Ladders

Osthryn cranes her neck at the massive vaulted ceiling above her. For several weeks now she has accompanied Oswald to the Library. Still, the ladders stretching dizzyingly between multi-storey shelves and platforms hold her imagination in a way she could not have thought possible. The Royal Library was the culmination of centuries of effort - her own lifespan at least. To the people of Mountainkeep, she is sure this is a generational symbol of pride.

The lengths to which humans went to preserve their knowledge for the generations to come is something that Osthryn finds deeply fascinating. In the North, oral traditions and songs are the main medium by which the people transmit their histories to the following generations. Songs are sung before bed, at sunrise, at festivals, and during the workday. Seemingly, the only time anyone was not hearing or retelling a story or legend was when they slept. Books and libraries are not strange in the North, they are often well used; but the cultural preference for oral tradition dominates the region to this day. Any library Osthryn has ever seen pales in comparison to this.

The towering shelves and magnificently dense collection of tomes are merely part of Osthryn’s growing wonder at the Royal Library. Mages, Scribes, and townsfolk alike crowd its floors, all freely engaging with and using magic. In her northern enclave, folk magic like tea-leaf reading and herbal healing are the effective limit of acceptable practice. Any semblance of real power behind a healing or a harvest is met with suspicion of potential draconic heritage. Human healers and Dragons in human guise work alongside each other in Bettramon, with both Dragon and human none the wiser to the other’s identity. For Osthryn, magic is a delicate balance of safety and effectiveness. For the people here, magic is something to be flaunted.

Nothing emphasizes this casual, utilitarian attitude towards magic more than the hundreds of tiny blue wisps traversing the Library shelves. Like little flashes of lightning, the tiny creatures appear and disappear at will. Those not actively attending a scribe or a reader are dutifully indexing the vast collection. They dart between books, shelves, and ladder rungs as they create and discover references between works.

While the little wisps are a great help in simplifying the search for literature in this maze, they cannot completely relieve the people of Mountainkeep of the effort of looking for the correct tome themselves.

Osthryn nods in greeting to Oswald, who is busily transcribing his extensive travel-notes in a personal repository of research tomes. He is so engrossed, he nearly misses her appearance at his writing stand. Osthryn doesn’t let it bother her, as she is no stranger to the nature of this work. She takes the small pile of query-cards that had accumulated at Oswald’s side through the early morning, and makes her way to the ladder corresponding to the subject on the first card. The almost-imperceptible lateral sway bothers her far less now than it did the first time she ascended it. Heights are not naturally supposed to bother a Dragon. That, however, is assuming that her fear was naturally acquired. Osthryn resents that it, along with everything else in her that conspired to make her world smaller, was not naturally acquired at all.

Nevertheless, she still refuses to look down unless absolutely necessary.

“Soek," Osthryn whispers, holding the card out in front of her. A blue light falls on her hands, a precursor to the little flame that floats before her. Osthryn cannot help but smile in gratitude at the wisp’s fast response – it must have been close by. Normally it can be quite a wait if the wisps are far or occupied. Osthryn has also heard that groups of them mysteriously disappear for days at a time, leaving the remaining wisps over-worked and slow to answer. She watches the wisp hovering between her face and the card she holds in her hand, the flame dancing while it comprehends the scrawled query.

"Wēs hāl, hū hāttest þū?" a voice cuts through the silence. The wisp, startled by the sudden interruption, darts forward through the query card and disappears into the shelf.

With a defeated sigh, Osthryn turns her head to the disturbance. In her wonder of the wisp, she hardly noticed the second ladder rolling across the railing toward her. Unnoticed still, was the characteristic sway of a climber determinedly making his way to her position. Now, however, the disturbance makes himself unmistakably known — chasing her lucky wisp away.

“Hmm?" She responds, confusion at the unknown language supplanting any annoyance. Her confusion must be contagious, since the young man perched on the ladder next to her tilts his head as she does hers.

"Hwanan eart þū?" comes a second question, his voice rising a little over the generally accepted library volume.

“Sorry, I don’t have the faintest idea what you are saying," Osthryn pans, still a little ticked off at the disappearance of her easier-than-usually-acquired wisp. The young man’s silver-blue eyes widen in disbelief, his face settling into an amused smirk, “You really are from the North, aren’t you?"

Osthryn glanced down at Oswald still at his writing-stand, enveloped in his work, the only likely culprit for this tidbit of information. She squeezes her eyes tightly for a moment when this downward glance reinforces the distance between herself and the floor.
The young man shrugs, the smirk spreading into a full grin, “Old Man Oswald told me. You learned the local speech well, I can hardly detect your accent."

“I am good at languages," Osthryn replies shortly, turning her attention from the admittedly handsome stranger to the query card in her hands. “Clearly not the ones that matter," he challenges teasingly.

Osthryn rolls her eyes. “Do you have a name?"

“Silovar," he provides happily, extending his right hand.

Osthryn looks Silovar up and down, still safely embracing her ladder with both hands. He, on the other hand, has no fear of heights, leaning over precariously to shake her hand, only a single hand and foot securely planted on his ladder. Silovar’s height and broad shoulders only serve to further emphasize the insecurity of his perch in her mind.

Osthryn’s hold of the ladder grows slightly tighter.

“I am Osthryn," she says, her gaze moving from his extended hand to his face. “Oh, come on, pretty sure that even a Northerner would know what a hand-shake is," Silovar presses, keeping her gaze. Osthryn’s eyes briefly flits to the floor, a decision that she regrets when it reminds her once again of exactly just how far she has to fall. Silovar catches the brief action as if he read her mind, and cocks his head, “Pretty sure we could catch ourselves if we fell ..." he says, keeping his hand extended in invitation.

“It’s quite the way down..." 
“... But this ceiling is just a bit too low, we might break something..."

The pair pause, neither statement making sense to either. Osthryn has no idea how to break the awkwardness of the moment, but in an attempt to rid herself of the stranger and continue her work, she moves the query-card to her left hand, hugs the ladder tightly, and extends her right hand to shake Silovar’s own. His eyes traces every movement she makes with newly minted precision and intensified curiosity. Satisfied that she had met his effort, he leans back to his side. Osthryn retracts herself the moment his grip leaves hers, relieved to have both arms firmly within the confines of her ladder again.

“Strange you would have a fear of heights," Silovar observes, hardly giving the silence a moment before he breaks it. Osthryn stares at him in disbelief. “That is not by any means an unreasonable fear to have," she states defensively, absently tapping the back of her left hand three times.

Silovar nods slowly, his eyes not missing the tic, “Fair enough."

“Now, if you would not mind," Osthryn continues, keen to have this strange interaction over with, “I have several queries to get through for Oswald alone, and I doubt that the wisps will so easily come when called with you here." Silovar laughs, “And why is that?"
“You spooked them! Now they will take ages to respond. The cards will not stop coming, you know."

“Here," Silovar raises his palm to the ceiling, a blue wisp materialising in his extended hand. Osthryn hesitantly accepts it. The little wisp happily dances to her upturned palm, a gentle warmth emanating from it. Osthryn smiles her thanks, “Are you a mage?" she asks.

"... maybe."

Osthryn lets the wisp float in front of her, and shows it the card. Once again flames rhythmically dances as it parses the query. Instead of darting through the card into the shelf, the wisp excitedly bounces up and down before launching itself at a heavy green volume two shelves down from her. The title lights up with a blue glow as the wisp darts through it, re-emerging from between the books in front of her to eagerly await her next query.

Silovar gives her a long, pensive look, “You are very interesting."

"Do you say that to every girl you meet?"

Silovar’s eyes sparkle with amusement, "Just the interesting ones."