Round 3: Paragon Vs Inkfinger

[Silence Sei]

You have 2 weeks to complete this battle. May the best man win!

[Inkfinger]

Twice before, Cael Strandssen had entered the monks’ mad arenas. Twice before he had been found lacking, twice before he had been named the vanquished. Now, thanks to Îd’s incessant meddling, he could include “Returning to the Tournament After Losing” to the list of things he’d done twice.

Some friend. Do I just keep coming back until someone murders me gorily enough to satisfy Areesha?

He wasn’t sure why the slaver was here, why his sponsor-boss-friend Îdhdaer was working with her, or why she insisted he take part in the fights. He just knew that she was big, she was terrifying, and apparently she wanted to see him die horribly, no matter how temporary. The last two arenas had almost granted the foul-tempered woman’s wish…

But the moment Cael stepped into the arena and let the oaken door fall shut behind him, naginata strapped to his back, he knew this time would be different. And maybe, for once, it will be a good difference. Maybe, for once, his optimism wouldn't be for naught.

The sound of the heavy door slamming home echoed dully in the room, muted by the sheer size of the space beyond the curved sandstone steps arcing under his feet. He was standing on the stairs of what could only be the library of Istien University. The vaulted ceiling spread above his head like a slightly-lower sky, the cherry wood polished to a silky sheen. Its supports were carved intricately, leaves and vines and all manner of animals, as if wood itself had been brought to life.

Stained glass windows lined the room, towering from floor to nearly ceiling, telling tales of many lands in their frames: the founding of the world, as told by the Priestesses of Jya; the War of the Eternal Tap, with an army being led by the familiar figure of St. Denebriel, figures of Thayne and Elven deities he would need a priest to even begin to help identity, all sprawled across the glass. The warm light streaming through them dyed swatches of color on the well-worn carpet: vibrant, bloody crimson; rich topaz gold; lush greens and ocean-deep blues, each shade shifting in brilliance with the movement of the unseen clouds outside the library.

And the books!

Cael made his breathless way down the stairs, boot steps muffled in the heavy hush; almost overwhelmed. There were so many books that he could smell them, the mingled scents of leather and onion paper, parchment and dust, cold iron and binding glue and ink. They lined the walls, filled the spaces between the storied windows, crammed the shelves that toward over his head: thick tomes bound in emerald hide, thin pamphlets on silken sheets sealed tight in crystal vials, tablets chipped from stone and etched in gold. Many of the shelves were piled so high that ladders adorned the sides of the shelves, set on rails for easy relocation.

You could read for ten years and never make a dent in this place.

His awed steps faltered to a stop at the massive desk. It was as deserted as the rest of the library, but clearly meant for the head librarian. It was flanked by a globe of carved ivory, and the single narrow wooden box of the card catalog. It, like the desk itself, was a continuation of the ceiling’s art - all leaves and foxes and fleet-legged stags, with a single golden dial set on the face of its single drawer. A label above the dial read, simply, A.

…that’s far too narrow. Cael mused, curiously reaching out to pull the drawer open and glance at the first neat card. Aaarios, Kysten. Apologetics on the nature of dealing with dragons in the raerian pantheon: a treatise regarding... The title went on for three more lines. Cael set the card down before the scholastic jargon gave him a headache, and frowned down at the catalog instead.

….right. If this is the sole catalog, it should be wider. Longer. There’s not a chance in the world that they’ve fit the listings for all these books in here… He slid the drawer closed. It shut with a whisper of well-oiled wheels. He touched the burnished dial carefully. It moved, slightly, and with the movement he felt the sudden itch of stored magic against his varicolored fingertips.

The A blurred before his eyes. When he could focus his gaze on the letter again, it had changed. B. He yanked the drawer open again. The listing on the first card was different now: B’a’ii, Isakoss. My studies… He dimly remembered the name Isakoss B'a'ii as some sort of hedge necromancer who had plagued the nebulous borders between Salvar and Berevar, making himself out to be a morally strict follower of Xem'xund. Apparently, at some point in his life, he'd repented of that little heresy.

Maybe they have something by Hieronymus Yu? Yu, the illusive author of the only two books Cael had ever been able to find on Ink Magic, infuriatingly close-mouthed even within those pages. He didn’t even know what race or nationality the Mage had been. Or something about him?

The thoughts that he was in this illusionary place to fight - that he was supposed to be looking for his opponent, that the other combatant was likely not going to stop and wait for him to be finished looking up books - completely escaped as he shut the drawer, spun the dial until the letter read Y.

And the drawer didn’t open.

“…alright, seriously?” Cael breathed aloud as he pulled hard on the narrow handle. The catalog didn’t even budge, no matter how hard he tugged. It remained resolutely closed, as if some invisible page had locked it beneath the mage’s nose. “Alright,” he murmured, “so, the answer to that is: if they do have the books, they’re not for you…fine. I get it.”

He spun the dial again, on a hunch, and had to jerk his hand away – fingers smarting - as it suddenly spun so rapidly that the grooves on its sides blurred. The letter stopped on S. The dial refused to go past that, or before it, so Cael gingerly pulled the drawer open, taking out the first card and reading it carefully.

“Sesthal, Dorian. Untitled.” He scowled down at the little card between his fingers in a mingled malaise of confusion, annoyance and a tiny inkling of returning worry. “What in all nine hells is that supposed to mean?”

[Paragon]

All bunnying approved

The card fluttered in Cael's hand, giving him the force of a pull. The card was being drawn to something, and the inkmage merely let it go to allow its course to be true. It did not go far, as it landed just behind the front desk. The next thing he knew, a book with a blank, green cover floated into the air from one of the drawers of the desk. It landed neatly in front of him.

'Do I read it?' Cael begged the question. He flipped through the pages, finding various mundane details about this mysterious Dorian Sesthal. The book was very thick, yet he could tell it was not so old. One thing that caught his eye almost immediately was the fact that most of the pages were blank. He had to go back to the beginning to find some writing. This gave him a curious thought, and as he counted the chapters he got up to twenty-four before the writing stopped. There was... something very disturbing written on the latest pages- the last ones to have any writing on them before it all went blank. He started reading a few pages from the end.

Chapter 24: Dorian The Destroyer

"The young man awoke from his slumber, finding himself entombed within stacks of displaced books. With his head throbbing, he pulled himself out of the reading material, discarding the makeshift bed. The demon man known as Dorian wore a spiked set of iron armor, fitting his being all the way down to his feet. It had many scratches and bloodstains on it, clearly won from many brutal battles. His face was covered in huge scars that covered the length of his face, and one of his eyes was covered with a patch. His eyes were dark and sullen, the color around them as black as his soul. He did not know where he was in this grand library, as he was standing between two long bookcases, but one thing was certain: He was going to find his opponent, and cleave him in two."

"Dorian! You're awake... and... were you wearing that when we got here?" The voice was from none other than Fallow, Dorian's little invisible dragonling partner. "Anyway, I'm scared! That head clerk guy could somehow see me! Right after he bonked you on the head he took me out as well!"

Still rubbing his head, Dorian noticed his get-up. For a moment, his thoughts were so scrambled that he couldn't string two words together, but then he got his priorities straight and remembered this alleged 'head clerk'. He was trying to withdraw and was sent into a small room, in which he was supposed to sign... an affidavit? Something like that. There was a small desk in that room, and a few shelves filled with bulging folders of paper. There was a fine carpet with an abstract design of a lake on it, and the window watched over the rest of the Serenti administration. This was where the head clerk did business, but he was nowhere to be found. Dorian just waited patiently in a padded chair in front of the desk, but the document he was meant to sign was already there, ready for his signature. He didn't really need to wait for this head clerk guy, right?

After all, he already proved his worth to the dark dragons in the previous round. There was no need to continue this bloodshed, especially since Fallow looked like he was ready to have a heart attack from the damage Dorian took last round. Can dragons even have heart attacks? In any case, what he did to that black monster made the young man regret his actions. If he ever saw the creature again, he would be sure to apologize. He wasn't a person that would hurt another indiscriminately, but for the sake of acquiring the help of the dark dragons he entered this tournament. Normally, he wouldn't hurt a fly.

All this didn't help his current situation. He was in the biggest library he had ever seen, and unfortunately it seemed to match the description of where he was supposed to go for his next match. Did he... was he... did he just get knocked unconscious and dragged into the arena against his will? There was also the case of his new appearance, but there was no explaining something so absurd. There was... there was something in his mouth too...

Meanwhile, Cael read on:

Dorian The Destroyer: Continued...

"There is nothing Dorian delights more in than kicking kittens and puppies. This is a person who would gladly sell his own family for a bit of coin without a second thought. He started wandering through the arena in search of his opponent, opening his mouth to reveal his razor sharp, almost vampiric-looking fangs. He had already prepared a strategy to deal with the weak man who somehow came to challenge him: The nice guy act. It was an effective strategy for sure- his kind demeanor that betrays his true, vicious nature lulls his opponents into a false sense of security, and then when they least expect it he cuts them down to size. He came upon an intersection, where a long pathway to the front desk was visible in the distance. He could think of nothing but the horrible tortures he would inflict upon his hapless opponent, his lustful thoughts reflective of his very degenerate nature."

The inkmage swallowed hard when he found that he was at the end of the book. There was only one line after that passage, and it was the name of the next chapter, which was currently unwritten:

Chapter 25: The Murder of Cael Strandssen

.

[Inkfinger]

The blank page read like a mockery of his inaction, the expanse of white accusing him of doing nothing; of standing and waiting until the promised destroyer came upon him in a flurry of blade and fang. Cael drew in a breath that was meant to be calming, though he could feel his hands trembling on the thin paper. He closed his eyes, shook his head, and looked back to the words on the previous page.

It’s all hyperbole. Laughable exaggeration, almost to the point of parody. The part about the kittens is a nice touch…

The realization would have been reassuring, but. But. But. There was that last line, the throwaway words about torture, about lust and degeneration. The branded scar on the back of his hand felt tight, aching. For a moment he could almost feel the men pinning him down, sweaty palms against his bare back, bare hips; still see the walls of the Cathedral holding him in, a plaything or a pawn in a perverted game.

He could handle dying in an arena.

He couldn’t handle that. Not again.

Something shifted down the aisles, an echoing, clanging sound that might have been heavy armored feet on the worn carpet of the library. A muffled thud that might have been a pile of dislodged books shifting against each other. A scrape that might have been a blade run along the edges of the iron bookshelves further down the aisle.

Cael didn’t wait to see. The inkmage ducked down to make himself a smaller target, and scrambled around the huge carved desk, brushing past the globe in his flight. It turned lazily on its stand as he unbuckled the naginata from his back and gave into the childish urge to dive under the desk.

The thick desktop over his head called to mind memories of hiding in his father’s study back home, the woven rug rough against his palms. He could remember rolling his toy carts over Father’s toes until the slight man had abandoned his clerical work and dragged him out to build his cities and towers on the desk itself…

Now the desk provided a shelter as he set the naginata on the floor so it could actually fit and pulled the half-used stack of origami papers from his coat pocket. The edges were still water-stained and warped, the sheets still smelled of the strange chemicals in the Zoological Garden’s fountains, but they were dry. He tore off a handful of the papers, setting them aside when he dug again into the pocket, found the folded, larger sheets he used for his binding circles.

The intricate circle grew slowly; he had to take care not to press too hard and tear through the paper. The black arcs and curves were reassuringly familiar as he inked symbol after symbol: notations for walls and barriers, containments and light, protection and shields. Repetition, expanding on the idea of holding his opponent in one place for long enough to give Cael something of an advantage.

The last symbol, however, gave him pause, the center of the intricate circle as blank as the pages on the book above his head. The book currently causing more problems than it should possibly be capable of.

The book called him a demon man. Figurative language, or literal? It was important: pick the wrong symbol, and the circle would be nothing but paper when his opponent stepped on it. Cael hesitated, and finally scrawled the simple oval and cross meant to represent humans, still unable to entirely shake the idea that the book was completely accurate.

He could still hear the heavy footsteps growing closer, louder and louder as his damp fingertips closed around the origami papers. He wasn’t going to have time. Dorian was too close. He shoved those pages in his mouth, tasted chlorine and dust, and tried to breathe quietly when the boots finally came into view.

They were black iron, pitted and scarred with the fervor of countless battles. A dent that looked like a horse-hoof marred one shin, the other seemed rusted at the knee joint, screeching faintly as their bearer moved. The greaves seemed to draw in the brilliant light from the windows, sucking it in and leaving the air cooler in their wake, every inch as intimidating as the book had made them out to be…

The oak of the desk pressed hard against his back as he shrank further back into the corner, praying to gods he had never known and no longer trusted that the ominous figure making its way past the desk would just…keep walking. Not pause, not turn to investigate the dark recesses of the desk.

But they did pause, almost as if the Destroyer was pausing to look at…

The book! As soon as Cael thought the words, he heard the familiar thud of a lengthy book slamming shut. Is he mad about what the book says? He wondered dimly as he held the paper at the ready, other hand reaching out to clutch the familiar worn shaft of his naginata. Or does he not even care? Maybe he can’t even re-

The inkmage’s thoughts were cut off when the Destroyer bent down, light from the windows casting half his face in bloody hues. He didn’t hesitate this time, one hand flashing out between his legs to slap the inked paper onto the carpet; the other whipping the naginata around, shaft slamming against heavily armored shins.

The blow glanced off but the Destroyer stumbled a step backwards, just enough that Cael could wiggle out from under the desk.

Cael didn’t wait to see if the iron-clad feet landed on the paper.

He just ran.

[Paragon]

Like a bug shaken from a rotten piece of fruit, Cael's figure emerged from the desk and sprinted away with an apparent limp. Dorian extended his arm out and the words 'wait' were about to come out of his mouth when he found himself trapped in a pillar of light. His hand hit the wall of light that now surrounded him with a noticeable smacking sound. He brought his hand back and held it with the other, his one non-patched eye blinking in confusion.

"What's going on?!" Fallow asked, circling around the circle on the ground.

"I'm stuck!" replied Dorian, looking down. "It's some sort of trap."

Fallow tried to run into the light but he was repelled, "...Th... this is bad!"

"Fallow, I need you to go after that guy and tell him that we don't intend to fight. Tell him that he might be in danger as well."

"Him? In danger? But wh-"

"I'll explain later. Go!"

Fallow flapped his wings and went after the man, leaving Dorian feeling the strange silver-ish wall of light. He really walked into this one. He looked over to the front desk and noticed that the thing that got his attention in the first place, the mysteriously book that slammed itself shut when he looked at it, was now gone. It was like whatever it had to say was not for his eyes. It was hard to see beyond the light, but he was pretty sure that the front desk was the center of some maze, instead of being the easiest place to find the exit.

This whole ordeal reeked of foul play. He heard rumors of competitors mysteriously disappearing during their rounds but he thought they were just that, rumors. What was the purpose? What kind of impetus could they possibly have to orchestrate such an elaborate plot? And who is 'they', anyway? These unanswerable questions were not getting him anywhere.

He sighed and started fumbling around with his weird, heavy armor. He was pretty sure this wasn't even real iron, but some sort of cheap imitation. After a minute of pushing and pulling, he realized that his fit was airtight. Frustrated at being able to see with only one eye, he pulled at the patch, trying to dig his nails into the space between the fabric and the skin around his eye, but it was no use.

"Did... did they glue this thing?"

Elsewhere, Fallow had finally found an exhausted Cael, who was hiding between two bookshelves that were so tall that he couldn't see the top of them. The idea of talking to a stranger, much less one who was Dorian's opponent, was frightening, but for the sake of his friend he had to try to reason with this man.

"H, hello," Fallow's voice was heard inside the man's head, which caused him to spring upright and look around in panic. "No, no- don't worry! I'm not here to hurt you! I'm, uh..." It didn't occur to Fallow that he never actually revealed himself to this man, forgetting that little detail. "Hey, listen! Dorian, er, that guy you saw, doesn't want to fight you, okay? It doesn't even make sense, he's the nicest human I've ever met! So just calm down and listen that you're in, um, danger.... uh, I don't know why, but all we want right now is to find the exit, okay?" A low rumble permeated throughout the library. "If you could just show us the way out, or-"

The sound of a book falling to the ground next to Cael interrupted the dragonling. As he inkmage looked up, more books came down from the shelf above him and narrowly missed him. Even the books right behind him fell to the floor. One of the books from higher up hit him square on the head, even though he thought he dodged it, and rolled into his hands and opened up to a very particular page. Cael realized that it was the same green book he left back at the front desk.

Chapter 25: The Murder of Cael Strandssen

"The vanquisher of all that is good and tormentor of the weak, Dorian, stood in the beam of light enraged beyond belief. Simply killing his opponent would not be enough now. No, he would enjoy every last moment of the torture. His methods were meticulous like that of a serial killer. There was no running from him, as his elaborate network of traps would eventually catch any scurrying rat. He took various trophies to the battlefield as well. For him, the trophies were simple- the mutilated heads of his previous victims. Throughout the library, he scattered these heads to remind the enemy of what they were about to become."

Right as Cael read that last passage, a man's dismembered head hit the ground next to him, its lower jaw completely removed and several huge gashes in its skull that went down to the bone. In its empty eye sockets was an expression of pure sorrow, of pain and torment beyond belief. Its face was covered in cuts and bruises. A dark chuckle that sounded suspiciously like paper rustling filled the air. Out of the corner of his eye behind the stacks, where some books were now displaced, he could see bits and pieces of something lurking in the shadows. It swayed to and fro as if the wind affected it, and it crept closer to Cael, chuckling as it threatened to go through the supposed wall between them entirely.

[Inkfinger]

Six minutes.

At best, that was all the circle would give him. At worst, Dorian would be strong enough to tear a hole in the column of light and solidified magic holding him in place, and then tear Cael in two for good measure.

The inkmage ran until he reached one of the outer walls, following it up a few rows until he found a window that seemed to be telling the sordid tale of N’jal and Draconis. The sunbeams streaming through that window took on a deep purple hue, staining the carpet in patterns of light that looked almost like darkness, the varied shades of a glass filled with mingled smoke, wine and blood.

The bookshelves here loomed tall as well, walls of knowledge between him and his now-imprisoned pursuer. He slipped between two of them, his dark coat picking up the mottled plum and amethyst, and flopped down in the shadows of the Thanes. He fumbled to retrieve his torn-off origami papers, immediately starting to twist the first sheet into a crane the moment his fingers closed on it.

Three cranes lay on the floor at his feet and he was halfway through the fourth when the voice rang through his head. He jumped, the half-completed bird slipping from his fingers, at the clear words, clearer than any words he’d heard in years through the nigh-constant buzz of his bad ear.

He can talk in my head? The book had said that Dorian would try to trick him, lure him out by pretense alone…but it hadn’t said anything about him being able to talk in Cael’s mind – nor had it claimed that the Destroyer talked of himself in the third person. Cael surreptitiously scanned the nearest shelves as he bent to pick up the fallen crane. He couldn’t see anything else that could be talking, unless…

Books do not tal--

The floor shifted, subtly, but still further than a man’s footsteps could account for. The towering bookshelf at his back moved a fraction of an inch with an ominous creak, and he stepped to the side just in time for the three-inch thick book to slam to the carpet instead of on his skull.

It was as if that one book had been holding the entire shelf in place. Volumes and tomes and manuscripts, treatises and novels cascaded from the shelf. Cael dodged backwards from the ever-growing pile, poised to rescue his cranes from the far-edge of the heap, when something impacted with the top of his head. He caught it, and stared at the familiar words.

Chapter 25: The Murder of Cael Strandssen

Sainted Sway.

The constant paper-rustle petered out, but the loud fleshy thump in its wake made his stomach flop. Cael looked away from the dire words to see a man’s head, barely recognizable from the abuses that had been meted out on it before the end. Laughter -- dry, inhuman and cruelly amused -- chased a shiver up his spine as he tore his gaze from the gruesome sight.

A very, very large part of him wanted to return to his original strategy: run and hide, but somewhere, in the back of his brain, where rational thought hid at times like this, he couldn’t help but think: When would he have had time to hide that? He wouldn’t have, the Ai’Bron monks don’t let either opponent have enough time to prepare like that… He took a cautious step away, ducking down to scoop up the finished cranes.

It’s almost as if the library is writing the book…

And the library didn’t seem to be a very reliable narrator, because it certainly hadn’t said word one about the giggling thing behind the stacks.

He tried not to look at whatever-it-was, almost afraid that looking at it would call its attention to the fact that he knew it was there. Instead, he slipped his pen from its pocket and scribbled the sigil to bring the finished cranes to life on each crane’s wing; tossing the cranes into the air the second the ink soaked into the delicate paper.

Immediately, his vision was overwhelmed by the cranes’ child-scratch sketches of the library; a three-fold harmony of crude lines and clumsy shading. He shook his head, rubbing his eyes and forced the images to fade into the background of his mind. He bent, slowly, to pick up the naginata, still (pointedly) refusing to look behind himself.

The shuffling paper chuckle sounded again, closer, and Cael spun on his heel, lashing out with his naginata. It struck something that tore before its blade, splitting wide open in a flash of creamy white and ink-black before disintegrating into scraps of paper.

Nothing else happened for a long moment, other than the debris of the destroyed papercraft creation floating soundlessly to the floor, like so many snowflakes. Slowly, faintly, Cael became aware of an ominous creak, a sound like ice cracking beneath a wrongly placed boot on a frozen-over lake.

…oops.

He dropped to the floor, already half-suspecting what he was hearing, just as the images of the Thaynes exploded inward, sending slivers of razor-sharp glass through the library. Two by two, the other windows followed suit in a glittering rain. Books fell from the shelves, their covers shredded, pages pulverized by the knife-like shards. Cael stayed down, arms covering his head, as the ruins of the magnificent windows fell to the floor in the discordant chime of shattered glass.

All he could feel for a moment was the strange sensation of lopsided flight from one of the cranes, followed by faint relief as he pushed himself to his knees, the glass shards dislodged from his shoulders by the movement. His hand stung, and there was a nice wide gash in his coat sleeve, but other than that he seemed unscathed. He looked towards the spaces where the windows had been…

And all Cael could see was darkness, a blackness thicker than pitch that filled the space beyond the windows. As he stared, taking a step backwards, the blackness seemed to grow thinner, weaker, flickering around the edges, as if something behind it was distorting its shape, trying to push through. He swallowed, hard, gathering his naginata and the Destroyer’s unwritten book.

“If, er.” the inkmage said, trying to keep his tone light even as he backpedaled away from the uncanny windows; talking to the invisible speaker and hoping that the Monks weren’t out there, somewhere, laughing at him talking to thin air. “If you want the way out, I would suggest looking very, very hard…” Something crackled behind him, paper against a flame, and he picked up the pace, refusing to look back. “Because I really think we made the library mad.”

[Paragon]

The feeling of trepidation plagued the young man's mind, justifiably so after the scene of what he can only describe as a hurricane hitting the library and sending glass shards flying every which way. The ones aimed for him hit the wall of light before harmlessly falling to the ground. Dorian never considered that he was maybe safer in here than out there. Hiding out was not who he was, in any case.

Dorian kept pushing against the silver-colored wall of light, running out of ideas. If it were not for all the spikes on this full plate of armor, he would have attempted ramming it with his shoulder. It was amazing how they managed to make it cover everything under his neck, with the exception of his finger-less gloves and greaves, which they simply painted to be the same color as the rest of the armor. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was not bound to him due to glue, but some sort of magical affixation. That would make his predicament especially troubling.

His confinement was only temporary, however. The lights disappeared, which made the strange paper seal he stepped on seem all the more obvious. Did his opponent do this? Not like there was anyone else around here, as far as he knew. It was a strange action, now that he thought about it. Hiding, confining an opponent in light, and then running away. Not quite something Dorian expected after fighting the vicious monster from the last round. Maybe his opponent was in the same situation as him: Brought here against his will and would rather leave. It was a rather hopeful scenario, but it sure as hell would make things a lot easier.

As he walked on the carpet, glass shards crunched under his sabatons. The musty smell of displaced old books filled the air, the dust kicked up from the tumultuous event settling a thin layer of fog throughout the entire library.

"Dorian!" a voice appeared in his mind from his little buddy. The dragonling was breathing heavily while flapping over to Dorian from some of the stacks. "A human head fell out of the books and then strange shadow monsters and glass flying everywhere and-"

"Take it easy, Fallow. I'm sorry that I had you undertake such a dangerous task. Asking you to reveal yourself to a total stranger is not my place to ask."

"Oh! I don't mind, really. I'd do anything to help you- you know that. The problem is that there's something weird going on and I'm scared! We need to get out of here!" Fallow neglected to mention that he never actually revealed himself to Cael. Not only that, he ran away once he saw that dismembered head and didn't hear the inkmage make any answer.

"Agreed on all counts, little buddy. Where was the last place you saw the man?"

Fallow lead Dorian away from the front desk, following the dragonling's direction as well as the sound of paper crackling as if a fire was lit. It wasn't long before he saw Cael pacing back and forth at the mouth of one of the rows of shelves in the distance. He was folding a new crane in his hands.

"Excuse me!" Dorian yelled out. "There's something going on with this tournament, and I think it's in our best interests if we leave!" Cael stepped closer, still carefully, until they were but a few meters apart. Dorian continued, "Could you simply point me in the direction you came from? How you got to the front desk, I mean."

Cael nodded, and turned around to point in the direction he came from. While he was doing this, Dorian noticed that he was holding the small dragon figurine in his right hand. 'Huh? When did I pick this up?' To his shock, his hand was moving on its own accord. His right arm was raised high into the air, with the figurine still enclosed in his palm.

It was then that he realized that these gloves were also not his.

Before he could mouth the words to warn Cael, the figurine had transformed into The Hydra Lance and he was already, against his will, throwing it at the inkmage's back.

[Inkfinger]

The cranes searched as one for an exit, their trifold images showing nothing but books and shelves and shining, splintered glass. The stairs, which had originally led him into the stacks, now ended in a blank wall. The cranes were immensely confused by that, their paper simulacrum of thought twisting into crumpled wads of emotion.

He would have climbed the nearest shelf’s ladder, tried to get his bearings for himself, but the eerie paper creature he’d destroyed made his skin crawl at the idea of being that high up, at the mercy of the library itself…

So he walked, instead, over glass-scattered carpet, over marble that screeled against the window-shards embedded in the soles of his books, his fingers nearly tangling as he hurriedly folded two more cranes. He tossed each into the air the second he finished it, splitting his already fractured mental pictures into five conflicting chunks.

None of the constructs had found the way out yet. He could feel their scratchboard frustrations scraping at his brain as he picked his way down the aisle, pocketing his pen. He paused for a second to shove Dorian’s unwritten tome onto the nearest shelf, piling a stack of larger, heavier books on top before he continued.

The flame-crackle grew louder as he walked, closer; he could almost feel the heat on the back of his hands. He didn’t want to, but he glanced towards the nearest empty window. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see flames flickering through its empty panes, the first glowing tongues licking at the walls. The cranes were starting to panic, too, their instinctive no, no, no, fire is bad impulses spiking through his otherwise rational thoughts.

Can’t waste time trying to calm them down -- can't even calm myself! He paused at the mouth of the aisle, trying to figure out where he was from the cranes’ impulses – but all they fed back to him was nonsense and ink-stained flames.

His fingers closed around yet another piece of paper, coaxing a sixth crane to life. He flicked it into the air as a voice – human, young, borderline innocent – rang out under the flames. The Destroyer, his black-clad form backlit by the growing glow from the windows, stepped into view, and Cael took a cautious step from the relative sanctuary of the shelves.

The closer he came to the other man, the more he began to realize that it had to have been the book that was wrong. Dorian was echoing the same sentiments Cael had told the unseen voice moments before. He was about to say that he didn’t know the way out when a thrill of excitement slipped over his brain. The last crane he’d sent out had, by the feel of it, found the door. The other constructs’ pinpoints of feeling seemed to converge--

--and then the innocent joy was overwhelmed by the flash of motion and the impact of something hitting his back: something that penetrated deep and kept going; something that sent him staggering forward, inhaling a breath to scream against the dirty-hot-grinding pain driving through his back, his side, his ribs. The razor-sharp heat tore at him, stole the air from his lungs and resolutely refused to give it back.

The inkmage gasped in agony, feeling hot fluid dripping down his back. Worse, he could feel it dripping down his front; an inch of horribly red, horribly sharp steel protruded from his ribs. Rammed through bone and flesh, parting them just as easily as it had the cotton and wool of his clothes.

You chose wrong, Cael, he thought dimly as the cranes’ spiraling elation slowly began to switch elsewhere, towards outright panic again. You were wrong, and the book was right…

The rapid heavy sound of Dorian’s boots was barely audible through the roaring in his ears, the sick gurgle of his own labored breaths. He could taste the copper-tang of his blood on the back of his tongue as he struggled to turn and face his assailant.

What would he do? Keep Cael alive through some sinister magicks, pull the spear loose and just…ravage him? Take his eyes, his jaw, his sanity before he took Cael’s life as easily as he’d taken his breath?

Don’t think, just… run.

His mantra through anything, the only way he’d ever survived, was simply run away. This time, he couldn’t even make it a full step back into the shelves before his foot hit a book that slid from beneath it, and his knees gave out. He fell to them, hard, feeling the blade that pierced his chest shift, the breathless sensation exacerbated by the metal rasping against his ribs. The weight and unwieldy heft of the spear was the only thing that kept him from falling all the way to his face on the rapidly reddening carpet.

Cael couldn’t do anything. Whatever had pierced him held him still, and a sickly numb feeling was creeping down his entire right side. He couldn’t move his right hand. He could barely breathe. His papers were likely saturated through, and the cranes…none of the cranes were inked for anything other than life. There would be no blades, no last moment traps.

He had nothing.

And the Destroyer’s uncanny book –the book that had tripped him -- lay in the puddle beneath him, the pages already soaked to the point of saturation and bathed in a strange flickering glow that faded away. He managed a small, choked-off cry of frustration and pain before the Destroyer’s shadow fell over him.

I’m going to die.

The thought came with a sort of dull finality, but the thoughts of what might happen before darkness fell wouldn’t let him hold his tongue; wouldn’t let him keep the scraps of his dignity. He ground his teeth against the pain, his left hand clenched into a tight fist as he tried to keep his voice steady. “D-don’t…don’t touch me…” He sucked in another breath, and couldn’t hold back the wracking, wet cough. The taste of pennies was stronger now. “P-please.”

The laughter he had half expected never came. Instead, there was a gentle hand on his shoulder. He blinked, blearily, and looked up to see an entirely human face looking at him, the intimidating armor gone, an endless flow of apologies flowing from the young man’s lips.

“I am so sorry; I don’t know what’s going on, how this is happening, I just wanted out of this fight and…here, let me help yo--”

There were hands against his clothes. He was vulnerable and people were touching him and Cael tried, instinctively, to pull away, half-convinced he could see new words forming on the page, under the vermilion stain of his blood. The book said he’d play nice, then he’d torture and maim and--

“Hey, hey, stop that, hold still, you’re making it worse--”

“I s-said don’t t-touch me, just kill me if you have to, take my eyes, I don’t care j-just don’t make me go through that agai--”

Dorian let go of him as if he’d been burned, confusion flaring bright in his sea-blue eyes as he all but shouted, “I don’t want to kill you and I certainly don’t want to do anything else! I don’t know where you’re getting this, but I don’t even want to be here!”

Silence.

Cael blinked, about to open his mouth and ask why --why did you stabbed me, then? -- when wind roared in his ears, overwhelming the sound of his own frantic breaths. Heat flared around them as the library’s surviving books were sucked from the shelf in a maelstrom of paper and flame. Cael watched in dull disbelief, Dorian’s expression one of mingled anger and a hunt of that confusion as the whirlwind of flame and paper surrounded them, drawing closer with every passing second.

[Paragon]

It was that look.

Terror. Pure unadulterated terror. Desperation. That was the look on Cael's face. No one had ever looked at Dorian like that before. In people's expressions you see a reflection of yourself, and at that moment Dorian saw what Cael saw just moments ago: The Destroyer. The paragon that he made himself out to be was shattered in that instant, and a deep resentment settled in. Not for Cael, but for the ones who caused him to think of Dorian that way.

"Stay still," he said softly. He gently wrapped his hand around the shaft of the lance, looking at it with a frown. "This is going to hurt. Sorry." With a sharp tug, he freed his weapon from Cael's body, which convulsed in agony at the separation of metal from flesh.

The young Sesthali ignored the maelstrom of burning pages around him. His focus was on the man bleeding out before him, even as a burning page knicked at his body. The small burns were nothing compared to the pain Cael must be feeling; both mental and physical. Dorian could tell that this was not a fighting man, and could only imagine why he would be forced into the tournament. Simply leaving the tournament was not only for him; For the countless more that had befallen the same fate as Cael, Dorian was going to get to the bottom of this.

Now that he was back to his usual self, he had access to some of his utilities. He only had basic ointment for cuts in the pouch tied to his belt, but it had to do. He took off the scarf wrapped around his waist as well as his jacket, applying the ointment and wrapping the two articles of clothing around the inkmage as tightly as he could.

'Did it puncture the lungs?' he wondered. Cael was still breathing. Blood was not pouring out of his mouth. As long as the heart and lungs were fine, the other major organs would give him a few hours instead of the minutes he thought he had.

He stopped the bleeding as best he could, and that's when he spotted that book in a puddle of the man's blood. He recognized the green cover, and picked it up. This was not exactly the best time to look at books, but it was no coincidence that the same book Cael left behind was here once again.

"T-The 25th chapter," said the beleaguered inkmage.

Dorian ran his hand along the pages, feeling a sense of foreboding, as if whatever was in this book was refusing to listen. No matter- he was going to make it listen. He opened the book, flipping through the pages. What he saw astonished him: His own life, documented for all to see in writing. He had no time to peruse his own memories, added to the fact that the dragonling sitting on his shoulder was yelling into his mind that they needed to get out of here, so he flipped as far as he could until he came upon the same chapter Cael was reading.

He hung his head low, "I wish we could've met under better circumstances, Cael."

The description of The Destroyer gave him some concern, to say the least. Near the end was a bit about Dorian's last attack, and the way it described the action made it sound as if he intentionally did the deed. This was not a book of prophecy, it merely invented whatever history suited its agenda. In this case, to turn two people who didn't want to fight against each other. Dorian bit his lip, because it worked. After that writing, on the next page was the title of a brand new chapter:

Chapter 26: The Death of Dorian Sesthal

After the title was some text, but he didn't read it. He threw the book down to the floor and pulled out the knife-like object along his belt, extending it into his spear. With a hop, he used its enchantment of increased impact power while falling to puncture the book so hard that it was torn asunder. It split in half, its pages leaking out, and for a moment he heard the faintest sound of a low, deep screaming. He didn't need to know what the book said. He was the only one to decide his destiny. Upon this action, the library temporarily stopped its tornado of burning paper and books, as if the book was a setback for its nefarious machinations.

Dorian wasn't one to squander such an opportunity, so he collapsed the spear, put it away, and asked Cael to climb onto his back. It took some effort, but the inkmage managed to latch on and wrap his arms around the Sesthali's neck, letting his legs be held by the young man's arms.

"You too, Fallow," he said, letting the dragonling climb into his shirt.

"The door..." Cael coughed. "F-Follow the b-bird."

He pointed at the ground, and Dorian saw a small paper crane hopping about on its little bird feet. When it noticed that the young man was looking at it, it flew into the air and sped off. A bit surprised, Dorian followed the crane for half a minute before the library put up a wall of burning paper between him and the paper crane. It wasn't merely him that would get burned trying to run through that, but Fallow and Cael as well. He grit his teeth and looked down at his greaves.

"If I was to run in a straight line, in which specific direction would I find the door?"

Unhesitatingly, Cael weakly pointed his finger. Dorian nodded, and looked down once more. This time, he was looking at his regular boots, which had the fate of High Jump. This wasn't the first time he had to take a leap of faith. He hoped this wouldn't be a recurring event. Bending his knees, he told Cael and Fallow to hold on tighter than they ever have before. As the burning wall came nearer, Dorian jumped. The sudden shock and speed caused the inkmage to close his eyes, his arms straining to keep hold as the three flew through the air. It didn't take long before their upward momentum turned into a fall, and Dorian's boots transformed back into his greaves to allow them to make a soft landing. They fell, the frightening sensation that Dorian and Fallow were used to overwhelmed the inkmage. He thought he was going to die for a moment.

He didn't, however. Right before impact, as if falling into a very tall cushion, their momentum slowed in a way that didn't induce nausea, and they landed as if their flight had been a mere hop. The alleged door, to their dismay, was nowhere to be found. Along the wall were more bookshelves, but the crane was certain that this was the place. Dorian followed the little bird as it jumped into the stacks and pecked at a very particular book.

[Inkfinger]

The crane was adamant, filling his pounding head with the mental paper equivalent of strident squawking, all scribbled black lines on a red-tinted sheet. The other cranes – only two, as three had been lost in the swirling inferno – converged, each sending him the same image: a door, wide open and welcoming and, most importantly, right here.

Cael pressed his forehead to the back of Dorian’s neck, trying very hard to forget every other time he’d been this close to a strange man. The pain still splitting his ribs in two and the trickle of liquid still dripping down his back made it easier, somehow, to shove the memories away.

“L-let me down.”

Dorian ducked down, and Cael slid clumsily from his back, biting his lip hard to choke back the cry of pain the movement caused. The young man’s ministrations had stemmed the flow, somewhat, but he still couldn’t breathe right. It was a hideous feeling, one that only served to remind his pain-fogged brain of every time he’d ever gone fishing with his mother or brothers, the way the landed fish had always gaped and flopped.

Never going to eat fish again.

It was the easiest thing in the world to just let his legs go out from under him; to let himself slide to a kneeling crouch at the bookshelf. Trembling fingers, stained with blood and black ink, reached out to brush against the spines of the books. Each manuscript on the crowded shelf was the same shade of green, the same shape, the same size.

All of them look exactly like Dorian’s tome.

He pushed that thought away as well, and nudged his papercraft crane gently to the side. It hopped away obediently, fluttering to Cael’s shoulder instead of joining its brethren on the shelf behind them. That was something of a relief – three images of his bloodstained back were more than enough. He didn’t need a fourth. He reached out to grab the book, but Dorian’s hand closed around his wrist before he could.

“Wait, Cael.” He tugged his hand free on principle alone as Dorian stepped closer. “Let me.” The young man reached past him to pull the book from its place on the shelf. It stuck for a moment, and he had to give it a tug, one that coincided with another burning pang that drove Cael forward, entire body shaking with the pain, braced for whatever the library would send at them now-

But the book simply slipped out, fell open in Dorian’s hand. Pressed between the pages was a single, simple black key. The young man turned it in his fingers, face furrowed in a frown. “Um?”

Cael glared at the crane on his shoulder. “This isn’t a door.” The crane seemed to shrug. “You said it was a door!” Another shrug. He couldn’t choke down another cough. When he wiped his hand across his lips this time, it came away with fresh blood staining the back red and glistening. His chest felt heavy, and the darkened library was starting to go darker around the edges the more he spoke. “You,” he wheezed out anyway, “are all horrible horrible lia-”

Click.

The noise was a tiny thing, almost delicate. Cael looked up to see Dorian holding a second book in one hand. There was a keyhole set in the bookshelf itself, where the book had rested. Dorian turned the key once more. There was a second soft click, and a distant rumble.

Nothing happened for a long moment; the only sound the small rustle of cranes shifting on the shelf; his breathing and erratic heartbeat in his ears; Dorian’s breathing. The silence and the stillness were almost too much, gave him too much time to focus on the agony in his chest, the way his peripheral vision was fading.

What is this? A dead end? The library, tormenting us with the promise of freedom?

Then the library rumbled again, and the wall split wide open, showering them with displaced books and clouds of dust. Cael clapped his good hand over his mouth to keep out the worst of it, staring deliriously at the little paper bird. Dorian chuckled.

“I’d take that back, if I were you.”

Beyond the bookshelf doorway sprawled a wide set of spiraling stairs, climbing high and out of sight. They were lit every turn with a flickering torch. The walls of the staircase were works of art much like the windows had been, carved with battle scenes and beautiful queens, glittering in the torch light. The fine carpet of the library continued on each stair, unstained by blood or dust, ash or ink, and the thought of climbing them made his chest throb in dismay. He glanced down at the sash Dorian had bound the exit wound with – it was already darkening as well, glistening in the new light.

Newborn hope died before it had a chance to really catch its breath or take a look around. Cael rubbed his hand angrily across his suddenly-watering eyes. “D-dorian, go. T-there’s no way in the w-world I’ll make it up all of those.” Dorian watched him, one eyebrow raised, as he continued. “C-can barely b-breathe as it is, and…”

He would have squawked if he had the breath for it as Dorian tugged him to his feet, teal eyes glittering fierce in the light from the torches. “We don’t,” the young man said, as calmly as Cael could not, “know how far they go. I’d kick myself if it’s two flights and I left you here.” His face set in determination as he turned around to face the stairs. “Now, get back on.”

Cael, wordlessly, obeyed; every motion flaring the fire of pain to fresh life. He swallowed hard as Dorian stood and took a step into the spirals of the staircase, one boot in front of the other. The jarring motion strove to push what meager breath he could recover out of his lungs, again; each step spiking through his ribs, but he pressed his head against Dorian’s back and, for once, just let someone else carry him through all the pain and fear.

It was a strangely reassuring sensation, given the circumstances.

And, for Cael, the world went black long before they made it to the top.