2019-05-22 - Book Learning, Phsyics, and the Denial of Both

[x] Found Gray Harbor

[x] Found a Diner

[x] Probably Creeped Someone Out

[ ] Find A Decent Place To Sleep

[ ] Check Out That Sawmill

A few hours after his dalliance at a pawn shop, Alistair Carver sat comfortably, legs crossed to act as a table for the giant, leather bound tome that he’s hauled open to two pages. The page on the right hand side contains nothing but that checklist, the left covered in richly calligraphic ‘Rules To Kings In The Corner’, if the large header is anything to go by. After a few moments of idle tapping at the checklist, his head rose to look questioningly at one of the librarians of this great hall, their rich blue robes from scalp to toe showing stark contrast to the dull stonework shelving that spread into darkness in all directions.

“Oi, mate. You know anything about this mill?”

His voice echoed uncomfortably. The dull scraping noise of a custodian’s head shifting under the hood almost a whisper in comparison, a white gloved hand raising to point out a rack of shelves off to Carver’s right.

The book slapped shut, Carver slid it from his legs, and the floor beneath the cushion he’s seated upon accepted it with a dull thud of leather on stonework as the man uncurled himself to stand. At least that echo is quieter. His grumbled complaint as he rubs away a small cramp that had formed in his thigh? Notsomuch. “Fuck, ...uck, ...ck.”

“Shh!” Is the response from that hooded figure.

The Library has plenty of space to traverse before Carver’s even close to the shelf pointed out to him, with many hand-written signs and sconces set to light his way. Unfortunately, whatever foresight the proprietor of this space had didn’t happen to include ‘No smoking’ placards. And so, shelf reached and cigarette lit, Carver’s finger ran along the embossed titles of hundreds of spines, the gilded words reflecting back the dull orange glow that bobbed from the corner of his mouth. Finally, after a few exhausting minutes, the one he’s looking for is reached: ‘A History of Uncharacteristically High Death Counts In The Lumber Industry Of Washington.’ By ‘A. Cutter’

His finger touched the top of the spine to pull the book free, and immediately, the world

B̸̧̡̙̪̪͇̩́͞ͅR̡̠̖̹͚̺̘̘͍̲͢͜O͏̱̱̦̟̗̠͎̳̜̙̺͓̝̺̥͓Ķ̵͏̵̪̜̺̺̪̪͔̞͔̼͖̥̺͉Ȩ̵̛̻̝̰̦̲͠

5AM. There's a hint of briskness in the air on this spring morning, chilly but not icy. Rain falls steadily, leaving deep puddles and plenty of mud.

“-CKING TWATS!” comes a cry from somewhere above the roof of Gray Harbor’s abandoned sawmill. There’s the sound of branches from the slowly-reclaiming-ground forest snapping, and then a very sharp crash as Carver bounces off of the roof to enter the building through one of the holes that dot the roof, his leg managing to catch most of his weight before he crumples in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

It takes him a few minutes as he slowly recovers something resembling the average wherewithal he’s capable of, laying how he fell with a jumble of limbs splayed out and slowly dampening by the soft fall of rain through his means of entry.

When he’s able to look up, he does so, lifting his head and brushing away some dead leaves that cling to his cheek with a hand, eyes quickly focusing on the raccoon he finds himself sharing the space with. They’re about as inquisitive as each other, looks like.

“Greetings, Domina. At least I missed the saw, right?”

Great, he’s naming the wildlife. Or entitling it. Maybe both.