The icy chill you step into is sudden and complete. The air tastes cold, your skin puckers as you continue deeper. The air portrays a different light than the sign that had hung over the entrance of the stone room. It had been red. It had suggested heat. Smoldering.. that meant burning. But the sensation that filled you was cold. Cold, and dry. The air was moving with a gentle breeze, making it feel even colder.
Though it was icy, the stone was dry. The air had the fibrous smell of pages, of parchment. You proceed lower, the light from the entrance fading as you turn, then turn again, being forced into almost blackness. From out of this blackness looms shelves. Shelves upon shelves. Stacked with bound books, rolled scrolls, loose parchment. Some stood alone, leaning against a wall, the rest of the shelve waiting to be filled. Some were so full books were set upon books, or behind them, filling all the space around their brothers, squeezing as many as could fit together.
The dryness and cold was explained. Books burned. Heat would do them no good. Ink smeared. Moisture would cause ruin. Parchment grew. To much water and fungus would invade. The darkness was also explained. Light bleached out books. Caused them to yellow, to fade, to age. The darker, the dryer, the better.
You come from among the shelves to find a light, the only light in the dark cavern. It reveals just how high the shelves reached, towering upward. The cave was indeed a cavern, great and wide, a maze of books and shelves disappearing into the darkness. The light sat, enclosed, keeping the flame and heat within, away from the pages near it, but allowing the light to be used. The table was laid out with parchment, different sizes, styles, shapes, colors. Stacked or layered, sprawled over the tabletop. Ink sat among them. Many colors as well, black, blue, green, bloody red, even white. They sat closed in their bottles, the tops tightly on, keeping the ink wet and the parchment around dry. Quills and pens lay about, the wet ones, stained with their chosen color resting atop their bottles, or laid neatly upon cloth, keeping the unused parchment untouched.
Among this army of writing lay a great hound, thick coat seeming to shift and change as the orangey glow faded and moves, the deep black of the rest of its hide invading and receding as the orange, ember-like glow giving the hounds body the look of a dying flame, the embers shifting and changing as the heat moves within. Thick claws showed upon each paw, ink clinging to the fur of leg and paw, a few of the pads black with the ink. The ears were long and wide, fur showing in tufts upon them as they rose from within the curl of the pair of rams horns upon its brow, curling back around the ear to come to points near its cheeks. Two smaller horns swung back from the flat of the rams horns, curving slightly as they swooped, shorter and thinner than the rams, curving up just over her neck. A line of spikes rose from the thick fur over her spine, curved and pointed, tracing a path all the way down her back, growing smaller as they reached her thickly furred tail, until they disappeared beneath the hairs.
The head swung up from the parchment below her nose, leaving the words of freshly laid ink as her eyes, dark holes within her skull rose to you. The muzzle parted, showing silvery white fangs, sharp and glowing in the darkness.
"Welcome to Smoldering Scrolls… What may I write for you?"
Though it was icy, the stone was dry. The air had the fibrous smell of pages, of parchment. You proceed lower, the light from the entrance fading as you turn, then turn again, being forced into almost blackness. From out of this blackness looms shelves. Shelves upon shelves. Stacked with bound books, rolled scrolls, loose parchment. Some stood alone, leaning against a wall, the rest of the shelve waiting to be filled. Some were so full books were set upon books, or behind them, filling all the space around their brothers, squeezing as many as could fit together.
The dryness and cold was explained. Books burned. Heat would do them no good. Ink smeared. Moisture would cause ruin. Parchment grew. To much water and fungus would invade. The darkness was also explained. Light bleached out books. Caused them to yellow, to fade, to age. The darker, the dryer, the better.
You come from among the shelves to find a light, the only light in the dark cavern. It reveals just how high the shelves reached, towering upward. The cave was indeed a cavern, great and wide, a maze of books and shelves disappearing into the darkness. The light sat, enclosed, keeping the flame and heat within, away from the pages near it, but allowing the light to be used. The table was laid out with parchment, different sizes, styles, shapes, colors. Stacked or layered, sprawled over the tabletop. Ink sat among them. Many colors as well, black, blue, green, bloody red, even white. They sat closed in their bottles, the tops tightly on, keeping the ink wet and the parchment around dry. Quills and pens lay about, the wet ones, stained with their chosen color resting atop their bottles, or laid neatly upon cloth, keeping the unused parchment untouched.
Among this army of writing lay a great hound, thick coat seeming to shift and change as the orangey glow faded and moves, the deep black of the rest of its hide invading and receding as the orange, ember-like glow giving the hounds body the look of a dying flame, the embers shifting and changing as the heat moves within. Thick claws showed upon each paw, ink clinging to the fur of leg and paw, a few of the pads black with the ink. The ears were long and wide, fur showing in tufts upon them as they rose from within the curl of the pair of rams horns upon its brow, curling back around the ear to come to points near its cheeks. Two smaller horns swung back from the flat of the rams horns, curving slightly as they swooped, shorter and thinner than the rams, curving up just over her neck. A line of spikes rose from the thick fur over her spine, curved and pointed, tracing a path all the way down her back, growing smaller as they reached her thickly furred tail, until they disappeared beneath the hairs.
The head swung up from the parchment below her nose, leaving the words of freshly laid ink as her eyes, dark holes within her skull rose to you. The muzzle parted, showing silvery white fangs, sharp and glowing in the darkness.
"Welcome to Smoldering Scrolls… What may I write for you?"
