73 Vhalar, 716
Solsarin rubbed his eyes. A candle burned beside his desk, its wax piled next to a second sconce that held the remains of another flame. An eerie sort of quiet pervaded the library that evening, with the moon long since risen most of the staff and casual visitors departed for the night, but of course he remained. The usual stack of magical and theory texts sat about the lone wooden table in the corner, their interests replaced by a singular tome that sat propped open before a mess of parchment and ink vials. Sol stuck his nose deep into the text, the hood of his cloak lowered to reveal unkempt, short hair and an ill trimmed beard; sunken cheeks and narrow, silver eyes intensely set on deciphering the mysteries of the aptly named "Rynmerian Nobility, Modern Heritages."
Useless, the lot of it. Sol leaned back with a soft wooden creak. He sighed and placed his reservoir pen on the table, ignoring the ink the spilled out onto his notes. No clues, not even so much as a mention to a second child. Of course any sort of filicide would be removed from casual mention - the consequences were far too dire - yet he looked not for casual remarks in the disappearance of a child, but more-so an inexplicable arrival of one. Too many witnesses in a birthing room for right out murder, but removal? Maybe a bastard appeared in some other noble household, perhaps the arrival of an unknown fifth cousin?
Sol glanced down at his notes. A tangled web of lines and names arrayed most of the parchment; brothers, sisters, long lines of nobility with enough crosses and singular breeding to make man's head ache. And his did. This tome, he paused to deign the author once more, held little more worth than the ink used to pen it. Another sigh. How dramatic. With a flurry, Sol closed the cover to the heritages and picked himself up, his books scuffling up the hard-stone flooring as he crossed to the section on nobility.
The shelves, it seemed, stretched for miles on end. Well sanded wood held an unthinkable degree of knowledge, all covered with a cascade of dust and alive with a sort-of musky scent, one specific to the slow, eternal rot of pages. Solsarin inhaled. His eyes light up and he smiled. A quick turn took him to his desired portion. The Librarians made life easy with their sub-categories and he poised himself before the plaque that read "Rynmere Nobility." How convenient. A quick perusal brought an arched brow and a frown. Several holes dotted the shelf-scape. Most of the remaining tomes were works of fancy, ill research drivel or contained such authors are Harret Haramanth - a man Sol spent hours learning to hate in his initial curiosity. Where in all the hells did the books go? The man contorted his lips the side and took a step back, leaning over and observing the rest of the inhabitants.
An odd, ghoulish fellow sat at the front desk. Some young prat brayed in the corner with another woman of a similar persuasion, but the one that caught his attention remained sequestered away in an opposing corner, surrounded by tomes as thick to his own liking. A pale, well dressed woman, raven hair with a leveled, intense stare. Interesting. Sol's shadow pulsed and he made his way from the shelf, crossed the floor once again, and paused before the woman and her collection. A single glance at one of the closed books satisfied his haunch. Wendell's Patronage, a List and Explanation of Rynmerian Heraldry. What luck. Or, perhaps, this would be yet another plight for the insatiable mage.
"Excuse me." Sol did his best to be polite, but his quiet, raspy baritone and otherwise lack of gestures did little to please. "You've taken some of the more, ah. Choosier bits. On Nobility. Would you mind so terrible if I, perhaps, liberated a tome or three? I've my own research to attend and my current source has exhausted itself."