"Your choice of tea is abysmal," Kilbourn said, taking another sip.
"Only the best for an old friend," Garrick explained, leaning back in the other dilapidated armchair he'd been requested to relax in.
The office they all sat in was at the top of a winding spiral staircase. It was a circular chamber dominated by an enormous wooden desk cluttered with various parchments, quills, and strange artifacts whose purposes were known only to the old librarian. Shelves lined the walls, filled to the brim with books and scrolls, many of which seemed perilously close to toppling over at the slightest provocation. Among these, one could find rare volumes on forgotten astara, encyclopedias of mythical creatures, and extensive genealogies of ancient bloodlines.
In the center of the room, suspended from the ceiling by an elaborate network of chains and pulleys, hung a grand chandelier made entirely of what appeared to be pointy obsidian. This centerpiece added an air of dark elegance to the room, its many candle holders casting flickering shadows that danced across the stained glass windows.
A massive, threadbare rug covered the stone floor, its intricate designs now faded and worn by the passage of countless feet over the centuries. An array of peculiar instruments and devices occupied various corners of the room, their uses ranging from 'unknown' to 'unknown but shiny.'
Near one of the stained glass windows stood a large, overstuffed armchair, its upholstery a deep, regal purple, now faded and patched in places. It was Kilbourn's preferred spot for contemplation and the occasional nap—which was where he currently sat. Next to it, a small table held a collection of curious trinkets, including a miniature model of the library itself, meticulously detailed down to the last gargoyle.
Kilbourn seemed perfectly at home in this chaotic sanctuary, his presence as much a part of the room's character as the ancient books and mystical artifacts.
"So, shall we get down to business, Kilbourn?" Garrick wondered. "Or, is it Killy, now?"
He grinned at the librarian.
"Ah, bother! That blasted girl!" Kilbourn exclaimed. "I've told her thousands of times to stop calling me that, but these youngins can't be reasoned with. Not like when I was a boy—back then, we showed respect to our elders."
"Kilbourn, back in your younger days," Garrick began, his grin widening, "there weren't any elders to show respect to—seeing as you were in the founding generation of humans."
Kilbourn's eyes narrowed.
"Watch it, Garrick. I might be old, but I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve."
Garrick chuckled.
"Oh, I don't doubt it. After all, you were there when the tricks were invented. I wouldn't be surprised if the library's first books were written by you."
Kilbourn harrumphed, setting his cup down with a clatter.
"It's a wonder I put up with your cheek, Garrick."
"Because deep down, you know someone's going to have to sweep you into an urn when you finally collapse into dust," Garrick replied with a wink. "And nobody else will do it respectfully. Besides, who else would dare bring you tea not brewed from fossils?"
Dashiell and Surith sat in disbelief from their position next to one another on a loveseat. The banter had been going on for several minutes, an endless stream of barbed comments and surly put-downs that seemed to loop infinitely. Occasionally, Dashiell would lean forward, perhaps hoping to wedge a word in edgewise. Still, the two geezers would promptly switch topics, continuing their verbal sparring with relentless enthusiasm.
Garrick, meanwhile, had fallen into an old habit when it came to Kilbourn: making hyperbolic jabs about the librarian's advanced age. He had done it quite a lot when he was younger, but now that he himself was getting up there in years, he found his gusto had only increased. It wasn't often that the shoe was on the other foot and he got to be the young one in a situation.
I see why people give me grief, he thought to himself. It's a bit therapeutic to remind someone you're more spritely than they are.
Especially considering that Kilbourn, personality-wise, hadn't changed a bit since they'd last seen one another. Sure, he looked older—though it was hard to tell, given how ancient he had already seemed decades ago.
Truthfully, no one, not even Garrick, knew how old Kilbourn actually was. If Garrick had to guess, he'd wager the man's age fell somewhere between a hundred and fifty and a thousand years. It was a wide margin for error, but with Kilbourn, anything seemed possible.
"Perhaps we could—" Dashiell tried, but he was interrupted.
A knock echoed through the chamber, unremarkably mundane, yet it cut through the exchange like a well-aimed dart. Still clasping the teacup, Kilbourn didn't so much as glance towards the door. Instead, he shouted, "Enter!"
The door creaked open, and in floated one of the gargoyles Garrick had observed earlier outside, its tiny wings beating like a caffeinated hummingbird. It carried a steaming bowl of stew. Garrick's eyes followed the creature, noting its every move but showing no sign of surprise.
Surith, on the other hand, let out a hiss of surprise, his body going rigid. Beside him on the loveseat, Dashiell's eyes widened with what could best be described as 'excited fear' as he leaned back to get a better look.
Ember, loyal companion and guardian, growled low in her throat, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of some primal, ancestral memory. Her fur bristled, and her eyes followed the gargoyle's every move as if she could sense the ancient power that animated its stone form.
The gargoyle paid no heed to the mortals and their reactions. It drifted across the room, as silent and inexorable as the passage of time itself, and presented the bowl of stew to Kilbourn.
"Ah! My lunch! Thank you, Vincent!"
The old librarian accepted the food with a nod.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the gargoyle was gone, bowing deeply in the air before retreating back through the doorway, leaving only the faint scent of stone and ozone in its wake.
In the silence that followed, Dashiell spoke, his voice filled with the breathless excitement of a child who has just witnessed a miracle.
"Master Kilbourn," he said, "I had no idea you possessed the power to command gargoyles!"
Kilbourn snorted, a sound that contained lifetimes of derision and amusement.
"My boy," he said, "in what field did you think I got my 'Master' rank in? Library science? Ha!"
"I had assumed that perhaps it was in something less…" Dashiell began, trying to find the right words. "…sinister in origin."
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He waved a hand to quickly clarify.
"Not that I believe your intentions in learning Tether astara is uncouth! Simply that most common thought considers tethering of any variety of sapient monsters akin to Fiend binding, or the like."
Kilbourn scowled, waving Dashiell's comments away and snorting again.
"That's precisely why it's called 'common thought.' It's for the common folk who prefer their thinking simple."
That hardly seems fair… Garrick thought.
Kilbourn had always considered himself a bit of an 'other,' even in a province where humanity was so frequent.
Dashiell started to apologize, but Kilbourn cut him off again.
"Enough of that, boy. You were simply wondering, and I am simply answering. You haven't offended me, so sheathe you honor already, will you? I fear you'll put somebody's eye out with it."
"Yes, sir," Dashiell said.
"Learn from…books?" Surith asked hesitantly.
Kilbourn raised an eyebrow at the shrouded being and then shrugged.
"What, now? Who've we got under there, anyway?"
"Surith," Surith said.
"That's a hobgoblin name," Kilbourn said casually. "And you use a northeastern blinoid diction in your Bastion Common—which leads me to believe that despite the get-up, you're indeed a hobgoblin, eh?"
Surith, who hadn't struck Garrick as particularly bold, reached up and lowered his hood revealing his face. His greenish, burnished-yellow skin shone in the afternoon sun filtering through the stained glass. His eyes, however, were narrow and severe.
"You hate hobgoblin?" Surith asked.
"Did I say I did?" Kilbourn scoffed. "No. No, I didn't, did I? Can't say I particularly care one way or the other what you are, as long as you mind the rules of my beautiful library. As was exploited earlier by Mr. Muscles over here, those who even step so much as a toe out of line…well, I can always tell if you're breaking the rules."
Surith, staring intently at the old man, finally nodded once. He relaxed his posture, not replacing the hood.
"To answer your question, though, Surith," Kilbourn continued. "No, I did not pick up that particular collection of Tethering Chants from a book."
"Then where?" Surith wondered.
Kilbourn let out a long sigh, picking up his spoon to gesture around himself.
"When you have walked the realms as long as I have, you learn that true power—ironically—comes not from the pages of a book, but from the secrets whispered in the shadowed places of the world. Gargoyle tethering is but one of the many mysteries I have unlocked in my time."
Then, as if to emphasize the sheer pedestrian weight of his words, Kilbourn began eating his stew again.
"That's quite the understatement," Garrick muttered.
His mind drifted back to some of the more unorthodox things he'd witnessed Kilbourn do over the years.
There was, of course, the evening when Kilbourn obscured the moon to win a wager. He'd bet a nobleman the night was dark enough to hide a black cat in, and then after the handshakes, hid the moon behind a summoned cloud. He'd won, of course.
Though, we never found the nobleman…
And then there was the dreadful afternoon when Kilbourn summoned everyone who had overdue library books atop a large hill overlooking a swamp for what he dubbed an 'interactive communal experience.' He'd achieved this because of the astaran nature of the tomes in his possession (a process that Garrick found fascinating and confusing) and was a good reminder for people to always check the fine print. Then Kilbourn distributed scrolls filled with phrases such as 'I will be more polite about what I borrow' and 'books are not favors—they desire to be returned.' Then, he compelled everyone present to take turns reading aloud. As each person faltered through a sentence, Kilbourn gleefully called "next!" forcing the next victim to take up where the last had stumbled.
Compulsory popcorn reading—the true hallmark of a deranged mind.
And let's not forget about when he turned that woman inside out for spilling wine on one of his historical maps.
Despite this, Kilbourn was an excellent person to know—though only when you were on his good side. His extreme adherence to what could loosely be considered the "librarian code" was the only thing that eclipsed his desire to assist those who came begging for answers. He was a scholar at heart, and if someone was earnest in their request, he rarely turned them away.
That also meant that Kilbourn often expected his own questions to be answered in return—and the man was relentless in his pursuit of that exclusive branch of knowledge: secrets.
Garrick watched as the ancient librarian dug a spoonful of stew out of the bowl. So far, things had been relatively...usual. Nothing out of the ordinary, so he supposed he'd best get to the point of the visit before Kilbourn ruined everything by doing something like catching up with Garrick.
"Fiend embryos," Garrick said, leveling a gaze on Kilbourn.
The ancient man looked up from his meal.
"Eh?"
Garrick's gaze didn't waver.
"I suppose you'd remember them?"
Kilbourn scowled.
"How spotty do you think my memory is? Of course, I remember Fiend embryos. That wasn't why I was confused, you miserable lout. Why are you bringing them up?"
Rather than say anything further, Garrick simply reached into his satchel and withdrew the squirming larvae-like creature. He held it up for Kilbourn to see, unsure what his reaction would be.
"Oh," Kilbourn said.
Then, likely deliberately, the librarian took another sip from his spoon before placing it back in the bowl and squinting at the monster in Garrick's grasp.
"Where'd you get that?" he asked conversationally.
"Found it in a ruin," Garrick said. "Hobgoblins were using it as fuel to summon a plane devourer."
"Why?" Kilbourn wondered.
Garrick sighed, looking once at Surith before slipping the Fiend embryo back into his satchel and sitting back to recount the the events from the day before.
---
Meanwhile, outside the library, Tad was comfortably ensconced on a rather uncomfortable bench, engrossed in the interface only he could see. He chuckled, thoroughly entertained by the whimsical descriptions of his abilities. He'd received one in particular recently, "Second Chance Heroics" after the battle in the dank and dark old ruin. This ability was described with an amusing and slightly alarming level of snark:
Second Chance Heroics: A rather impressive but frequently underappreciated ability, Second Chance Heroics allows the bearer to experience a brief yet vivid premonition of their untimely demise. Specifically, it provides a glimpse of the event up to three seconds before it happens, which, in the grand scheme of things, is roughly the time it takes to say, "Oh no, not again," calmly and collectedly.
The mechanics are delightfully straightforward: when activated, the ability projects a short, cinematic preview of the imminent danger directly into the mind that is largely indistinguishable from reality. From there, you will witness horrors unknown, as it only activates when one's life is in critical default. What you do with that information afterward is up to you, sweetie.
"Who writes this stuff?" Tad wondered aloud, shaking his head with amusement.
It was then that something peculiar caught his eye. Sitting nonchalantly in the middle of the cobblestoned street, a cat was staring directly at him. It wasn't just any cat, mind you, but a silky-furred tabby—one with an air of mystique, as if it had wandered straight out of a speculative novel of fiction and into his line of sight.
"Ember, you look different," Tad commented absentmindedly, still somewhat absorbed in his interface.
The tabby tilted its head at him, an action that seemed to convey both curiosity and mild disdain.
"Meow," it meowed (though the sound was slightly off.)
Then, as if deciding that Tad was worth the effort, it glanced over its shoulder at him and began to walk away, its tail held high like a furry flag of independence.
Tad blinked, momentarily puzzled.
"Where you goin,' little guy?" he wondered aloud.
The cat paused again and meowed in that strange tone again.
"You sound like you've got a cold," Tad said. "Are you trying to get me to follow you?"
"Meow," the tabby yowled, which sounded to Tad like a confirmation.
"Well, I guess I shouldn't be rude…" Tad muttered.
He stood up, dismissed his menu, and followed the feline, oddly compelled by its beckoning.
The cat led him through a series of winding alleyways and narrow passages, each turn more convoluted than the last. It moved with a purpose, never once looking back to check if Tad was still following. It seemed to know that he would because who wouldn't follow a mysterious cat in a new town when they were supposed to be waiting for their companions? Clearly, nothing could go wrong with this scenario.
As they rounded another corner, Tad found himself in a small, secluded courtyard. The cat hopped onto a low wall and sat down, watching him with unblinking eyes.
"Alright, kitty," Tad said, hands on his hips. "What's the big idea? Leading me on a merry chase through town—what's your game?"
The cat simply stared at him and then, almost imperceptibly, nodded towards a weathered door on the far side of the courtyard. Tad followed its gaze and noticed the door, which he could have sworn wasn't there a moment ago.
Curious, he approached the door and gave the cat one last look.
"You know, I'm aware we just met, but you better be trustworthy, kitty."
The cat blinked slowly.
"Meow," it said.
"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?" he said, thinking that perhaps the cat was attempting to assuage him of any ill-ease.
Tad sighed and reached for the handle, wondering just what sort of adventure—or misadventure—awaited him behind the door.
As he stepped into darkness, he missed the sound of a bird call—which, as he had established previously, might have been a warning sign if he'd been aware of it. Instead, he was left incredibly unawares as several individuals entered the courtyard behind him.