• Closed • [Library] Whispers of Treason (Faith)

Solsarin investigates a rumour.

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The capital city of the of Rynmere, here is seated the only King in Idalos.
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[Library] Whispers of Treason (Faith)

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."
word count: 689
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[Library] Whispers of Treason (Faith)

A serious slave studies studiously
She loved it here. In many ways, the young woman considered as she caressed a hand almost lovingly over one of the books, this was the place where she felt the most at home that she ever felt. Here, more than anywhere, she felt free and able to just be herself. Not that she was any such thing of course and the young slave had her head bent studiously over a book, as was so often the case when she was here. She was researching Rynmere nobility this trial, tracing back the lineage of the King. She did this for reasons which were obvious to her, but perhaps not so to most, for the young woman was most obviously a slave.

Raven black hair was piled on her head in the fashionable 'victory curls' of this season, her burgandy 'Marilyn' skirt was the very height of fashion and she wore it with a tight belt, a cream blouse and a pair of mid-heel shoes. But those good clothes notwithstanding, Faith wore the trappings of what she was. The collar on her neck was obvious both in being decorative and a slave collar, the brand on her shoulder was evident through the pale gossamer fabric of her blouse. From the collar hung a lead, also silver and it attached to a slave bracelet at her wrist. She was completely and utterly entranced by the books that she was reading, making careful notes on the parchment next to her. The lineage of the king was fascinating and Faith was exploring it because she had been intrigued by the idea that he had noble blood from a number of the families, but not Venora. That had been something which had caught her attention when she had heard it and so she had decided to research it.

She was right, slap bang in the middle of said research when she heard a voice and she looked up. The young woman had startling eyes, ice blue and so pale as to be almost silver. Her gaze was, for just a moment, confused and then she focused and listened to him. "Oh, I am sorry. Of course. I am done with these two" she said, moving two of them over towards him. Her meticulous, neat and well organised notes were next to her and she smiled "I am Faith. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am very sorry, Sir, for taking the books. Will these two be acceptable?" she asked. Her voice was well suited to a library, hushed and almost reverent as she watched him with earnest silver eyes.
word count: 442
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