Location: Wizard Tower 21st Floor
"Are you sure you don't want me to do it?" It wasn't that Atkin didn't trust Arya to make the tea, but he didn't trust Arya to make the tea. The way she carried herself as she handled the kettle, the lack of confidence her body language exuded, they all indicated that she was going to make a massive cock of the whole situation. Which wouldn't tear him up too badly. He still didn't particularly care all that much for tea, much to his teacher's chagrin. It was alright, he liked it. It helped with the headaches, but he wasn't chained to it as she was. All that said, he'd still rather not have the day start off on the wrong foot.
Atkin briefly contemplated the two options presented to him. Go to the stuffy Manuscriptorium to maybe talk to an "Uncle Marcie" that he'd been blue-balled on for the past 5 months, but more likely end up waiting around in the lobby for nothing. Again. Or he could go out into the forest, meet some potentially cute Physicians and even more tempting, actually be allowed to do something other than reading, listen to lectures or go through study games. All of those things were well and fine, but he was a restless young lad on the best of days. Being stuck with an obviously neutered version of the curriculum was driving him a bit crazy, even if he knew it was for his own health. That Sicknesse was a nasty bitch, and he certainly didn't want to go further down that path. But conversely, he needed to do
something. "Unless you've got any other ideas, the forest seems like the best use for the day. If you haven't gotten anything so far about Asha and her amulet from the Manuscriptorium, I don't think that's gonna change anytime soon. For all we know it's just like an antique that gets handed down and every wearer throws in all their Magykal power, so it amplifies the Magyk of whoever wears it to a stupid degree." All conjecture on his part, but her obsession with this had started to wear thin over the last few months. There's some peculiarity about the lady, but it's not so important or interesting that you need to be digging your nose in it half a year later.
Location: Manuscriptorium
The storage facilities were being maintained more or less to standard. Perhaps a bit further below standard than would be ideal, but the Manuscriptorium was a vast machine with moving parts constantly at interplay. Even in the best run operations there would be some decay in the proper order of things. As long as they did not continue this level of disarray or (god forbid) let it slip further, they would remain unmolested.
As Amundsen was busy inquiring on the misplacement of a tome from its proper place to a shelf on the opposite side of the room, the Chief Hermetic Scribe felt his eye drawn to a particular feature. In the corner of the room was a little hatch. It was designed to connect to the ice tunnels that ran underneath the Castle. Such infrastructural quirks had long since been abandoned, yet the vestiges of the past remained. Curious how after all these years that the framework remained intact despite the ravages of time.
But amusement over the loose ends of days past were not what had drawn his attention. It was that the hatch was off. He had seen that hatch thousands of times before. He knew what it looked like. Somebody had been tampering with it. Leaving Murphy to his business, the chief made his way over to that forgotten corner and crouched next to it. It would have been one thing had the tampering been done in any manner that could be likened to subtle, this was an affront. Whoever had messed with it was careless, as if taking a crowbar to pry it off. Perhaps they believed the out of sight nature of the room and the hatch would protect their vandalism from discovery. Such arrogance would be punished in full force. But now was not the time. He still had business to attend to. Later he could have his scribes comb through the security logs.
As he rose, his eye was drawn to yet another part of the storage. On a shelf about 20 centimeters above eye level there were two books. One was a frayed, leatherbound diary of some old tax collector, long forgotten. The one directly next to it was the biography of one of the famous noblemen of the previous century. He traveled the world, engaging in a wide variety of adventures, making him something of a celebrity, but with several fabrications among the true stories. But there should have been another book between them. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember. It was missing, and this could not be aboded by.
The Chief Scribe approached a few of the scribes who were busy transcribing the current inventory sheet from the original master copy to several expendable back-up copies that were used by the junior scribes in their daily activities.
"The Inventory Sheet." He commanded, holding out his hand for one of the workers to hand him the master copy. The closest scribe, a middle aged woman with a couple grey hairs interweaved with the natural mousy brown locks she bore, hadn't noticed his approach, so when he spoke, she jumped out of her chair, in the process, knocking over the inkwell she was using directly onto the master copy of the inventory sheet, ruining the entire thing without the intervention of some Magyk spell. The chief's cold blue eyes looked at the sheet, and then at the hapless scribe, who had already begun to profusely apologize. They narrowed.
"Begone." With that one word, the other scribes in that room looked away from their former coworker, and she was left to gather her belongings and leave the Manuscriptorium. She was likely a senior member of the lower ranks of the organization. It was a shame to have to release an experienced scribe like that, but to make such a callous mistake due to not paying attention to one's surroundings on a day like this. She should have known better.
