Username: Serelinda
Category: Thriller
Word Count: 1,117
Title: The Scribe
Writing/Link to Writing:
It was the seventh tome this week. Destroyed, its insides eviscerated by a rudimentary, stone tool of some sort, from what I’d been able to gather. The hard cover of the Tales of Terror was flayed apart, ragged pieces of leather and paper— color that had been aged over many more lifetimes than my own— lay in tatters at the base of my desk.
Originally, I’d blamed a slew of the clan’s familiars. Most had grown relaxed, others stalwartly loyal to their dragon companions and the clan as a whole, but perhaps we had grown too trusting of our former foes. So I had the familiars banned from the scroll room. These book and scrolls… these words were our history, our future. For the clan members with the grievous disadvantage of being pearl-less, the conglomerations of ink and paper were all they had. And they must be protected.
My scribes-in-training, the Fae hatchmates, I had given explicit orders to dispense and collect the works themselves, keeping a log of who had which book and when. They were quite dutiful, particularly the young female, whose crest would always alight in bright yellows and pinks when she held a work in her claws. She had a natural affinity for the trade, surely the next in line for the position, once I passed. Her brother, a rather small and dull-colored male, flit about the lair disinterestedly, from what I could tell, as his crest always displayed muted colors, and the dull droning of his Fae speech never helped my suppositions. He seemed most attached to his hatchmate, helping her with her chores, that I suppose he’d be her indefinite protégé, lugging tomes around for her, instead.
It wasn’t until my own works were vandalized that the perpetrator got sloppy. It was early morning, and I had just placed my pearl carefully aside, looking upon its surface as I began to recount the hatching day of the clan’s aging matriarch— the nacreous shine of my latest coat leading me through my own place among the festivities, as I penned the event. I had dipped out for but a moment— lured away by the need for a meal. As I walked back up the corridor, licking up the last insect that had attempted to crawl from my claws, I saw that my study’s door had been left ajar.
How curious. I had thought, for I was always so meticulous in keeping the quarters closed.
It was only when I stepped over the threshold that I realized there was nothing curious about it at all. The mongrel had struck again, and my scroll was the latest victim. Only a half-line was salvageable, for the paper had been stabbed repeatedly with that same object, most fiercely, so that slight scores were left in the wooden table at which I had been writing. But, ah, wedged into the wood was a sliver of pale, grey stone. From a knife, I presumed. I traced a claw about the serrated side, my whiskers twitching as the devastation of countless works came to mind.
I grabbed my satchel, slipping the sliver into a small side pouch. Here, it would be safe, until my plan was set in motion.
How would the vandal react when he found out that I had a piece to his weapon of choice. So I pulled my underlings aside, and told them that I had found a piece of the rapscallion’s blade, and to spread the knowledge that I had it from dawn until dusk throughout the clan, and to assure their clanmates that justice would be had. I told them that the sliver would be safely tucked away in my satchel until I could compare it with every blade and weapon in the clan. And I told them to make haste.
The female’s crest fluctuated briefly, and she sped off, dutiful as ever. The male, however, surprised me with a bright, flashing red crest, before quickly flitting off. I did not dwell too much on his reaction, however odd, as I prepared for the next phase of my plan. I had proclaimed that I was turning in early before making to my private chambers, then doubling back and into my study. I flew up— carefully maneuvering about the shelves filled with books— and into a shallow alcove in the cave’s ceiling, curling my tail about myself and watching the door, then the my satchel stretched haphazardly across my desk.
He would come, and I would have my revenge.
It was nearing dawn when the study’s door quietly clicked open, the shadow cast from the hallway quite large, sinister. No familiar was that large, so it was a dragon, then?
As the form moved inside, the shadow shrank, and I felt my mouth go dry as the male Fae cautiously glided in. I watched as he rummaged through the pack, grasping the piece, and pulling it out before shoving it into his own sack. My blood rang in my ears, and I quietly, oh so quietly, glided across the room, plucking a massive, expansive edition of our Weathered Grimoire book—perhaps the heaviest tome in our library— and I, dipping slightly from the weight of the book, hovered over him. As my shadow dipped into his periphery on the floor, he looked up— I dropped the book.
My former student lay in the healer’s quarters in a deep sleep that the aged dragon had had no luck pulling him out of, and I was growing increasingly sure that she would be unable to. An accident, yes. That was what I had said. I had awoken and come flying into my study upon hearing a loud crash. He lay next to a large tome that must have fallen off of its shelving, striking him. A most tragic accident. The books were safe. I was clear. I was sickened, and yet I felt triumphant.
I felt a sudden pang of regret, then, as I saw the female fly in, slowly settling by her brother’s side. Her crest was a flurry of deep blues and purples. She had her own satchel slung across her shoulders, and she carefully pulled it aside, placing it on the ground. I picked it up, aiming to place it farther out of the way, so that she could grieve in peace. As I set the bag down at the edge of the healer’s cave, a pocket popped open and something softly clinked to the floor. Embarrassed, I bent to pick it up, but stopped— the ragged edges of the stone blade shone in the candle-light, a thin chasm of shadow created by the missing sliver in the stone.
And I was sickened.
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