Unfortunately, someone is looking for them. Well— books like them at the very least, the elemental arcane presently being a rather pressing subject of study.
(She has not created a tornado in the dungeon; that's just the sound of the sea breaking against the Gallows' island. Obviously.)
Unfortunately for the man currently in possession of this collection, that rival someone is Wysteria de Foncé. By all accounts, the young lady is something of a force of nature with or without arcane assistance; and indeed there is something distinctly hurricane like in the figure she cuts as she hustles along library's main aisle, peering down each stack as she passes and thrusting her head into quiet niches. Her skirts flap. Her hard soled boots click. When she spots the likely object of her hunt, she approaches at velocity.
"You!" is not the timbre typically reserved for places of study, but rather a shrill indictment. She's slightly red in the face from running all over. "I need this book."
She slaps her right hand down on one of the thicker tomes and makes to draw it from his assembled collection. On her motionless left hand, she is wearing a glove—no, she isn't. Up close, even from this chaotic perspective, it's clear that the left hand is the end of a metal-smithed prosthetic.
research!
(She has not created a tornado in the dungeon; that's just the sound of the sea breaking against the Gallows' island. Obviously.)
Unfortunately for the man currently in possession of this collection, that rival someone is Wysteria de Foncé. By all accounts, the young lady is something of a force of nature with or without arcane assistance; and indeed there is something distinctly hurricane like in the figure she cuts as she hustles along library's main aisle, peering down each stack as she passes and thrusting her head into quiet niches. Her skirts flap. Her hard soled boots click. When she spots the likely object of her hunt, she approaches at velocity.
"You!" is not the timbre typically reserved for places of study, but rather a shrill indictment. She's slightly red in the face from running all over. "I need this book."
She slaps her right hand down on one of the thicker tomes and makes to draw it from his assembled collection. On her motionless left hand, she is wearing a glove—no, she isn't. Up close, even from this chaotic perspective, it's clear that the left hand is the end of a metal-smithed prosthetic.