He arrived, at long last, to a place that promised answers. The journey south had stretched on for what seemed an eternity: first by foot, and then by some unsuspecting farmer's cart as a stowaway. He had caught errant rumors, here and there, in taverns and in inns, of an impressive library near the city that these foreign folk declared their capital. "Arca", he thought he'd heard it called. It was not a word with which he was familiar. At first, he had fought the temptation to seek out such a wealth of knowledge. Any contact with these hostile folk could prove disastrous — a lesson that he had learned within minutes of his awakening here. To travel towards civilization was surely foolish, he'd told himself. He would put many in danger by doing so. But his desire for answers once again washed wisdom down the river. And so, he had arrived.
Slowly, inch by inch, Ven closed the side door behind him until the latch clicked. He winced. It was such a whisper of a sound, yet it echoed along the cavernous halls before him. He froze, still bent with his gloved hand on the door, and strained an ear for footsteps. He had chosen the dead of night for good reason. But, as a man who had spent countless hours poring over tablets and manuscripts by dwindling candlelight, he knew that there might be a chance that some young, curious mind was still awake with their nose in a book. The seconds passed in silence. No one came.
Good, he thought. Still, he made certain that his mask held firm over his face, and he tugged his hood a little lower. Then he set forth and rolled his feet to muffle the noise, clinging to the shadows as he worked his way across the moonlit vestibule to a broad archway. Past the threshold, an opulent ceiling rose high above him like a golden sky. He stopped in his tracks, lips parted and neck craned, and he stared. He counted two — no, three floors, and on each, as far as he could see: row upon row of shelves twice his height. He could not recall encountering anything like it in all of his years. And now, he had no idea where to begin.
But he could not afford to stand and deliberate. Ven turned and tiptoed along the wall, aiming for the nearest shelf. Those closest to the entrance held all manner of strange trophies and artifacts and instruments. He thought he could spend forever here examining them all and discerning their purpose. Perhaps if this place were abandoned some day, he might. But no. He forced his eyes forward. He had to focus.
And then he saw it. A map.
Ven glanced over his shoulder. He was confident that he was alone. He bent over the glass case and peered eagerly down at this first glimpse at an answer. He frowned. He squinted. He shook his head in disbelief. He did not recognize the lands depicted. Nothing about this map was familiar. The continent was not a shape he knew, nor were the rivers, nor the mountains. And there were no words, no labels to tell him —
"No," he breathed. There were labels there: little squiggles beneath the cities and hugging the rivers. He simply could not read them. Perhaps it is an old map, he thought. He snatched a book from a nearby cart and flipped through the pages. But no: he could not read this one, either. Nor could he read the second, nor the third.
"No!" he hissed. He set the final book down with rather more force than was wise. The ceiling bounced the smack of cover on cover back and forth, mocking him, until it vanished into the dark. Ven sighed and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he did not care that he had been loud. He had come all this way for answers, only to find them locked behind a script that bore no resemblance at all to anything he had witnessed. "Were that you people sung your stories instead of writing them," he lamented. He stood alone in the dark, fuming and ruminating and collecting his thoughts.
