Once, there was a person who valued themselves so little that all help was freely given.
Once, there was a book, kept beneath the old english building.
Once, there was a person who did not Know, who thought cruelty was humor.
They say that the value of an item is in the labor put into it. That an item that could be easily created that is instead made in the hardest, most painful fashion is inherently more valuable because of it. That blood and bone are just as valuable as gold and velvet in creating the richness of a work. That putting yourself into your work is the highest form of craftmanship.
Once, there was a person who played a prank on another.
Once, there was a bargain of the worst sort made.
Once, there was someone who didn’t hesitate to give their own life for something small.
They say that time passes differently in the library. That the flow of time could let someone could make a book in the span of three days and three nights. That the flow of time could someone could copy all the pages of an ancient tome in the span of three days and three nights. That maybe, just maybe, someone could find a way to do something more terrible than that.
Now, there’s a story whispered in the Library, of a book that was made there.
Now, there’s a story whispered in the dorms, of a prankster who was never seen again.
Now, there’s a story whispered in the Elsewhere, of a human who bargained with the Wyrm.
If you ever find yourself under the old english building, you may see a book. It is small, bound in blue velvet and clasped in ivory, lettered in gold leaf and rusty ink. Whatever your reason for visiting that place, whatever your plans or plots, you must never take that book with you. For it was given to the Wyrm, by one who gave so freely that they gave themselves up, and with the Wyrm it must forever stay.
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