“A storm rages outside the stone chambers. The wind whistles through the arrow slits, whipping the candlelight into a frenzy; the shadows on the wall dance disturbingly to the rhythm of ceaseless thunder. One hooded figure navigates the shadowy halls, making its way briskly down the staircase toward the heart of the tower.
The man throws back his hood to reveal a wizened face, the candlelight washing over creased skin and hardened features. His dark, beady eyes scan the library. All is in order. He walks the aisles, stopping from time to time, bringing his hand to rest on one of the many, ancient tomes. There is magic in this place, he thinks. It seems obvious during such storms.
He handles the books carefully as he methodically removes, inspects and replaces each in turn. Restoration is one of the many duties to which he must attend, and he attends to his many duties with a devotion bordering on obsessions. He opens one of the ancient books, laying it a