#earthrunes

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The Library is quiet..peaceful and serene

Zara has tea. There are no pooka. She and Bronte both have reading.

Then, there is a shaking. THe tea ripples like Jurrassic park

A troll is approaching. A heavy one

Head-tilt.

It is not Earl. Quatre scurries off to check.

She has visited before, and the spiders have seen her. Dame Gladiola, the Native American Troll who is sworn to Silverwolf, a member of House Daireann

Zara, meanwhile, sets her kettle and makes sure her tea-chest is stocked.

Hospitality matters, especially with the Vengeful.

And with her, a sidhe who appears to be quite geared down

He has a basket over one arm, a satchel on his back, and a bundle carefully nestled into the crook of his other arm, protectively.

There is a smell about him that a certain Wyrm might scent, that of... mm... old paper, and preserved leather? It is a book she has not read! Oh, and a distinct familiar/unfamiliar draconic scent. Is someone intruding on HER Horde?

Bronte sniffs "Not all who wander are lost?"

"Darling?" Zara glances at Bronte.

"Hello, Miss- uff. Excuse me.." He struggles to take off the satchel without putting down the bundle.

"Here, let me help" Gwen does so "Pardon our intrusion, Miss Zara"

"Dame Gladiola, Fledge Arthur." Zara rises from her wingback, setting her book aside.

"What hast brought you to my Library this day?"

Art gratefully lets Gladiola take his bookbag and the basket from Marigold, but keeps a careful hold on the bundle. Reaching in, he turns off the player, and there is a weak squawk! of dismay.

"Is there a place I can set him down? We brought a... well, we think he's a Bookwyrm, or supposed to be."

"Indeed!"

Gladiola offers up a small wooden box "Also, we brought a small gift of tea. For your troubles"

"It's Irish. The baron has it imported for breakfast." Art adds helpfully.

"Ah." She nods, and accepts the box. "My thanks."

"Gladiola prefers coffee. To be honest, I'm not really keen on either, but perhaps my tastes will change or settle once I'm sained." A friendly grin. He focuses on settling the makeshift carry-nest onto a tabletop or wherever Zara might indicate. Another upset peep as he's jostled, "Sorry, little one."

"It sounds very young..." The sluagh crosses over to peer inside.

The wyrm she sees is not only very young, but very small. He would fit easily inside a teacup. Wrinkled greyish-brown skin that looks like cracked leather binding that could use care and preservation, and eyes half-lidded, slightly sunken and filmed over. Where Bronte boasts lovely spreading wings, he has but a stunted nub on one side, and a tattered fragment like crumbling parchment on the other. Underformed claws make it difficult for him to sit up, and though his snout is raised with nostrils flaring, and tongue tasting the air eagerly, he does not focus on the shapes moving above him.

"His name is Fornax. I mean, that is what we have been calling him. You see..." Art takes a few moments to eloquently relate the tale of how they came across an egg buried and bolstered by hidden and forgotten dross, yet stunted by the frigid presence of an autumn person. How the egg was imbued with a touch of glamour and hatched in a kiln, and identified as possibly a bookwyrm by the town Historian.

"He certainly perked up once we brought him some books, but, you see... he can't read them."

"It is miraculous this little one lives at all, albeit malformed..."

"Bronte, darling? Come look."

Zara kenns the tiny chimera, gauging its strength.

It is very weak, a candle flame compared to Bronte's brightly shining lantern. But stubborn, flickering, refusing to go out.

Bronte flutters close, and then upon seeing the poor thing says “I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light.”
― Helen Keller"

His head turns toward Bronte's voice, peeping curiously.

"Oh, I brought this... it's a copy of a history of Carthage." Art digs out the book from the historian and shows it to Bronte.

"I figured this would be something your library wouldn't have.

"The wee one is stubborn. That is a good thing."

Bronte sniffs at the offering, then takes it, carrying it to another shelf like a hawk carrying a vole , then returns promptly back to Fornax rather than reading what is new

"But... delicate. Rearing it will take a great deal of care and effort."

The peeping turns into a creel of complaint as the book is carried away. "Arrrk! Aaaaaaaawk!"

“In a word, literature is my Utopia. Here I am not disfranchised. No barrier of the senses shuts me out from the sweet, gracious discourse of my book-friends. They talk to me without embarrassment or awkwardness"- Helen Keller" She assures it, and her inky black tongue licks the little one's eyes, and some words seem to flow from her scales onto Fornax. Normally her breath heals books. This lick doeos not restore the sight of the little one, but it does seem to pass on some thing of value

Fornax's complaint stops in surprise as he tilts his head, listening and absorbing what Bronte has to give...

"Aye. A reminder that blindness need not be a barrier to literacy..."

Whatever words that were in Bronte seem to have been 'fed' to Fornax, a rare generous offering from one dragon to another

"And, truth, nockers and Dougal are both clever folk who may find accommodations for this pitiful creature."

He stretches out his neck, little wingless nubs giving a flap as he wriggles, like a child trying on a new jacket. He settles back, forked tongue flicking out over his maw, and, "Word." He peeps.

"Incredible" Gwen says as Fornax ..speaks

"Bookwyrms are remarkable creatures."

"He can talk? He can talk!" Art looks amazed. "Wait until Thistle hears this!"

"Thistle... ah, the other fledge? With the..." Faint nose-wrinkle. "Tinkerbells?"

"She's worried about him. She hasn't said, but... well, he's so... different. You know." Art says, carefully stroking the beast's tiny back with a fingertip.

"Oh, yes. All chimerical beasts seem attracted to her. With good reason. She has an incredible energy."