Nothing left to do but follow suit. Tiberius took off like a peevish missile and Tacitus followed suit. They walked through the courtyard in quiet tension till they reached Lukios's personal demesne. Dull skies and heavy winds made the garden bend heavily to the east as they walked. The wind over top the walls roared dully. The wards of the tower hummed in acceptance but the door angrily clattered. Tacitus produced a long dull grey key and socketed with a dull click and stepped through into the the library.
Tacitus both hated and loved this room, lately hating it more and more. The days lost in the countless books within helped raise him just as well as any other person in his childhood but the circular walls and hidden nooks and stairways left him disoriented after long periods within. After Lukios's passing he had disposed of the keys other than two, and kept one on his person at all times. He skirted to the side and ducked into an alcove and produced a heavy library ladder and dragged it behind him. There were quite a few unique design features to this tower, and this one was one of the stranger one. He walked over to a bookshelf and clipped a lever near the bottom and the massive wooden shelf allowed itself to be pushed along a brass groove in the floor. After moving a second bookshelf until it rested flat against another, Tacitus pushed the ladder flush to the end of the two bookcases and climbed it quickly. “After me Milord.” He called behind and stepped off onto the top of shelf ducking low in the space between the shelf and the celling. He stopped where the shelf met the wall and took a knee. He reached his hand up and sunk his fingers through soft plastered coloured wax and spun his wrist until a heavy click separated a plate from the ceiling and a low wooden stairwell descended. Tacitus uncomfortably walked up the stairs until he could straighten his back.
The hidden room lived in the space under two stairwells that eventually conjoined over head. The walls were thick stone seemingly mortised together without binding mortar and covered in thick patterned cloth and oil lanterns. The air was stuffy and foul, and it was pitch black even a few inches from the stairs. Tacitus struck a match and lit a lantern on the wall, casting a dim gold over the full room. Halfway through the already smothering rectangle they found themselves were heavy iron bars. The stair well secton was undecorated, but past the bars there was a somewhat mangled armchair, several book shelves and reams of paper and inkwell, all in various states of disorder. Books torn and chewed, the chair on its side, missing two legs. A small wooden side table smashed to splinters against the bars. Black ink smeared into the tapestry. Within the epicenter of the mess stood the late Master Lukios, his eyes white and unknowing. His mangled hands reaching through the bars mindlessly toward the heat and light. “After his passing it was deemed appropriate by the house that his corpse be interred in his warded sanctum, and that no word of his passing be told until his heir could be located from beyond the wall.” He stared across at Lukios, his mangled hands less than a foot from his face. “Now that you've returned, we can perhaps move forward.”
Tacitus both hated and loved this room, lately hating it more and more. The days lost in the countless books within helped raise him just as well as any other person in his childhood but the circular walls and hidden nooks and stairways left him disoriented after long periods within. After Lukios's passing he had disposed of the keys other than two, and kept one on his person at all times. He skirted to the side and ducked into an alcove and produced a heavy library ladder and dragged it behind him. There were quite a few unique design features to this tower, and this one was one of the stranger one. He walked over to a bookshelf and clipped a lever near the bottom and the massive wooden shelf allowed itself to be pushed along a brass groove in the floor. After moving a second bookshelf until it rested flat against another, Tacitus pushed the ladder flush to the end of the two bookcases and climbed it quickly. “After me Milord.” He called behind and stepped off onto the top of shelf ducking low in the space between the shelf and the celling. He stopped where the shelf met the wall and took a knee. He reached his hand up and sunk his fingers through soft plastered coloured wax and spun his wrist until a heavy click separated a plate from the ceiling and a low wooden stairwell descended. Tacitus uncomfortably walked up the stairs until he could straighten his back.
The hidden room lived in the space under two stairwells that eventually conjoined over head. The walls were thick stone seemingly mortised together without binding mortar and covered in thick patterned cloth and oil lanterns. The air was stuffy and foul, and it was pitch black even a few inches from the stairs. Tacitus struck a match and lit a lantern on the wall, casting a dim gold over the full room. Halfway through the already smothering rectangle they found themselves were heavy iron bars. The stair well secton was undecorated, but past the bars there was a somewhat mangled armchair, several book shelves and reams of paper and inkwell, all in various states of disorder. Books torn and chewed, the chair on its side, missing two legs. A small wooden side table smashed to splinters against the bars. Black ink smeared into the tapestry. Within the epicenter of the mess stood the late Master Lukios, his eyes white and unknowing. His mangled hands reaching through the bars mindlessly toward the heat and light. “After his passing it was deemed appropriate by the house that his corpse be interred in his warded sanctum, and that no word of his passing be told until his heir could be located from beyond the wall.” He stared across at Lukios, his mangled hands less than a foot from his face. “Now that you've returned, we can perhaps move forward.”
05-06-2024, 07:46 PM
