The liveliness of a place could be measured by the obvious presence of its inhabitants; this was knowledge East had by now well memorized, its truth tested and proven time and again by various caverns and the dwellings within them. Orion, for all the residents that slunk amongst its rubble, might as well have no pulse thanks to the few which actually bothered to interact under its sparkling ceiling. Those that did, courtesy of such events as the Deathmatches and nasty dispositions, were far likelier to end their encounters permanently, any flutter of a heartbeat from the surrounding ruins silenced before it could ever progress into the faintest hope of recovery. The cave of false lights forever remained in crumbling disrepair. No doubt, once he finally winged his way back to the old abode, this state would be virtually unchanged from the last time eyes had laid upon it.

Eridanus comparatively possessed far more squirming bodies to witness, whether landbound or in the air. If not for more recent circumstances, one could've claimed it was thriving. But now that optimism might wither in the face of the mindless hordes operating according to some alien will. The white threads throughout the landscape represented a disgusting leash upon the populace, flora and fauna alike choked until all shambled and grew in the same precise manner.

The palace, in the aftermath of the festivities which had drawn him in its direction much sooner than initially planned, fell somewhere in between the two extremes: although the merriment provided by food, song, and dance were long absent, the opulent halls could not be called a tomb. Despite the main sound echoing through them at present being the soft click of his talons on tile, every so often behind closed and halfway opened doors murmured signs of activity. Voices backed by music once, the whisper of a brush on canvas another time.

And then at the entrance to one room came a familiar crisp snap—the slow turn of a page as a book was browsed through.

Truth be told, it hadn't been an expected noise, not for a bird unused to the concept of libraries in a world where information seemed rarely preserved and left to rot. East, in his wanderings, had set sights on the more tangible goal of finding either a flower plucked from the tree residing on Cepheus's grounds or an individual acquainted well enough with its existence to explain the properties those petals might contain to be of any interest. Nevertheless, to hear what typically only came from the book he often hauled along piqued a significant amount of curiosity. It guided his beak to make an inquisitive peck against wood before allowing himself a cautious peer inside.

"Pardon the ruckus. Am I interrupting anything here?"

Puzzling over scribbles did tend to take quite a bit of concentration, particularly when they bore no apparent connection to any known object or location.

@Bentley

The large, thick-furred hound lying sprawled on his chest inside the library--hind legs loosely kicked out behind him, a massive tome open between his forepaws--looked up with surprise in his golden eyes.

Books on their shelves lined every wall of this room. Chairs--a chaise lounge on one side of the room, too--were lined with pillows and more were strewn about on the floor; a fireplace held a gently-crackling flame behind the dog.

This apparently peaceful scene was broken abruptly as the dog "Woof!"ed, scrambling up wildly and clumsily like a massive puppy. His tail set to wagging happily behind him as he pushed for East, delight in his eyes. There was an attempt--successful or no--to snuffle at the bird, to sniff him over and briefly get to know him by the scent of feathers (and whatever else there might be); then Bentley had dropped back on his haunches, that tail sweeping the floor of dust instead.

"Hello! No! I am Bentley! You can call me Ben! This is the library!" He could not, as it turned out, sit still for long; an instant later he was up and prancing excitedly around the room, hardly able to contain his own energy.

His entire hind-end swayed wildly as his tail wagged his whole body.

"There are books here! And places to sit! And a fire! Please, come in, you can sit or read or look around!" Then he glanced back, grinning happily at his new guest.

@East

Nature and nurture defined a being: for East, born quiet and preferring observation over idle chatter, the ruins that had surrounded him for most of his life provided little to challenge behavior. Quite literal dead silence had only reinforced his own, and the low energy environment never inspired a more gregarious personality to rise above it all. Subterfuge cultivated alongside stubborn independence took the place of lessons on playing nice with others and trusting kind faces. To say he was ill-equipped to deal with a friendly whirlwind of fluff rising to meet his inquiry was, unsurprisingly, a gross understatement.

Rubbing shoulders against and enduring the breaths of beasts far uglier and larger than the one which greeted him inoculated East to what could've been gripping paralysis. As no teeth were bared and the worst intrusion to his personal space turned out to be a curious nose prodding near feathers, it proved easier to resist the urge to introduce this canine to the sharp point of his beak. On instances where interest strayed too close for comfort, a shuffle of feet or a backward jerk of the head distanced him slightly; otherwise he kept put, retaining a bird of prey's nerve over lesser creatures' instinctual desire to struggle and flee potential predators.

"Ahhh, yes. Books." At a rare and remarkable loss of vocabulary, a weak chuckle left him. Once afforded enough space to, he ruffled mild agitation out of his wings. "Yeah, I can... see that."

This Bentley's inability to be sedentary for more than a fleeting moment and overall presentation was like being witness to the repeat occurrence of a once in a lifetime phenomenon. Many cycles had passed since but memory persisted of similar rampant enthusiasm exhibited by a shouty lizard peddling her wares. Despite the greater size and furry nature of the fellow, he might as well be her doppelganger in disposition—just about as baffling too. He didn't know whether to applaud or groan at the resemblance.

Probably best to forge onward and avoid being drowned under an unprecedented tidal wave of positive emotion. Focus on the important details that had brought him knocking here.

"A bit impressive really. These look in a fair bit better shape than mine."

As he continued to linger in the entryway, a gentle sweep of his foot brought into view a notebook. Its leather binding visibly worn, abused by time and the elements, it was a well-travelled item of intrigue. And that was setting aside personal knowledge of the eerie voice attached to its existence.

Noticing the open tome laid out in front of the fireplace, he relented to the burning question that'd drawn him here. "So you spend your time here. Deciphering—er, reading—these? Or did I catch you in the middle of tidying the collection up and you happen to also be the welcome party?"

@Bentley

Bentley's eyes lit up even further, ears pricking up, at the mention of his books being "in better shape than mine." "You have books, too?!" Bentley cried, prancing. He was keeping a polite distance but the sound of claws scuffing marble was... constant, now. "I've never heard of anyone else having books! Do you have a library? Is there another library!?"

Oh, his excitement. It overflowed and spilled out like light, the entire room echoing with the sounds of his movement, panting, and happy voice.

"Oh! I was just reading," he explained, hastening to scamper over to the tome he'd left laying open. He nudged gently at its side, careful not to wet the pages with his nose. "It's about clouds! And weather! I don't know what a sky is, but it talks about skies. At-mose-fears!" And he glanced proudly, happily, up at East. "I help keep it all in order, yes! But I also read everything I can. It's good to learn! And to know what--um, what books will help someone, if they come looking for something specific!"

He was calming, now. The waving tail no longer wagged his full weight; maybe he just couldn't sustain that level of energy for all that long. Either way he was deeper in the room now, his friendly demeanor a clear invitation for East to join him there.

@East

If he'd have been asked his opinion on Bentley's glee falling to more tolerable levels, no falser of a claim would there have been than for him to state that such boundless sunshine would be dearly missed. Not to say he preferred languishing in the pits of gloom and debris riddling the caverns—he couldn't imagine many who'd desire to. It's simply where the canine possessed an overflowing cup of optimism, East would rather fill his partially and avoid unnecessary spills on the flooring.

With less of a flood to wade through anymore, no further reason existed to reconsider choices and not be drawn inside. Picking up his ever mysterious book, he took a few steps past the threshold before letting wings carry him deeper into the room. But the current reading material his host had returned to was not the destination he landed at. First came a stop at one of the nearby chairs available for visitors' comfort.

There he leaned forward, perched on its curved arm, to deposit his cargo on the well-cushioned seat. Once it sat centered and pretty as a crown ready for a monarch's coronation, a squint was directed toward the tome laying beside paws. From his perspective, the contents were plenty discernible, the marks on the pages the typical black ones he was acquainted with; their intelligibility, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. A familiar tale, too, seeing as it was the same problem he continued to have regarding his narrator-towing companion.

"That much is buried in all that black and white, huh? I suppose I've got to take you at your word because from where I'm looking, there's nothing to tell apart your clouds from those mose-fears you're talking about.

"Bit of the reason why you caught my attention actually. If library is what you call a book hoard, it's the first I've ever seen. And this bundle I have here"—a talon rapped upon the old journal's cover —"is all I've got. Whatever it's saying, I'm not hearing, and the images are the most I can understand. Figured if anyone's staring at these for fun, they might have a clue where to start making sense of everything."

@Bentley

Bentley listened in typical Good Dog™ fashion: head cocked to one side, ears pricked, tongue lolling and tail gently wagging. His eyes (and attention) dropped to the indicated book, at length, ears pricking up further with interest. He padded over, claws clicking on the stone.

He'd be lying if he claimed to have understood everything East had said; his own method of communication was simple and direct, and as familiar as he was becoming with words and dialogue, East was complex and somewhat roundabout. But he grasped that the book was something East owned, and that the bird hadn't understood the writing within--that much was clear.

His tongue swiped black lips before pulling in entirely: a necessity, because drool (he had found) was bad for paper. His nose, too, he briefly touched to his forepaws to dry, lest it drip on the pages. Then he plodded closer. "Show me which part and I'll try to read it!" he offered, tail still drifting from side to side.

A ball of light coalesced beside him, hovering overhead to provide a clear glow to whatever East was going to show him.

@East

"Which part?" Despite being far from the classification of parrot, he couldn't help himself. Burdened by a grand sprawl of incomprehensibility bound in leather, the generous attempt at assistance brought forth a mild chuckle courtesy of its wording. "Well, how much time have you got?"

"No, you don't have to answer that. I think I can narrow it down to the most relevant," the hawk steamed onward, a splayed wing waving aside any possible response to the rhetorical question. Already he was leaning over to delicately open the front cover and reveal the interior of the cryptic text he'd encountered. Minding the sharp point of his beak, he nudged along the pages.

Unlike later sections, he'd practically memorized the amount of turns it took to reach this one. Not too difficult, considering it followed that first illustration the musclebound partiers at the arena had called the Transcendence door. There, rendered in breathtaking detail, was a sketched example of bell-like white flowers.

He tapped on it.

"I've got good word and eyes that tell me these are from around here. The rest?" And at this, his head swung to point toward the notes beginning on the adjoining page. "I haven't the foggiest idea, but my best guess is they have some relation."

@Bentley

CRIME NOIR

THE FLOWERS

This entry begins with the sketch of flowers: delicate, white, bell-like. And the threads of text beyond, with one now here to unravel its literary mystery, weaves rather a grim tale.

The one who wrote this, if one were to believe the words inked upon the page, claims to have found this journal quite by accident.

"I have only chosen to continue this journal after some debate. This page was the first that was empty; the last thing written within was this sketch... and the drops of blood smeared there. If I am to believe everything written before, this book's previous owner sought a new form of grand ascension: a ritual, to gain a power beyond imagining."

Should the reading hound flip the pages back a few, he would find that this seemed to be the case: the first pages of the book, with its sketch of concentric rings, elaborated deeply upon a new method of ascension. Their first stop? Well... it had been the rings. These proving a failure--a transcendence of the wrong sort--they had come next for the flowers.

Ahh-... but back to our new writer's tale. "Given that there is no sign now of the owner, I imagine they must have found the ascension that they seek... though I do not know how the book ended up all the way out here. I will seek out these flowers for myself, and see."

Bentley began slowly, sliding down onto his chest with forelimbs out beside him (paws to either side of the book) and hind legs splayed behind. His forehead wrinkled up with concentration as he began to read, sounding out the words with practiced, if still halting, ease.

"It says, 'I have only... cho-sen... to con-tin-yoo this journal'--that's a kind of book! One that someone writes um--the story of their life! What happens every day!" he explained, with a friendly glance up at East. "So--'after some de-bate.' That means argument. With themselves, maybe. 'This page was the first that was... emp-teeh. The last thing writing--no, written--with... within, was this sketch...'"

And on he went, bit by bit. He stumbled some on the word "ascension," squinting up to ask East if he knew what this meant; he explained, too (needed or not) that 'beyond imagining' probably meant "a lot, or something!"

He did not, in the end, flip farther back in the book, though he did tilt his head and lean down as if trying to see the start without actually turning any pages. "So what's this thing about?" he asked, bright with curiosity. And--belatedly--"oh! The flowers! Uhh. There's lots of flowers in the gardens? I don't remember them all, but that's where we could look," he offered.

@East

It'd have been a lie to say East didn't enjoy being right. That word "enjoy" perhaps was wrong to discuss the familiar rock settling to the bottom of his stomach though, "grim satisfaction" the better phrasing to use for the confirmation of grisly imaginings being gruesome reality. The truth of those dried spots on paper had been in flux until now, flickers of hope slowly losing ground against persistent evidence of the caves' cruelty. But there it was now, undeniable support for long held suspicions: spilt blood, its existence revealed straight from the writer's hand, likely before scarlet drops had aged brown.

Talons tightened their grip on their armrest perch while he dipped his beak inward. Chest feathers were preened, straightened out unlike his mind's growing tangle of thoughts. He didn't become too entrapped to ignore the remainder of the passage however; Bentley seeking insight on vocabulary at the one point resulted in a murmured, "It means to rise," and nothing further beyond a soul-expelling sigh.

He knew this wasn't the last sign of blood spatter within these pages. They marked the conclusion of every entry, accompanied by a change in the scrawling—the transfer of the book to yet another owner. The end of an author's story in quite a final manner, unless each who'd bothered carrying the collection of notes happened to be prone to paper cuts.

All chasing the same promise of power? Quite probably. He'd witnessed lesser beings die to the same pitfall before, trusting hunger pangs and their noses over common sense. What else was this than a less tangible morsel to crave, suspended over an as of yet unknown danger?

The second writer possessed more optimistic assumptions of their predecessor's fate, but East had the tales following theirs to back up this disheartening pattern. While the end points differed, the cycle remained: discovery, documentation, and death.

What did this mean for him, tasked to investigate an object whose contents were possibly key to so many demises? Just as important, where did the Narrator play into this, that invisible guardian of the book?

"Spot on." Nodding at the mildly slowly uptake of the present subject, he abandoned prying at feathers to straighten into a more business-like posture. "Flowers, yes. But I can save you a bit of time sniffing every petal around. There's a tree by one of the tunnels leading out of here I've seen at a distance. Looks like they could be a living copy of that image there."

White, at least. Bell-like? Public opinion—public as it could be between two Gembound—had yet to establish that.

"They did describe them more, right?" came a verbal nudge. "Be a bit brainless not to if they were taking this power boost talk so seriously."

@Bentley