In the midst of all the bustle and chaos of the snow capped city, stood a small, serene guardian of homely stillness. Most of whom were aware of its timid, albeit hospitable, presence called it "The Library"; Lucille, however, called it home.

In a way, she was not mistaken in that slightly selfish dubbing of the public building of unwithheld wisdom, having inherited the library and its business from her late grandfather, and, while it wasn't officially her dwelling place, she spent more time there than she did in the all too spacious entity of her house. In fact, the only reason she ever returned to her house was to feed her pet cat and sleep, and, even then, she would occasionally fall to rest between the dust sheltered books or bring her snowy furred feline to work whenever she could get away with it.

Perhaps, Lucille was a coward. She was, after all, willing to admit that her love for the library and its paper donned inhabitants was only part of the reason why she would rather h (???)
"Why can't people behave like those in books do?" The bespectacled librarian had often found herself wondering while she arranged books or was forced to speak with a visitor of the comfortable forest of knowledge, "Why can they not be so... Unpredictable?" There was no formula to people, and Lucille herself was formed over that irritable fact, never drawing conclusion as to why she behaved the way she did.

That night, the petite lady was once again seated amongst piles of manuscripts and printed pages, flipping through many of them with an air of fond nonchalance. She had read a majority of them, but there was a sort of odd loveliness to allowing her cyan spheres to pass over words and phrases familiar to her, knowing that, unlike human beings, books and their characters would never change. Suddenly, however, her irises spied the title of a copy that was foreign to her trained senses, making her pause and pick up its leather bound spine between her niveous palms of marmoreal smoothness.

- - -

"The Descendent of Elegast" the cover read in fine golden lettering, only the symbol of a crowned, twin-tailed, red lion showed beneath the title for imagery. The leather was black, almost like obsidian in contrast to leather, and the fabric had this peculiar sensation to it. Also, if one listened closely, they would hear a faint humming emanating from the book.

What was inside, would be even more peculiar. For the pages had no English words, but instead bits and pieces in German, French and another language that one would seldom figure out. Additionally, small illustrations were littered throughout the narrative, mostly in the margins or near the chapter headings, with the occasional full-page water colour illustration. A majority portrayed what appeared to be some sort of elven prince, accompanied by a rather adrogynous figure in some pieces. Possibly the a love interest, it would seem. Or a mere close companion. Was the young man even a prince? It was difficult to determine based on artwork alone, nonetheless, it was quite clear that this was a high fantasy work, possibly a portion of some epic.

Henri Wilhem Schmit, a distant descendent of King Elegast. Exact genealogy is a bit vague and left in the dust, but regardless this young man had fay running through his veins. Although his lineage was unbeknownst to him, and would have probably been an appreciated explanation as to why various Otherworld beings were always after him, for all sorts of reasons (some he would wish he'd knew know, alas that couldn't be). The beginning of the story entails of a brief background such as this, before transitioning into a scene in which a small lakeside village is being pillaged by Saxon raiders. As for the protagonist, he is doing his very best to be a hero, even with the occasional magical blunder or two.

- - -

Lucille awoke slowly, the burden of sleep weighing heavily down upon her smooth, thin eyelids, though she struggled drowsily against it, sounds of clashing metal and scents of things burning urging her on feistily. Unusually, the first thought she had was that she had somehow wound up at home and that her remarkably ostentatious home had somehow caught on fire. It was a weird thought, even for the lethargic librarian with an overactive imagination, considering how the ground beneath her was rocky and smelled definitively of earth and dirt. That, and she was gradually becoming aware of the mass of people running about with great hullabaloo, screams and hollers lackadaisically seeping into registration within the shells of her curved ears. Her eyes snapped open, staring directly up at a man who appeared rather concerned, if not discombobulated and rather unnerved. What truly caught her attention, however, was the scintillating blade that he gripped by his side, within the grasp of his lithe fingers, its tip dripping with a ruby red liquid that had a sickening thickness to it.

"Blood." The Monegasque cognitioned to herself, her heart seeming to stop within the depths of her chest, her fair blue spheres widening with a dizzying fear. She looked up, vaguely making a note of the man's handsome features and piercing turquoise orbs that appeared to envelope everything it beheld. Her voice was caught in her throat, and for what seemed like several long minutes, she couldn't breathe. Then, she panicked. Scrambling backwards, Lucille became aware of the rest of her surroundings- the strangely antediluvian surroundings alarming her, along with the great giants of men brandishing weapons and howling with throaty, blood chilling screams. Nevertheless, she had more persistent things to worry about at that moment. "Stay away!" She yelled at the queer looking male (or so she suspected it was, though he could fairly well be a woman, too. The petite beauty had no idea which she preferred), surprising herself at how calm she sounded, her melodious voice not wavering in the slightest. In fact, she spoke with a tone that held fine command and regality, which was odd, considering that she had not even the slightest idea whether the pulchritudinous being even understood a word she was enunciating.
                                 
"Who are you? Wh- Where am I?" Demanded she hotly, stupefaction entering her words as she swung her long blonde hair to the side, spraying her perspiring face with filaments of sewn sunlight. Hurriedly, though, she realised that it was hardly the time for questions. "We have to go," snapped the girl, flustered with delusional fear, "Those... They're killing people...!" Distraught and mildly irritated at her asinine observations of what was clearly happening, she turned her attention back to the soldier, scrambling to her feet and effectively cutting her smooth legs in the process. "Oh, please just say something! Just tell me if you even know what I'm saying!"

- - -

Having just recently engaged in an armed conflict against the fiends who stirred up such a ruckus, the adrenaline still pounding his ears proved to be quite deafening, for his response to the, well he assumed she was one, maiden's frantic actions was relatively delayed. Brows furrowing in befuddlement, Henri spared a moment to inspect their immediate surroundings. To his gratitude, it seems a majority of the lot were either preoccupied ravaging homes or intent on saving their own arse. There was really only two parties in situations such as this, an albeit common one he noted in dismay. His attention swiftly returned to the, noticeably foreign, young lady as the ruffling of fabric and the scrambling of feet on dirt drifted into his ears (which, if one observed, were smaller replicas of the elongated, tunnel-like, natural hearing devices of the fay). The girl seemed to have been asking something of him, and he only groaned internally. An inquiry directed to him meant the requirement of a verbal response, more like, and that was something which he lacked the ability to provide. With haste, he made sure to sheath his sword in its scabbard that he was hidden underneath the hooded cloak he wore. Leather armour was momentarily visible at the moment; it seems his attire is not that of a royal knight for certain. The crimson-stained silver seemed to have been a cause of great distress for her, so it would be best to approach her in a less possibly hostile way. The brunette made certain to keep a hand on his sword's hilt, nevertheless, in case this happened to be (yet another) trap of some sort. 

Henri honestly had no clue what the girl was saying, but whatever it was, it sounded strikingly similar to Saxon. Of course, that only made him all the more wary despite the genuine demeanour the girl was so blatantly displaying. Heaving a deep breath to steel his nerves once again, he cautiously approached Lucille, doing his very best to articulate with his hands the following points: 

1.) He had no clue what in God's name she was screeching about in a manner that was mildly dignified.

2.) He was incapable of speech; this was hopefully an understood message, with the gesturing to the throat and a shaking of heads.

3.) Calm the fuck down, let's try getting to safety, away from the filthy bandits, hm?