arcane
The old man perused his collection of writing implements. Which one should he use today? There were so many options. A good sturdy ball point? Or maybe something more elaborate, like the feather quill? He supposed it depended on what he was writing. Different tool for different jobs and all that.
He Turned away from the wall of writing tools and to the book. It was blank, as always. But that would change soon enough. It always did once something to write on graced his desk. Yesterday it had been a dusty old scroll. Today was a book. The cover was good, but cracked, leather, and the pages were yellow with age. An older book then. He closed his eyes in thought. Something obscure then. Something with weight to it. Nothing fancy though. No, that was reserved for newer texts. Sure some embellishments and flowery language was expected, but the core should remain accurate.
Maybe something with some real power to the words? He had not penned a good grimoire in…well, he forgot. It had been a long time. It had been so long since he had written out so much as a magic scroll that he almost forgot he could sometimes. But, then again, as time wore on magic was becoming less and less important. Technology was to modern day magic, but it just lacked that certain special oomph that a real spell had.
And this was not a modern book, so he might even be able to get away with it. People would have a fit. Opening an old tome and expecting an old record book or story, and getting the method to turn people blue. That would be great fun to watch. Then again, with the way the world was these days, he supposed that someone could get in trouble with even simple magic.
It was not as interesting, but maybe it would be best to stick with something mundane. Maybe a book of songs to some minor lord would be good? He could write one of those quickly enough. But it was so boring. Sure a bit of obscure knowledge was always fun, but still. There were so many of them that if he wrote that, the best he could hope for was the book being stuck in a museum and copied by people who did not appreciate his work.
He had written enough dusty old books and cargo manifests that he was itching to break out the really interesting writing tools for once. Sure it might cause problems, but they would be entertaining. And that was good. It was living up to the purpose of books. The two purposes he knew well, to entertain and to inform. A book of magic would do both of those things.
The old man smiled and nodded. He went to the wall of writing implements and chose the one he wanted. It was long and thin, made of a material mankind had long forgotten about. It was a tool used for writing magic. He took it almost reverently, brought it to the book, and began to write.
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So does this guy write every book in existence and "send" it to the author? Or is it more of a general muse situation? I wonder. Maybe someday I'll figure it out.
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