unfinishedlibrary | for all the world's a stage

Who: The Editors
What: The Library changes once again...
When: January 9- January 22
Where: The Library
Content warnings: Please put them in the comment headers!

The Assistants have vanished into their backroom once again, leaving only the increasingly unbelievable “Back In 5” sign on the Help Desk, but at least they have attempted to impart some knowledge on the Editors before departing (or… attempted to do anything but, depending who you ask). The customary tea cart with drinks and increasingly stale biscuits is parked in its usual spot, though it seems that the quality of the tea at least has improved some. (Still waiting on coffee improvement.)

There’s a new crafting setup in the Maker Space, a table with an iron and machine for making vinyl designs, along with the instructions on how to use it, and a stack of t-shirts in various sizes. Usually there’s something in the correct size, but, well, mistakes happen. While this addition to clothing is a boon, there is the problem that the t-shirts can’t be taken out of the room until some sort of design is put on them. Get creative! Show off your style! Or maybe just steal one of the shirts that are there for display purposes. It’s fine, the Library can make more.

In the second week as the Library begins to change once more, the Lobby’s wooden floor shines with extra polish. The walls make an odd creaking sound as they shift, warping into brick covered with velvet drapings in a rich, dark red. Gold thread twinkles in the stitches, a sense of opulence woven through. The sound of ballroom music drifts by and, while in the Lobby, characters will be taken by the unusual impulse to dance.

Outside, in the Garden, the day/night cycle has paused firmly on a cloudless night. A full moon hangs in the air - literally. About the size of a basketball, it follows the first person who enters the Garden; hovering a couple of meters above their head. A white aura spreads from them, powered by the moon, and those who are caught in its light will find themselves unable to speak anything but the truth.

When the person to whom the moon is attached leaves the garden, the moon and its aura will leave them; and the moon will attach to the next person to enter instead.

On the circulation desk, there is a sign: “This Week’s Recommended Reading: Twilight!” The accompanying sign up sheet waits next to it for those wishing to check it out- though some will receive the movie instead of the book, with no particular rhyme or reason to it. Periodically someone might also receive something else entirely. Whoops? The Assistants at least will fix that quickly. ~~Richard will be embarrassed, while Phillip will be trying not to cackle.~~

While not advertised, various iterations of different stories will be available throughout the Library. In particular, someone seems to have left the projector in one of the meeting rooms running, with a variety of different recorded plays. These range from professional productions, to parodies, to what appear to be high schoolers (of which one production features a sixteen year old version of Phillip running around being an absolutely nuisance.

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"I doubt. More often than not, I doubt. This is not helping," he says to himself, with the sharpness of a slap to the face. Divert. Digress.

"Ezekyle broke the galaxy. Horus's little whelp." He doesn't even give Konrad time to process that bombshell before continuing. "Caused a warp rift that split the realm in two. And that is what I woke up to."

It's probably not a good thing when Konrad's attention shifts from what Roboute says to how he's saying it.

Not that what's being said isn't important. Ezekyle Abaddon's the one who'll be causing trouble? He'd never met Horus' First Captain directly, at least not yet, but the reputation of the man was already clear. One of the best fighters the Luna Wolves had, second to Horus. And apparently, the one to take Horus' ambition to its final stupidity.

Having his full, undivided attention doesn't bode well. "Come now. You of all people, have doubts? About what, I wonder? Not just this matter of daemons?"

He knows he's said too much, he's really said too much, and he has to get out of here before he says any more. Words spring to his lips, and he shoves others in front of them. Whatever indignant thoughts and stray observations cross his mind.

"Abou -- don't you dare! I am not going to deal with your nonsense again. I am allowed to --"

He snatches at the ground, managing to snag his cloak with two fingers. Wide-eyed, he feints, then lunges the opposite direction to try and run past Konrad. "You smell less bad!"

Guilliman is definitely faster right now than Konrad is, only one of the two has been outright hobbled by an annoyed librarian, and that sound in the dark is suspiciously like a giggle.

He knows exactly what he's doing, there's no doubt about it now. Even a comment about his smell - or current lack of stink - is allowed a pass, because he's busy scrambling to make sure he's between his brother and the only exit, grinning.

But his hands are up in mock surrender. "This is not fair of you, Roboute, but I'll behave, I promise." He lies, about anything he chooses, all the time. Trusting that might be a bad idea. "I'm sorry." He's not. At all. "I'm just curious is all, I've never seen this kind of thing work on a primarch before. What in Terra's name is causing it?"

Roboute shouts a very uncivilized word as Konrad engages. He has yet to witness this 'limited' version of his brother yet, and moves away from his brother with the speed and fear-for-life that is reasonable for someone trying to escape the Night Haunter at full homicidal capacity. That speed is enough to jerk him out of that soft moonbeam.

And -- and he can't feel that pressure in the back of his head anymore.

"Moon. It is the moon."

The moon that is beginning to drift, slow and determined, toward them both.

Those instincts saved Roboute's life once upon a time, some ten thousand years ago! It's not a skill one should ever let dull! Especially given the certainty that sooner or later, this Konrad is going to be just as utterly insane as the one Guilliman last faced.

That it's the tiny moon is .. in retrospect.. obvious.

And it's stalking its targets. "Be careful, it's still after you." He sounds utterly insincere about the warning. And is still going to make sure he is between the door and his brother, though now he's keeping tabs on that floating tiny moon too.

In a fit of temper, the ever-civilized Thirteenth bares his teeth -- this whole situation is clearly getting to him. He edges around the garden slowly, looking for an opening to escape and also staying out of the moon's reach.

"This is stupid. Let me pass."

"It is stupid," the Night Haunter cheerfully agrees. "What could you possibly tell me that I have not already seen?"

He hasn't lowered his hands yet; no weapons in hand. It's not IMPOSSIBLE to get around him, not the way a primarch could move, but he's betting on Roboute not putting that much effort into it. "..Aside from the surprise of finding you are, perhaps, as uncertain of some of Father's decisions as I am."

He isn't, is he? It's almost like he doesn't want to hurt Konrad, even knowing how quickly their kind recover. But that's ridiculous, isn't it?

"My private thoughts are my own. They matter not, as long as I do my duty." He dances out of the way of the moonbeams again. But they reach for him. Cold, bright truth. "But I cannot be doubted. Or it will all fall to ruin."

The eons have not been kind to Roboute. Not if Konrad is preferable to his ongoing solitude. But now he had, at least, hope of someone more tolerable.

As much as the Lion was tolerable, anyway. "Doubted by who? If all goes well, I'm long dead."

The only thing worse, really, would be both of them. As has been proven.

White light curls around his ankles, around his neck.

"By anyone. Here, the others. You have given up on changing the future for them, but I have not. I cannot."

With no real visible difference across his eyes, it's difficult to tell when Curze's gaze shifts from Roboute to the steadily, silently approaching moon. Except for the way the moonlight reflects green, at the right angle.

How bitter a thing, to know they'll collectively fight the inevitable and fail. "You won't succeed," he says softly, but the words are accompanied by a deliberate sidestep. Not a lot. Enough that if Roboute's really determined to go, he can. "How I wish it could be otherwise."

"Mind the light."

Guilliman's expression twists. "I have to hope." But he almost sounds regretful. There are other words welling up, painful ones, and he cannot be doubted.

He summons his mettle, and pushes himself forward, to bully past his brother like a bloodball player. Out, out of this twilit garden, and into the strange light of their prison.

for all the world's a stage - LIBRARY LOG

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