Leal

Leal, Chaos Mage, Wielder of The Deep Texts of Larmintan. He/Him, They/Them

Scholar of forbidden magics, previously a well-renowned alchemist in the Govern of Balance, an elite group of alchemists from across Sornieth. His work turned to dark magic around the time of his sister's death, upon which time he witnessed his father botch a necromantic ritual of resurrection, resulting in both his father and sister becoming restless lich. At that time, he fled his family's manse and began searching for a way to finally put them to rest, or all else fail, seal them away. Ths took much of his time and money and he eventually took to theft to fund his purchasing of increasingly expensive tomes writ with dubious magic.
Not soon after, in a particularly extreme fit of scholarly fervor, he performed a ritual to unbind the magics keeping the Deep Texts of Larminan sealed away. The Deept Texts are multiple tomes of indeterminate age allegedly written by a sorcerer who, upon finishing his work, sealed himself and his lover away within the tomes, together, eternal. This, of course, piqued Leal's interest, and learning that the texts touched on the topics of necromancy and Chaos Magic, the magic allegedly wielded by the agents of The Shade soon after the fall of the Pillar, only intrigued him further. It could be what finally let him lay his father and sister to rest. It could give him power beyond his wildest fantasies.
But when he got to where they were supposedly stored within a closely-guarded inner sanctum of one of The Observatory's many libraries, someone was already there. Someone had found the texts, what he cold finally use to free them, to free him, and there that damned pirate sat, lounging across a shelf, twiring the tome in their hands. There was only one thing he could do, he could sit here and stare while that corpse-picking scavenger defiled some of the most powerful texts known to the magical sciences, or he could act.
He spoke the words, slow at first, then barking, snapping syllables that broke off like the sound of ice cracking. The tome hummed. Sang. The tome was singing, and it was horrible, beautiful music. It was respondng to him, the leather straps binding it flying open, to the rigeback's surprise, the starmap on the front shifting, whirling about as if trying to catch up after being dormant for so many years. The ridgeback dropped it, recoiled, and swore, profusely and with more colorful language in the span of twenty seconds than Leal was sure he had heard in his life.
The tome hovered, shuddered, and opened, the gold-edged pages opening to reveal old parchment, perfectly preserved, perfectly... blank.
The texts he had worked nign on twenty years finding...completely blank. He blinked at it, quietly, blankly. The ridgeback looked up at him, incredulous.
"How in the hells did you manage to do that?" they asked, letting out a quiet laugh. "I couldn't get that old piece of junk to do jack for me, no matter what I hit it with." Leal's eyes widened.
"You hit it? Nevermind that, this is not a piece of junk! This is history! This is-" he sputtered, gesticulating wildly at the pages as the ridgeback approached him.
"Whoa, whoa, calm down." They hissed. "And in my defense, you aren't necessarily looking at it like it's the most valuable thing in the world."
"Well, you see, I didn't expect it to be... er.." he blinked at the empty pages. The ridgeback craned their neck over the pages, and he instinctively pulled it closer to him. This knowledge is his, and his alone.
If there was any.
"Blank?" they inquired. Before Leal could respond, they erupted into a fit of laughter. He stared on in frustration as they doubled over on the ground, hooting and beating their wings off of the marble floors. "Oh gods, how long have you worked for this one?" they howled between hoots of laughter.
"A long time! And it's not-"
"It's fine, it's fine. A lot of my heists have been a bust. You don't look like the thieving sort anyways." they said, voice still tinged with faint amusement at the scholar's predicament. "Since we're both here on even terms, and you seem like you can use the damned thing, how's about you introduce yourself? Happen to be the poor soul that supposedly imprisoned himself in them, here to haunt me for touching his fancy books?"
"No- no, I'm not a ghost, or a haunting, or a spirit. Looking to get rid of them, actually." he replied. The ridgeback looked half interested.
"Oh really? Mind introducing yourself then?" they asked. Leal hesitated. "There's nobody else here but the books and old bones."
"Leal." he muttered. "And bones?"
"Oh, you haven't heard?" the ridgeback leaned in close. "They used to bury mages under this place. Turns out the chalcedony is really good at keeping 'em dead, if you know what I mean. And it's Yshala."
"Oh." He muttered. "Nice to meet you... er... Yshala."
"More pronounciation on the second syllable, your bookliness." The ridgeback - Yshala - looked unimpressed.
"Apologies." Leal said softly. "So, Yshala. You came for the texts?"
"Of course I did. What else. The riveting tales of Viscount Herlecourt?" Leal had himself a sensible chuckle at this remark. "You? Ah hell, you knew how to make the thing open, of course you did. You interest me, you know. How's about we get out of this dusty old place and you explain to me exactly what you're after."
Leal blinked, closing the book. "Aye. And you?"
"I'll explain what I want to." they said, flashing him a smile. "I've got a room tonight above one of the taverns in the Merchants' district. Want to talk in the parlor?"
"Sure." he said, clutching the book to his chest. "I'll meet you there."

---

Later that night, back in his own room, he flicked on his lamp and opened the tome. The pages were still blank. He sighed, resting his head on his hand.
"Whenever you feel like revealing your secrets to me, feel free." he breathed. As soon as he finished speaking, a word started forming itself across the page. he froze as he watched it, first backwards, as if it were written across the inside of the page, and then mirroring itself once it was done being written so that he could read it properly. The page was in beautiful, looping script, and only read nine words:

Hello, what do you wish to ask of me?