I thrust my scimitar into its sheath and picked up one of the books. After the mystics' warning, it was almost too much not to open it. I set the book down again but too close to the edge, and would you look at that, it accidentally opened up. My eyes scanned the pages and came away thirsty. The text was dry. It had something to do with the intricacies of paper-making. I kicked the book into the corner and started digging. The books could wait, but my shriveled insides couldn’t.
If you liked this podcast, you may also like:
BCS 063: “Walls of Paper, Soft as Skin” by Adam Callaway
BCS 071: “To the Gods of Time and Engines, a Gift” by Dean Wells
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