TEST DRIVE MEME #2

[libraryassistants]

Welcome to the Library

Those who are new awake in the stacks.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep, and the memories of the last things you were doing are hazy at best. But now you’re here, and all you can see is books in every direction, the bookshelves teetering high enough above you to reach to the sky.

A helpful sign points you in the direction of the main circulation desk, and even if you try to ignore it and go in any other direction, the desk is where you will find yourself. A figure sits behind the desk, not even looking up as they sort through books and other media; they look, to your character, to be the exact picture of what they expect a Librarian to be.

Trying to ask the Librarian a question will get them shushed, but they’ll point down a hallway to the side, leading to a kitchenette and what appears to be a dorm room, where they’ll find they’re not alone in this strange place. But once they’ve looked away, when they look back, the Librarian is gone.


The Lobby

Those who are already familiar with the Library will see the Lobby change for the second time. It’s not paper plate UFOs and metal walls this time. Instead there are cheerful garlands strung about, and a stack of books shaped into a Christmas tree taking pride of place. The Help Desk is closed, the ‘Back in 5’ sign once again a bald-faced lie, but there is a menorah sat behind in the window, conveniently just out of reach of anyone who tries to get it. The candles are lit in a… somewhat sporadic fashion, the correct order but with no rhyme or reason to what ‘night’ is being represented. Either time is strange here, whoever’s in charge of it doesn’t know what day it is either, or they simply don’t care. Or some mix of the three.

Those two particular winter holidays are not the only ones represented either; characters will find a smattering of decorations or festive accessories from a great number of holidays, from their own worlds and beyond. There is what looks like a cabinet with instructions to pick your fortune from one of the many drawers. For some reason, there are a number of what looks like a child’s toy ponies placed on and around the cabinet. There are also some posters declaring in bold, decidedly upsetting typeset: “THE GOD-EMPEROR WISHES YOU A FESTIVE SANGUINALIA!” complete with a picture of a certain Library resident in all his feathered, shining glory. (The poster is not remotely shiny, but there are helpful accent lines to show that he should be shining.) And, for some reason, there is also a giant straw goat in the garden now, surrounded by festive strings of lights. Please do not set it on fire.

The Kitchens

It seems the decorations are not the only thing in the holiday spirit. The kitchens, usually bereft of anything but the most basic foodstuffs, are now full to the brim with a variety of holiday foods. There is always a tureen with hot mulled wine and a try of sweet pastries near by it, there’s ham and latkes in the fridge to be heated up, jelly doughnuts, moon cakes, pies, and an assortment of other delicious things. If your character would expect to find a certain thing within the stash, they do, regardless of how niche it may be. Christmas chili? Of course there’s christmas chili!

Oh, and that mulled wine isn’t the only alcohol around either- champagne, sake, hard cider… again, anything anyone might expect to find. Just try not to overdo it too much, alright? Everyone still has to sleep in the same room, and the Assistants aren’t going to show up to hold your hair back.

Crafts and More

What good are holidays without crafts? The Maker’s Space has been specially supplied with anything you might need to make your festive crafts- this includes everything you’d need for a gingerbread construction! (You’d think this would be in the kitchen, but don’t kid yourself- those things are not for eating.) There’s strips of colorful paper rings and instructions on how to make your own, little things of clay and paint and directions on how to craft your own dreidel, ’stained glass’ paper lanterns, and more. Oh, and glitter. Obviously there is a lot of glitter available.

There are also snow globe kits, mostly generic winter themes- trees, presents, and the like. Strangely enough, however, when they’re complete and shaken, they’ll show a memory from the person who shook it- a memory of a holiday, or snow, or generally something that invokes the feeling of the season- light, and hope, and togetherness. It’s fragmented, almost stop-motion in between the falling bits of ‘snow,’ but once it has settled the normal, basic scene inside returns.

Comments

[guilliman]

"Few are so bold with us, you know." But his chiding, too, seems to be in good humor. He's always been fond of mavericks, after all. And he's finding more worth in the eldar, even, since his resurrection.

"Roboute Guilliman, the Thirteenth. And you are?"

[unsheathedfromreality]

A complicated thing happens to Illarion's expression, though it ends back on a wider smile -- with fangs in it. "One of your other brothers explained to me how your father's empire treats nonhumans. Figured I can't make things much worse by being bold."

To say nothing of how he'd once been Warlord, once been a man kings and sovereigns came begging to, and it was long-ingrained habit to carry himself as their peer.

"A shrike. An elf. Born out of the blood of dragons. My people don't give our names to strangers, by custom -- you can call me whatever pleases you."

[guilliman]

"Hm," he says, certainly not denying it.

"'Shrike,' then. Have they been troublesome about that, here? I am not unfamiliar with some groups of our 'elves' -- Eldar, or Aeldari, we would call them -- but they are still young." They will never not be.

[unsheathedfromreality]

"They are still young," Guilliman says, and Illarion glances up at him sidelong -- the quick assessing look so common in a shrike avoiding eye contact. The marks of age and ill-use are obvious in the larger man's flesh, both on the surface and below it. How young was still young, to someone whose father had lived thirty millennia, and whose brothers had already measured centuries?

"Sanguinius hasn't been. Also haven't asked him, if he intends to follow that point of your law." It didn't seem relevant with someone who was both so genial and so ... forthright. "Night Haunter," because that's the name he was given, "tried to kill me. I got him back. We've settled it with a contract to be fulfilled if your empire ever finds my world."

Did he think that would happen? He's not certain, has no reason to believe that they necessarily came from the same worldline. But it seemed a useful deal to make.

[guilliman]

"Both within expectations. To state the obvious, perhaps, Curze shall come to collect, should that occur. But the likelihood seems low, from what I have seen so far." His tone and expression are the pleasant charm of a very good politician, with bright curiosity backing it. "To be able to match him is no small feat. Are there records of the confrontations?"

declaring that Illarion's mind control weakness gives him negative resistance to primarch aura. rip

[unsheathedfromreality]

It's a curious thing, that Illarion -- having made of himself a charismatic politician in his own right, so long ago -- can recognize such a persona and still lean into the warmth of it.

Doubly strange: He doesn't have emotions to be swayed any longer. It shouldn't matter to him one way or another what a stranger -- a stranger from a murderous, xenophobic empire who'd put down the gods if it could -- thinks of him.

But it does, in this case, matter.

"No." His makes himself sound apologetic. It's clearly an act but he's trying. And then -- because doing that was strange, and didn't feel quite him, he adds, "We didn't bother dragging a scribe with us into the woods. After midnight and raining, at that. A camera would've been no use either."

At least, not the kind he was familiar with. It has not quite clicked that recording technology could be much, much better than silent black-and-white film, shot slow in bright daylight.

"Is Curze the name his mother gave him?" On a totally different tack -- because names are important.

oh no poor thing... thankfully, robbie's a good boy <3

[guilliman]

"There is no apology necessary," Guilliman reassures, genuinely pleasant. Is he aware of the pull he exerts upon others? He isn't unaware. But neither does he press the advantage, most of the time. It is simply a fact of his existence. "He is an accomplished combatant, and I would have been interested in watching you counter him. I think any of us would be interested in seeing the others fight someone new, truly."

They are all brothers, after all. But brothers do take a certain pleasure in seeing the pulp beaten out of each other. And they are all warriors, and generals, besides, and warriors and generals crave always more information on victory and defeat.

"Konrad Curze is the name our Father gave him. He rejects it, I believe, for the most part, and wishes to be called the Night Haunter."

he IS a good boy, who needs a nap

[unsheathedfromreality]

"Truly," Illarion echoes. He's been general and spymaster -- Warlord -- enough himself to know that he's teased something very interesting about his own capacity in battle -- and the Veil says he should never go further than that.

Night Haunter already knows too much, capable of tracking him ((outside)) the world and seizing his ((outself)). Giving away more of his slim advantage over the primarchs is not wise.

But there's still a part of him that almost feels like it wants to promise a later demonstration of his skills. "Might happen again sometime," is what that part manages, against his desire to bite his own tongue and still it.

On to the safer topic -- ironic as it is to think of it that way. "Who named him Night Haunter? And to whom is he Night Haunter?"

Not quite the same question.

[guilliman]

"It is not unlikely," he agrees. It's regrettable, but realistic.

"We were cast across the galaxy, while still in our infancy. He was known as the Night Haunter on the planet he landed on, and grew to majority on, and laid claimed for his own. I do not know if he named himself, or if they named him."

None of what Roboute says is unknown, in his time of origin. None of it is secret, or forbidden. He's just enjoying talking.

[unsheathedfromreality]

That corroborates what Illarion had heard from Night Haunter himself -- down to the detail of the planet's conquest.

Galaxy. Planet. The scale the Imperium operates on is still difficult for him to wrap his head around. It will swallow Nephele like a heron does a fish, if they're ever found.

"It's the name he tells people. Why do you call him Curze?"

[guilliman]

"It is the name our Father wished for him. 'Night Haunter' is a well enough of a title, but not a name."

[unsheathedfromreality]

Heretofore, Illarion's been looking away from Guilliman's face -- a shrike doesn't make eye contact lightly, with all the risks involved in it.

But at this answer, his head snaps up, gold-in-black gaze locked on the primarch's.

"Your father lost him, leaving him to grow to manhood with no family. No guidance. If he were mortal, he would not even have language. It is a miracle he is intact as he is.

"What right has such a father to name the child he didn't run to find? Let alone call that child curse?"

[guilliman]

He raises his eyebrows, turning to meet this Shrike's gaze. A quiet, understated change of expression. But as dangerous as any other action a primarch can take.

"You assume much of the Emperor of Mankind," he said, slowly, lowly. The next words bitter as ash in his mouth, but still he says them, "beloved by all. Of His motivations, which none have yet fully discerned. And of His reach, which exceeds all expectations even to this day."

A threat. A warning. A warning.

[unsheathedfromreality]

The warning does not go unheard.

The shrike inclines his head -- acknowledgment? understanding? -- and says lowly, "The Library is a jealous place. It cut the collar of an all-seeing tyrant from off my neck."

What is the risk of another? He's already dead.

"You should speak to the Assistants about your father's reach."

He drops his gaze, finally, and looks off in -- what he believes is -- the direction of the circulation desk.

"And then, maybe, call your brother by his right name."

[guilliman]

"At least to ensure that they do not overstep their bounds." His eyes follow Illarion's, a desperate spark in those sulfur-flames. Could it? Could they?

"He had gained power over the millennia that my brothers do not yet comprehend." A short, sharp jerk of his head toward the poster that speaks of the God-Emperor, before they settle back on the other man. "And He has encroached with cleansing flame upon the realm of decay to bring my soul back into His service, specifically. Blessed am I to be his hand."

And so, so tired.

[unsheathedfromreality]

This time, the look Illarion flicks up at the larger man is more assessment than challenge.

Maybe this one's more of a kindred spirit than he thought. (And isn't that a horrifying notion, for both of them. If Illarion could be horrified.)

"You too?" he says. It could almost be sympathetic.

"Your brother hadn't ever heard of necromancy. Wants to stamp my Monarch out for the audacity of raising things like me."

Sounds like it got loose anyway, though maybe not from Nephele.

[guilliman]

Oh?

...this is a xenos, still, but perhaps also a kindred spirit. And the Eldar he has never found that offensive, honestly... slow and careful, he answers. "They are still young." Repeating himself. Then, elaborating.

"I have tasted death twice, and been pulled back from that brink both times. Once, by Mechanicum science and Aeldari witchery, and the second by my Father's hand. I am not the only one," he clarifies, "but I am the only one of my brothers, that I know of."

(How tragic, that he is still unaware of the Lion's exploits on the other side of the Great Rift.)

"It is no easy thing."

[unsheathedfromreality]

"One wonders who they'll be, when they get older." If those are the fledglings, what was the grown dragon?

Hard to hope for someone like this man, affable as he is, despite all the leashed violence in him. At least for Night Haunter.

He tucks Aeldari away for a later question, because there's something else he's noticed. "Or they don't all get that chance, not so?" If there are others, not revived.

A low huff. "Hard not to envy them." It is no easy thing.

"Think they did a better job with you than the King of Eyes did with me. No mistaking you for a corpse."

[guilliman]

"Indeed," he says softly. He, too, would love to find that out. "Though," he adds, dryly, "if you are worrying about how killable any one of us has ever been, you are already in dire straits."

He won't be getting any of those details from Roboute, at least.

"That would have made my job harder." A soft, curious sound. "'The King of Eyes'? Your -- patron?" Tell him about your deathless benefactor, elf-man.

[unsheathedfromreality]

He gives a low, huffing laugh at that. "I'd say I am. Wouldn't matter here anyway -- death doesn't stick."

Unless you were already among the walking, waking dead on arrival. That wasn't repaired.

"It would, wouldn't it? Can't win hearts and change minds if their owners would bury an axehead to keep you away." But a soldier, a murderer, wasn't hindered by looking dead already. Quite the opposite, when it came to striking terror in his foes.

The inevitable question, of course, follows his lead. Illarion's expression twitches at "patron". "The aforementioned tyrant," he replies. "My puppeteer. Didn't need minds or hearts, just bodies to drown the world in.

"Your Father at least wants some things to remain. Eyes -- doesn't."