud to yourself, "Tayakc, Life. The First Brother." You think how strange it is that such short poems would be bound within hard covers, containing nothing more than a single page. The width of the spines of the books on the shelf see them more aptly described as tomes though somehow, the single pages sit snugly between their covers. As pondering this strange circumstance leads to a painful migraine, you are contented to move on without much thought.
You open the book and briefly glimpse a weathered piece of paper before a gust of wind and leaves forces you to shut your eyes. The foliage ceases its bombardment and animal calls begin to echo from within the page.
The Forest thrives beneath its view,
creatures walk with many limbs,
all the size of greater things.
Others like it have fallen prey
to one they call their own
and now it stands, a spectator
to all things beneath its shadow.
Your head begins to throb and an array of whispers surrounds you.
Now a face, covered by bone
stolen off a parent's corpse.
A glowing horn upon its head
the power of life, within its frame.
A power now sought by others.
Some wish to contain it.
Some wish to destroy it.
Some wish to free it.
And some wish to consume it.
The Gods wish to bring it home.
As you read the final line, the throbbing in your head worsens, and your vision focuses on an immense behemoth, an arboraceous colossus. Its face is a skull with a single horn, pulsing with blue energy. Beneath you is a vast and mountainous forest; though immensely colossal, its size is dwarfed by the titan in the distance. Your vision distends and becomes filled with a massive mechanical arch, swarming with people in lab coats. Within the arch lies an opening, a rift, to this fantastical jungle.
You close this "book of life" and return it to its place. Beside lies another, "Ahhachsaba, Fire. The First Sister." Upon opening your selection, the edges of an unburned page within ignite and slowly start to burn. Alarmed, you reach for your phone and take a photo of the page before closing the book and returning it to the shelf. As you read the lines of text, your phone grows hot in your hand…
Fire.
She exists alone.
Forever in darkness,
dancing in her flames
Always hoping for the child of Ways,
The only one to notice her in eons.
Like her kin, she has a power.
A power that is in her flames.
She is the fire.
It wraps her when she dances.
Forever she is there,
Dancing in the darkness.
Your hand is starting to burn.
Her power is sought by others.
Many wish to exploit her.
The Book Burners seek to extinguish her.
Those who want to release her kin wish not to free her.
So she will keep dancing,
As she has done for eons.
Dancing alone,
Forever in darkness.
Dancing.
Darkness.
Fire.
The Gods miss her.
As you read the last line of the poem, the heat of your phone becomes agonizing even through the adrenaline rush and you toss it away from your person. The phone smacks into the ground and explodes. Cursing under your breath, you extinguish the blaze with a cryomantic incantation, and, adrenaline fading, you notice the severity of the burns on your melted hands… and the pain that comes with it. Vainly, you attempt to rummage through the satchel on your hip before shouting in frustration and pain; your eyes scan the room before falling on the decorative pieces of spiked metal jutting from the bookshelf. As you attempt to make an incision along your hands, the skin that once covered them slides off. Grimacing, you successfully create an incision on the exposed muscle of each of your hands before pressing them together and crying an incantation through gritted teeth. Multiple ribbons of green light wrap around your hands and stitch together your mangled fists before disappearing. You pull apart and examine your hands, noticing a new scar on each, running from the tips of your middle fingers to the bases of your palms. You take a deep breath before thanking your patron.
A growing realization compels you to pick up the book of fire. Opening it, you see the corners of an unburned page ignite. It's the same poem but as the fire gets closer to the words, they begin to rearrange. Shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath, you slowly close the book.
The third book looks… Alive. The title of the book is etched into its spine, a column of vertebrae, "Teshnackt, Blood. The First Outsider." Although grotesque, you decide that a fleshy book, no matter how moist, will not get in the way of your discovery; you pull out and don two leather gloves from within your hip-side satchel. You find the tome to be attached to the shelf by parched, vine-like growths… veins, you decide. With one hand bracing the shelf, a hearty pull tears the book from its place, sounding as vines ripped from their anchors. A cloud of red, humid dust expands from the torn veins; you quickly jump back and cover your nose and mouth with your sleeve, fearing a dire possibility.
The father of the hating flesh
Made of blood and sinew.
He influences the world he owns.
The power of the flesh is in his heart.
A heart made of infection and hate.
A bident in his hand, a trident from his head.
The Jailors contain him.
The Book Burners wish to destroy him
The Blood Cults are his servants.
The veins are starting to grow about your leather glove.
Formed on his own, away from the Gods.
Elemortal he was donned, a default by his rank.
The title which was given upon The Day of Blood.
His title, not from the Gods.
But by the flesh which now he is.
Growing, ever twisting.
Pulsing, ever bleeding.
The Gods, ever feeling.
Still covering your nose and mouth, you sprint to return the tome to its rightful place, thudding into the sturdy bookshelf, you release your grip on the book and push yourself back. The veins, having grown around your glove, attach you to the book of blood. Once again back to the bookshelf, you frantically tear in vain at the tight-fitting glove. As you begin to frantically incant, the veins of the book stab into your wrist. Causing more pain than one would think, you scream in agony and tear off the opposite glove with your teeth and bite down hard on the meat of your thumb; you incant once more as blood starts to fill your mouth. Your glove and the book of blood fly off of your hand, the veins attached above your distal forearm tear, and the writhing lengths that remain drain their contents into you before detaching and falling to the floor. Soon, you would be claimed by the Red Death. Although starting to feel the effects of your thaumaturgical exertion, with your index and middle finger, you manage to use your bloodied palm to draw two rings about the circumference of your lower wrist, and on either side of where the veins had attached to you. You incant as you squeeze the band formed around your wrist. As you remove your hand, you see the redness of the infection, contained within the "band" around your wrist which you had drawn of your own blood, the discoloration abruptly stopping at its edges.
Looking up, you see the book of blood has begun to absorb your leather glove into itself and furthermore has begun to reattach itself to the bookshelf. You cough a couple of times and look at your wrist, noticing the color of the band has settled on a rather quaint shade of red.
The fourth book is next. You pick it up and read the title, "Ayakc, Death. The Only Guard". You hesitate about opening the book. You think about how every book has been related in some way to the Elemortal is describes. You decide to curb your curiosity for the moment and you put the book down
You rub your eyes and your hands come away covered in something black. You fall to the ground, retching out a cloud of ash. There is something in your throat. You see a pale, wrinkled hand reaching out of your mouth as you cough up more ash and black liquid. Unable to breathe, you stumble desperately towards the bookshelf and reach for the first book. Opening the book of life, you hold it in front of your face. The pale hand emerging from your throat starts to turn a lighter color and retreats back to whatever hell it came from. The ash which you coughed onto the floor grows flowers and the black liquid turns to water. You close the book and put it back in its place on the shelf. You move to the center of the room where the flowers bloom all around you and the water forms a miniature landscape. You worry that the librarians may have noticed the change to the library, so you return the room to how it was and continue to look through the books.
The fifth book is black. All of it. You can't see the text because that too is black. You hold the book to the oil lamp situated next to the shelf and as you watch the page, the poem slowly appears, the black text fading to a grey color barely light enough to be readable.
Dark, dark, and darker still.
The forest sits, in blackest pitch.
Trees of stone of ancient wood.
Dark on dark, with only red.
The only light is from its hands.
Despite its title, there it stands.
The lamp flickers for a moment and in the darkness, you notice a glowing red cube floating next to you. Just as fast as you see it, the lamplight comes back and it's gone.
It does not fit, but will it stay?
The punishment for its crimes,
the Gods do tell of darker times.
Times of shadow, times of fear.
It did escape the ancient woods
and plunged the world into tears.
But no matter how close you hold it to the lamp, the last sentence still remains black.
The Dark Ages, The Gods Revealed.
You hear a snarl directly to your right and a pale figure jumps from the shadows into the beam of the oil lamp. As soon as the beast crosses the threshold into the lamplight, it halts and starts to shake. You step towards the bookshelf, unsure whether you should use the power of The Elemortals. The monster starts to twitch, its skin bubbling and turning whiter than it already was. The oil lamp grows 'brighter' and starts to vibrate. Thinking quickly, you extend your hand towards the lamp and concentrate. The flame inside the lamp isn't going out. The monster starts to grow. You squeeze your hands together, trying to smother the flame. It's not going out. You scream and slam your palms together, the entire oil lamp shatters and the flame is snuffed out. The white creature howls and melts into a puddle of pale liquid which slowly starts to disappear.
The sixth book looks…Wrong. Like a rectangular prism made of rectangular prisms that is inside of those rectangular prisms… You give up on trying to describe it to yourself and strain to look at the title of the book. No matter how hard you try, it just looks like random characters, "Ftrjrit. ;ohjy/ Yjr Rbrtdjomr/". You open the book.
Yjrot ept;f rcodyd pmr i[ gtp, yjtrr/
Gptrbrt ;ohjy yjru eo;; rc[r;/
Yjrot ;ohjy omgrvyd smf vsidrd yjpihjy/
Pt dp Yjr Kso;ptd yjoml/
Yjr Kso;ptd urd. str ,odomgpt,rf.
yp [tpyrvy yjr ;ohjy gtp, yjrot
rcyptyopm/
Ftrjrit od gpt yjr ept;f.
s hogy yjsyad gtp, yjr Hpfd/
Om yo,rd pg fstl.
yjru eo;; nr yjrtr
yp jp;f upi smf yp vtu/
Yp vstr gpt upi om yo,rd pg mrrf.
Yjru eo;; nr yjrtr yp histf/
Mohjy,strd upi eo;; jsbr mp ,ptr.
Gpt Ftrjrit od yjr hppf.
Ji,smd. Nrsdyd. smf Hpfd s;olr.
Eodj gpt Yjr, yp nr gtrrf/
Gtrrf gtp, yjr Kso;ptd vr;;d
Sd oy esd nrgptr/
Niy yjr Hpfd lmpe yjsy oy ,idy tr,som eoyjom yjr Kso;ptad htsd[/
Gpt og yjru lmre pg oyd ytiyj/
Yjrm ;pbr epi;f mrbrt ;sdy/
Dp oy dysud. smf yjr Hpfd vtu. gpt yjru str mp ;pmhrt vp,gptyrf.
smf yjrot yrstd eo;; go;; yjr dlu.
Nrvsidr Rbrm Hpfd Jsbr Mohjy,strd/
You close the book, put it back, and take a moment to let your headache dissipate
You open the seventh book and your vision goes grey with pain as cuts open on your arms. A small price to pay for this knowledge but a story to tell your husband. He knows what you are doing and is in the library too, searching for something else
Circle of stones,
stained with pain.
The Seared Titan presides over his domain.
Halls of brick, laden with fears,
and their inhabitants weeping tears.
In cells of stone,
The damned preside,
tortured forever with pain in mind.
You feel you have seen the place described in the poem. Once upon a dream, you feel you've seen it.
From a man held forever
in his fear,
of the song which he holds dear.
To thousands of people
and children too
In the circle of stones
The pews are set up
to seat the holy,
to seat the originals.
Because Some Gods Too, Are Criminals.
You close the book and more cuts appear on your arms. You put the book back
The eighth book is next in line, "The Triumvanant" reads its spine. You hold the book in your hand and blood drips from your nose. Your feet feel heavy, and you hear a howl despite being in… well, you don't know where you are exactly, but you know that the only wolves here are the ones who help find books, but those can't howl.
As the red sun rises,
and sets into the east,
his kingdom come,
his will be done
On earth and all shall sing.
Blood, Concrete, and Howling.
The Triumvanant stands in space.
The Red, the Blue, and the Scarlet,
await the human race.
A scarab and a saphire
The Red and Blue with rings.
The Scarlet's one was stolen,
and was hid within a dream.
They gave the Gods their value,
They took her breath away.
They took the soul of Tartarus,
and they watched it fall away.
They were before the Hebrew God,
They came before the tear.
They serveth not to discord,
nor do they follow Xaer.
They laugh in the face of Chaeos.
The first premortal thing.
Even Matkauer knows it not,
this name is long forgot.
this truth is long forgotten,
before the eldritch war.
They heed the greatest power of all
And forever they will serve.
The book flys out of your hand and firmly back into its place on the shelf. Despite being far older than the Triumvanant, Chaeos isn't the first being. You know this now. You know that there is a being older than even Chaeos. Maybe this isn't a being. perhaps this is something different, something that can't be described, maybe not even a thing…
The ninth book. The title reads, "Matkauer, Knowlege. The Knowing Tree". You pick up the book and the whole library shakes and tilts in sync with how you hold it. You open the book and all books in the library fly off their shelves. You whisper a silent apology to all the work it will take to put the books back in their places.
All knowledge and never knowledge,
The Wanderer could read.
but to what sea does this river lead?
Some believe eldritch nightmares weave the spines
Or dreams of Gods may write the lines.
But none of these do tell the truth.
How an Elemortal writes the books.
One hundred times the size of man.
Filing knowledge from the lived lives land.
In its head, It knows all
The Wanderers Library is a piece, but small.
As you have undoubtedly seen
in your hands, you hold the key.
Know Matkauer, The Knowing Tree.
The Vessel and A Scribe to the name buried deep.
Curious, you rip off a small corner of the page. Most other books in the library lose the same corner of their first page and much of the wallpaper in the library flakes off. You know that it's against the rules to damage the library, but honestly, the place needed a new paint job. You put the book back and all other books go back to the shelves, not in their right places. You silently apologize to the librarians and move on to the next book.
