The city skyline had never looked so appealing as it did the night I first met a ghost. It looked black, choked with fog, and all-consuming compared to the vibrant streetlights around us, which emanated blinding neon shades of what used to be my favorite colors. In this glowing concrete maze I called home, the messiness of which I used to appreciate before it impeded my wild sprint, I dashed frantically through the streets and wondered if the smog was what allowed the ghost to appear despite all of the lights around. I thought of asking Darryl after we escaped. I would never get the chance.

I glanced to my left and saw the person running next to me. Darryl was a lanky young man who did not seem like the type of person to want—or have the strength to, for that matter—to dash through the streets and weave between cars and passersby to help someone, but that is exactly what he did for me. He didn't have to help me. After all, I was the one who triggered the chase, and the ghost wouldn't go after a second target after it had me. I knew he knew this, but he still refused to leave me on my own.

As we hurried through the city, I tried to suppress the torrent of emotions that could have caused me to lose my nerves completely.

I recall myself as a teenager standing in the basement of my grandparents' house. Or, rather, my grandmother's house now. Granddad had just passed on and I was visiting Grandmother to make sure she was mourning all right. It was a Saturday afternoon, however, and I forgot how she used to leave on those afternoons with her friends before her loss. In effect, I visited an empty house, but I didn't mind; she hadn't really stirred much since Granddad's death, and it was nice to see her going out again. I used a spare key to get in, deciding that I would wait for her to return, and wandered around the three-story residency for awhile until I came to the basement. I stood next to Darryl, who I invited along the way. Well, not exactly "invited". What happened was much more similar to him inviting himself and me reluctantly agreeing. At any rate, he had been excited—probably even thrilled—at the prospect of going to a house that once housed someone that recently died. His family dealt with what he called "Spectral Activity", and he wanted to attempt some of his weird demonic rituals or whatever. I hadn't been paying attention. Now, he was staring into the depths of the basement that served as additional storage space for the house. He was muttering something, akin to either an intense spell or a harshly said recipe for banana cake. I stepped a little closer to understand what was going on. . .

Darryl's light voice snapped me out of my thoughts. "Turn right right here, Liz." We had reached a calm intersection, mostly devoid of human presence. The intersection was near the border between the hectic center of the city and the outskirts of the city. I looked down the right street and was greeted by dilapidated buildings. The left had newer houses and shops, filled with tantalizing lights that warmed me to the core.

"Why not go to the left?" I wondered aloud, stupefied as to why we were heading towards a rundown row of houses for my death.

"Because you might not have to die after all—if you follow me." With that, he ran off down the right-hand path, not looking back to ensure I was following.

I looked behind me. The enraged ghost was only a blue speck on the horizon, but I knew that would change soon. I needed a way to save myself, but running seemed to be pointless. Darryl seemed to know what he was doing, though, and that was more than what I had. I ran after him, my feet pounding on the concrete, similar to how my heart was pounding in my chest.

During the dull patter of my feet, I slipped back into my mind.

As I approached Darryl, he turned to me with a grave face. "There's something wrong here," he said. "Give me a moment to think." He looked toward me, and I, not being able to withstand his gaze looked off behind him. I could make out a dim glow in the darkness; it was an eerie blue. "What's that—" I started. The blue thing began to move. It started to turn lethargically. In the next moment I saw its face and I almost screamed.

After about a minute of running, I managed to catch up with Darryl, who had stopped in front of a red-bricked building that vaguely resembled an apartment complex. "Why have we stopped?" I asked. "This doesn't seem like the proper place to hide from a ghost."

He responded, as cryptic as ever, "But it is the proper place to get to one. Hurry, now! Get in." He flung open the front door without further care and nearly leaped through the foreboding boundary. I stepped through carefully, starting to doubt the soundness of Darryl's solution.

Thinking back, Darryl must have known what was going on. Right after he saw my expression, he pushed me back up the stairs to the basement. "It's time to take our leave!" Darryl was practically shouting. We ran up and out of the house together in a frenzy, with me trying to ask questions and Darryl trying to convince me that it was not the time. The rest of it was a daze, except when the glowing thing creeped up behind us. We were almost out of the house when I heard a desperate groan. I turned to face the shade and my veins were filled with fear. It had the face of my grandfather, wrinkles and all, but the body of a hag. The thing wore stained robes, ripped at the edges and crawling with some presence I later found out was fear. Before I could be horrified any longer, Darryl stepped in between me and the specter and chanted faster than my mother did when she was berating me for leaving the house without telling her. The ghost was pushed back all the way through the house to the basement—only a one-minute walk. Once more, Darryl turned to me. "Let's go now." I didn't argue with him and leaped outside.

We were zooming through the building, with Darryl leading the way, when my pace halted suddenly as if I had no more steps in me. The walls around me had paintings strewn around them, some lying uselessly on the ground. Some leaned against the wall like they had no other option if they wanted to stay upright...

Where were we going? What was I doing? A ghost was after us for sure, and from all the tales that Darryl's told me, the next step is usually to find someone that's more experienced rather than run and hide into a closet...

Darryl was a few paces ahead, and he turned around after I stopped. "What's the matter?"

"What are we *doing*, Darryl? Why are we running to a place where there's nowhere left to run? Shouldn't we get some help?"

Darryl was panting a little. "Help won't be of use with your issue."

"And why is that?"

"Because exorcists deal with spirits that have no choice to stay. Your grandfather wasn't staying because of his own issues, he was staying because he was trapped in the basement. I only felt the encapsulation ward when I actually tried to contact the ghost, and I realized that it was a planned move." He moved closer to me, so I could see the worried look in his eyes. "I think it was planned, Liz."

My eyes had wandered off into one of the paintings next to him. An acrylic version of our city, bright and smoggy and all. "...So what are you proposing...?"

He took a deep breath, like he held a truth I didn't want to hear but was choking him even more. "I know that you know what happens to people that get cursed with ghosts...And I think that given what's happened...It's safe to say that someone's after you. Look don't say anything, don't think about it right now—" What an insane person—How could I not think of the *why*? "—But it could have something to do with inheritance, or secrets, or really anything, and without knowing more, it just isn't safe for you. As for why we're here...There's something like...Another dimension here. You know all those fairy tales with a portal or something of the sort? It's like that, but more oddly specific! Uh, well...I would explain but I need you to trust me."

I looked intently still at the painting; it's not that I didn't trust him, it's not that I was afraid of confronting him...I knew very well that he had a better grasp than I did, and after all, he was my friend, wasn't he? But that was the issue: I didn't want to leave the picture-perfect cityscape, I didn't want to leave all the people like him. Despite the dog leftovers, the random crimes, the old and young grumps, and, of course, the ghosts...

We continued through the building at a fast-walking speed, and this time I felt more security, more certainty, and frankly, more despair. Darryl assured me we could be a little slower now, especially since even if grandpa's ghost were in the building, ghosts take longer to navigate hallways than snakes. I almost explained that snakes can move fairly fast if needed, but I bit my tongue. I glanced at all the random fixtures attached to the wall as we strolled hurriedly and asked, "What is this building, anyway?"

"It's an art studio complex. Local artists and all that jazz. Except jazz, ha. Everything's locked down because of an accident and an investigation I think...Anyway, the only door that's not locked is the front one, and that's perfectly fine with me."

"Wait, what do you mean an investigation?" My heart spiked a little, and my voice showed it. "Are there more ghosts here?"

"No. I mean, that's what everyone first thought—that's how I heard of this place—but it's actually better. Oh, and we're here."

I shivered. We had stopped in front of a gaping stairwell, full of darkness and stone steps.

Darryl, why?

"Now I know what you're thinking. 'Darryl, this looks like another ghost hotspot!' Trust me, it's the portal. Now, I want you to stand here...Yeah, and turn around..." I complied, even though I felt nervous around the stairs. Turning my back on it would not have been my first action to take.

"Darryl, that's not actually what I was thinking. I was thinking that I would miss everything. That I would miss you." A beat of silence. "Are you coming with me?"

"It's not really possible for me to come with you, at least not easily..." He stepped right in front of me and leaned in. "I'm going to miss you, too..."

Then, with strength that Darryl shouldn't have, *he pushed me down the stairs*. Surprisingly, I didn't feel pain, I didn't feel stone, and I didn't feel like I had just been consumed by the demon of the stairs.

I opened my eyes, which I had closed because of my stupid expectations, and I looked around me. I did not see my family, I did not see a city, and I definitely did not see Darryl.

All I saw were shelves, stretching miles and miles around. And in front of me, a book titled A Collectione of Pamphletts to Defeeting the Undeade. It was on a table, strewn with charms and wards; two cups of tea, my favorite kind; a sweater that I thought I lost weeks ago; and two chairs, with soft personalities of their own. There was no one else around, and nothing was special about the lighting, but I felt safer. I took my eyes off the table and chairs and gazed again around me, at the shelves. This was the fantasy-land he talked about. He spoke like it was some strange world, or something that would throw me into another adventure, that's not what I saw. All I saw was hope. I looked back at the table and found my eyes lingering on another book. Sights to See in the Library with the People You Care About, Fourth Edition.

All I saw was Darryl, who was still with me after all.

In a dark cave in a remote forest, a young, thin magician was quickly making his way to the mouth of the cave. Unfortunately, he was not alone. Elk was an apprentice to a forest watcher, and he was being chased down by a wraith that had consumed and possessed his older master.

The sound of Elk's footsteps rebounded throughout the cave, matched by only his laborious breathing. His gaze remained fixed on the ground underneath him, willing himself to move further and faster with each step. He looked up; he could see a faint, distant light at the end of the eroding tunnel he was in. He looked behind him; he saw the familiar pale-green form of a wraith, which had taken on the demented form of his mentor. It was approaching faster than Elk could run—fully trained forest watchers always needed to be able to run to the next town in a day's worth of time—and Elk knew that he needed to act now or never.

He pulled out a rugged slate from his bag. The copper tablet contained the inscriptions of several basic spells learned through and cast by touch. It wasn't much and Elk hadn't really trained with it—he had only brought it along to study during dead-time—but he had dropped his other bag as he tripped and scrambled to get back up earlier.

He viewed the tablet with pure admiration, which melted into regretful sadness as he realized that this was his only magical item in his arsenal. He was confident that there was a fire or light spell in the bumps and lines that were inscribed throughout the rectangle, but there was really only one way to find out. He ran his hand over the spell block, and traced one of the many patterns. His hands developed a faint glow as he channeled the magic in his palms. All at once, the knowledge of a tracing spell—nothing more than a sensation, really—flooded into Elk's mind.

The ghost came into view. Elk had stopped for too long, and the ghost had finally caught up with him. He took a sip of water from his water-skin to dampen his fear—unnecessary, of course, since he only needed to trace a pattern on his palm with his fingertips. The ghost approached closer and closer. . .Until it was standing only a meter away. It was Elk's chance: He traced his right-hand palm with his left-hand fingers, tapping and scratching and poking to complete the spell. After seven seconds of casting, a bright, glowing sphere of light hovered a foot away from his hand. Elated at his success, he scratched his left hand across the back of his right and launched the orb towards the ever-approaching spirit. The ghost released a shriek of agony, signaling its defeat; Elk wasted no time. He turned around and sprinted like he never had before. He would never enter a cave without a proper ghost lantern ever again.

In a forest somewhere, known by just those who care,
Lies a seer in a glade, lying alone unafraid.
The time is of night, but filled with moonlight,
And so is permitted the rarest of sights.

A bunny of sun, with ears of the moon
Comes to the patch and breaks through the gloom.
With a flourish of its ears and a gesture with its paw,
It calls forth to the seer, who had shockingly saw.
The call says to come forward and follow all night
And the seer, still young, cannot resist as he might.

He heads off into the woods, in pursuit of the beast;
Over branches and twigs, not a care in the least,
Only watching for trails and glowing ghost-lights,
Heading off towards the worst of his times.

A few seconds past, he stumbles on mud,
Tripping and scraping, drawing twice blood.
He looks up at the bunny, who had bounded ahead,
And was right away filled with a feeling of dread:
The strange light-beast had stumbled into a cave
And the boy had followed, feeling so brave.

Once he enters the rock, the seer uses his sense
In an attempt to divine where the bunny had went.
His instincts then drive him to the way of the hare. . .
Only to be met by a growling bear.

From initial shock to subsequent fear,
The boy in a cloak runs, mind no longer clear.
He rushes on through the trees of moonlight,
Tripping away in the last night of his life.

Still in the forest, he then loses his way,
Left alone and unguided by the rabbit of day.
Thinking the best, he searches around
And hears the most wicked and terrible sound.

Whether it was a moan of despair or a malice-filled shriek,
The young, gangly seer has no time to speak;
A blue spirit like a sorcerer, with legs of a hind
Forces the boy to a tree, wasting no time.
Cornered by a spectre, trapped and consumed,
The young boy dies, a lifetime too soon.

And so he is led to a death unlike most;
If only he finished his training with ghosts...

Radio static crackles into his ear,
To the space-walking man bearing no fear—
A feeling like playing poker without packing an ace,
Or having no helmet in the stars of deep space.

"Don't put the brush there and leave the blood dry—
Else we'll have to get fresh stuff
Like new blood and new dye.
That rune is messed up;
paint it anew—
Else you want to be split up into two."

The space-walking man heaves a great sigh,
For it is no small work
To paint runes in the sky.

More like blood-rites is this art, since there is no chance
Of living on sadly, this miserable dance.
One strike incorrect,
And no air left to breathe...
These things and more the space-man now grieves.

The spacesuit moves again
To see mistakes and amend
A task which seems to have not an end:

A red Celtic ring made from the genius of a man—
A man on the earth, who makes just the plan.
For it is another on Mars who carries through the rite
And paints all throughout the All-Gaping Night.

A few minutes later (and some several days)
A cold wind blows and some red dust fades:
The ill-suited man has now finished his scene,
A scene of old books and rotten dead dreams.

The time has come now for a chant to begin.
The final choir, quite, if the man wants to win.

He starts off slow, drawing much breath
Taking his time 'till he sees the Mark met.

With the planets aligned,
And the stars smiling above,
The Mars-man whispers words
Of sorrow and love.

And soon on true Earth
Does the spell take effect.
A true last spell, but not one so correct.
A rune for cows, and not one for leaves
Had been carelessly transcribed
In the darkness he sees.

And so ends the man, the first one on mars;
But he had unknowingly altered the stars—
Or the Fate, if you will, of a young, rough-worn boy
And set him to play into Life's daring ploy.

Sarah stood with her back to the door of the restroom, with the mirror and sinks on her left and the stalls on her right. After listening once more for any unwanted visitors, she decided that all was safe. The stared intently at the wall. It was time.

She chanted to the tiled walls painted a muted pink:

Painted tiles on the wall
Tell me the visions of few and all,
Show me what none can see,
Standing or otherwise outside these stalls.

The paint on the wall cracked and deformed to form a face, shocking the girl. Ignoring her, the paint responded:

Child of East, left in the West;
Child who always tries to look her best.
For what reason would ye have here,
To stand before paint, with no ounce of fear?

The girl was prepared. She went on:

Gracious, great, well-polished tiles,
For more than two nights have I heard cries vile;
Always erupting harshly when I am at school,
And following me home, turning life not worthwhile.

I have a hunch it's a demon, or just a shadeling at best,
But I think on of the other girls has cursed me as a test.

The tiles became angry, their speech more rapid.

So why come you here,
Weak and afraid?
Who says I will help you,
who has a debt still unpaid?

Think me you plain magic,
Not worthy of a prayer?
Well then go off you,
And find yourself a ghost-slayer.

The girl supplicated:

But please help me, aid me this fight,
For whatever curse I have screams into the night,
And makes me poor in friends and mind;
So I ask again you to help me...If it's all right.

The paint softened and swirled:

You remind me of a girl two years ago I had seen,
But she had succumbed to three girls quite ugly and mean.
Yet before she had gone, she had helped me quite so,
And so in her memory, helping you I shall go.

Run along now child, and work on your verse,
And come back tomorrow to remove thus your curse.

The paint solidified before the girl could thank her. And just in time too, for one of the female teachers had just walked in. Sarah quickly got up from the kneeling position she was in, ignoring the curious looks from the teacher as she washed her hands. She knew not what was to come, but she hoped for the best.

The Wanderer's Station A 2019 Sci-Fi Contest

Theme/Prompt: Science Fiction

FAQ & Rules:

Q: Yo, why is a new mod writing this info down?

A: Don't worry, most of this is from an old contest, which you should check out at least once to see the kind of stuff you can do (after reading the rules, of course). I am also carefully watched by the other staff, so all errors will be corrected.

Q: I thought the Library was dead...?

A: No, just sleeping ;)

Q: Okay, I'm totally happy to hear that! So, what's the contest about?

A: Whether you are new here during this amazing time to be alive, or from the Library's older age, you may have noticed that we are a bit short on Sci-Fi: we have poems, séances, magic rituals, travel guides, correspondences, and all sorts of fantastical stuff with their own tags, but not as much science-fiction mutant attacks, spaceship adventures, dystopian/utopian societies, or...well, you get the idea. At its core, the point of this contest is to add some more of those H.G Wells, Mary Shelley, & Ray Bradbury vibes to this place and show that the SCP wiki is not the only place for it.

Q: Nice! So how do I enter, and what do I write?

A: If you keep up with our wonderful discord or our "Recently Posted" section on the front page, you will notice this piece of second-person writing. It will serve as the hub page for this contest. Within the body and the intro of this page are orange/light-blue links. This means that they are links that lead to pages that aren't made yet; the basis of this contest is to create those wanted pages, fill them with science fiction, and create an amazing hub for all to enjoy.

Follow these simple steps to victory:

1. Go to the hub page. Maybe even read all of it.
2. Choose one of the dead links. This will be your starting point and the title of your entry.
3. Write something related to both the link title and science fiction. The title of the entry should be exactly the same, although minor differences should be fine.
4. When you post an entry, make sure to include "[[include component:wanderers-station]]" at the top. This will import the beautiful space theme created by Пользователь 'Rounderhouse' не существует that you see here.
5. Tag it with "ws2019". This is very important, as it will help with the scoring and make everything go faster.
6. Wait for the scoring to be completed and bask in your glory.

You can enter as many times as you want; don't worry about running out of links for other people to use, as staff will add more dead links as needed. You have until September 2 (11 PM, US EST) to fill in dead links. After that until the 18th of September (Midnight, US EST), when the contest ends, no new entries will be accepted for the contest.

As for saving pages, I don't think that it would be fair to reserve something like that, considering that the possible links on the hub page outnumber the recent writers in the past few months. But don't rush and write well; if any troubles appear over page creations, staff is more likely to side with articles that have more work put into them.

For those of you new to the site, this is a perfect way to introduce your type of your work to the Library, as anyone can join, whether or not you've written something before. For those of you who have been here the past few weeks...I will see you on the field of writing.

Q: You mentioned scoring. How does that work?

A: For writing and posting something to contribute, you get 3 points for every link that you fill and that has a rating of +5 by the end of the contest. If an entry is deleted, or is obviously off-topic/a shit-post, the article will not count. Then, the rating of your highest rated entry will be added to the total.

Example: You write three articles. This leads to a score of 9. One of the articles was perfect: it had a rating of +10 and was your highest article. This leads to a total score of 19.

Oh, and one last thing! Staff Picks. At the very end of the contest, the staff will each pick one article that they find remarkable. This article will receive three extra and temporary rating points, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it will be counted in the final total. Let's go back to our example.

Example: You write three articles. This leads to a score of 9. One of the articles was perfect: it had a rating of +10 and was your highest article. In addition, one of your other articles gets picked by a moderator. Before it was picked by staff, it had a score of +5; with the staff pick, the score is +8. However, since your highest article is still that perfect one with +10, this has no effect. All in all, you still have a total score of 19.

Collaboration Rule: If two or more authors decide to create a collaborative work, they must both contribute enough to add the "co-authored" tag. The score rewarded for each collaborative article above 5 is 1 point for every person. If a collaborative piece is the highest rated article for all or some members of the group, the said members will all receive the bonus points.

The intergalactic champion (the winner) will be decided on September 18, 2019, and will be the author with the highest score.

THREAT Friendly Note: We expect all contestants to be good sports and play fair. Any attempt to tilt the contest in your favor through illicit or unfair means will result in your entries being disqualified and possible further disciplinary actions. Plagiarism is also not allowed, and will be punished accordingly.

Q: Hmm...Seems legit. How good do the stories have to be?

A: Do your best. Remember, only articles with a rating of +5 are included in the final total. I expect that if you need review help, you will not hesitate to find a second pair of eyes to double-check for basic stuff, or you will read over your work again yourself. It would be preferable if you got your stuff reviewed by someone not participating in the contest, but you won't be disqualified if you do, as there aren't many people to ask for feedback from on-site. If I (Пользователь 'Avelon21' не существует) see enough people writing and asking for feedback on either the site or the discord, I'll refrain from participating myself and help with feedback. AWESOME EDIT: All staff that were involved in the preparation of the contest page-hub-thingy (Пользователь 'Roget' не существует, Пользователь 'Avelon21' не существует) are recused from participating due to reasons! Ask for help on the forums and the discord and you shall receive.

One of the admins, Пользователь 'Roget' не существует is not participating for administration reasons; he might also be open to reviewing drafts as well.

Q: Damn...Thought I could get away with speed-writings. Anyway, what's in it for the winner?

A: The main rewards are art commissions:

There will be a 45$ commission for 1st place, a 30$ one for second, a 10$ one for third, and five 5$ commissions will be given out in a weighted lottery according to placement for all other contestants. In addition, several other artists have been generous enough to offer donating their work, so more art may be given out. Any artists who are willing to commit to commissioning work for the winners can state as such here and we would list you on our contest page, along with the type of art and any links you might wish to provide as examples of your work.

The first place winner will also receive a role on the discord to display their victory, if they are on the discord.

If you have any other questions, message Пользователь 'Avelon21' не существует or Пользователь 'Rounderhouse' не существует through wikidot, ask on our discord, or leave a comment in the discussion below.

Entries

The Other Questions

Q: What do I do if I accidentally claimed a page !? Please don't ban me !

A: Look, if we had to ban people every time they messed up, I wouldn't even be here. Just delete your page by yourself, or contact me or Пользователь 'Rounderhouse' не существует. As a side note, I think it would be a good time right now to state that if you post something that gets deleted because it hits -3 (self-upvotes do not count for any purposes), anyone except you can post something else for the link, unless it was an accidental page claim. Just be more careful in that case =D.

Q: Are collabs allowed ?

A: Yes, but please refer to the Collaboration Rule above. If it's confusing please ask and I'll give an example (Which I'll add under this question).

Q: Can we edit our pages after we've posted ?

A: You can edit, not revise. If you have to add a paragraph, don't. If you have to fix tenses because it looks like crap if you don't fix it, do. As a general rule from the SCP wiki:

If you wouldn't do it to other people's pages, don't do it to yours.

I want to see people asking for feedback. I want to see people doing their best. If you're rushing and making dumb mistakes and leaving too much out, remember that your articles have to be at +5 by the end of the contest. This is the Wanderer's Station, not the Wanderer's Toilet.

Q: Omigosh, my post isn't above five; can I spam the forums/chat to get more votes !?

A: No, please don't. I'm going to be making an overview forum post of all of the entries (if the list ends up getting too long, I'll just briefly review at least 3/4 or all the ones below five and just mention the ones above +5). Just trust me when I say you'll be fine. As long as you did your best, of course.

Keep on the watch for staff picks too, you never know who'll win...unless you vote more first!

Q: Huh, we're done. Can we still use links from the beautifully crafted hub-page ?

A: Go for it, that's great ! I personally like to see people still enjoying contest events even after they're over. Just make sure to not tag it with "ws2019", but feel free to use the theme and links whenever you want (you can use the theme in other articles, too).

Available Artists

If you are an artist that is contributing work to the prize pool/would like to, sign up here!

Note: To sign up, edit the page and add this on its own line at the bottom (with your information filled out):

||Artist Name || Website || Example Work || Mediums||

Artist Name	Website	Example Work	Mediums
ExampleDude	TWL	Upload.png/Another Link	Acrylic Paint
UncertaintyCrossing	Instagram	Tumblr	Digital Art, Photoshop, Logos, Limited Animation
Scented_Shadow	Deviantart Page	Traditional, finished artwork; [[https://wanderers-library.wdfiles.com/local--files/the-wanderer-s-station/comm_ex_1.png Digital, unfinished sketch]]	Traditional (markers, ink, pencil) and/or Digital
Famine	Famine		“Blurry Creepypasta Images”
Tanija	Tanija	[[https://wanderers-library.wdfiles.com/local--files/the-wanderer-s-station/comm_ex_2.png Commission Sheet]]	Logos, Banner, Traditional Artworks, Digital Artworks
Toadking07	Artist Wiki Page	Instagram	Digital art, photoshop, pins
RuraScarlet	Artist Commission Thread With Examples		Traditional Artworks

>> Click Here for Rules & FAQ! <<

You boot up the ancient software, reverently following the stained instructions as if they were the key to a new world.

There it is. The interface to face it all. You search the directory list at the end of the instruction pamphlet and scan for an interesting entry. Your eyes stop at the innovative title, “Vultures of the Pharanax".

Whoops. You look back at the directory and double-check the entry name. You realize that you had read it wrong: it was “Cultures of the Pharanax”, not "Vultures". After you spend a moment cursing your dyslexia, you take another shot at the computer.

A window opens up. Finally.

Your exhaling condensates on the monitor's screen. That was certainly educational. Leaning back in your chair you can feel the stiffness of the spine setting in. With a stimulated brain, perhaps now was time to see about rotting it to compensate. Fumbling around below the desk, you find an old plastic tray. Blowing the dust off the cracked plastic, you thumb through the cartridges until one catches your eye. A grey piece of plastic with a tape label. "Starsmine".

The cartridge resists slightly as you plug into the port.

[[<]]

You take a deep breath. Once you finally distance yourself mentally from the wonders of the computer, a figurative alarm rings in your head—a reminder that you have to be home in time for dinner. You look around and try to push yourself up. Before you can even move away from the machine, however, the brown walls that were indistinct before began to shimmer.

Welcome, welcome. You seem to have been taking care of yourself, my friend. It's been too long. Please, come in, we've got everything ready in the sitting room. Don't take off your shoes, I don't mind the dirt. Makes it feel a bit more like home, where we come from...Oh, wait a minute...You're not her...But you're not him either...Who are you, then?

The walls stay still as they wait for your response. You have none to give. After a few seconds, the walls start in a vaguely male voice again out of impatience:

I see. You're leaving, aren't you? You must be tired and anxious to leave: Your heart's racing, your feet are shaking...Even your breath is unsteady! Hmmm...You don't see walls talk often either, do you? You must be a little scared too.

You look for the nearest exit. There was none. You turn around three times just to make sure, but it was clear from the start; the door you had entered earlier is gone.

What's wrong, kid? Don't look so surprised at everything! I'm the very walls and floors themselves! And I know exactly who you are, wanderer. I was unsure at first, but I'm dead-certain now. The way you stand and look around, the way your joints move and how you shift your weight...You're the real deal. But don't think I'll just let you go now; don't think you can relax with me! I'm not lame sauce like the Publishers or some lowly misfit from the Zoo Champs...You're gone, kid!

The walls start to close in on you. You pull out a cylinder from your bag and rear your arm back. All of a sudden, the floor sinks under you, but you manage to hold your ground. But the walls are far from finished, a fact compounded by the screeching of the walls as they bend into spikes. The floor bends into a wave, and this time you trip. As the bronze floor approaches your face, you already know you've lost.

Hello there. Whether you are a new user or a veteran writer, you may feel uncomfortable when you hear words like poem, verse, or stanza. It may remind you of horrible semesters in English classes, or difficult studies in other languages. Regardless, you may have already stumbled upon one of the many poems and verse forms within the Library, and you may have felt inadequate to give feedback, not confident enough to say it's deserving of an upvote, or even compelled to write something similar yourself, but with core knowledge of where to start. If any of these situations match yours (or if you're just straight-up curious), search no further and continue to read, because this guide will help introduce you to the art of poetry and hopefully give you a starting point to launch yourself into the world of verse! Make sure to check out other guides online and read lots of poems as well, because reading more helps you learn more. Oh, and before I forget, remember that poetry exists in all languages (although if you speak more than one language, you probably know this already)!

NOTE: This is not some attempt on the Library's part to say what is or what is not poetry—or even what is good or bad poetry. I have just noticed that not everyone likes reading it compared to prose, which may be caused by people not knowing how to review it, or writers not knowing how to write it. This is an attempt by staff to try to fix both of those issues, not to make some college-level guide.

What is poetry?

To start, this is the standard definition from Oxford that will show up on a Google search:

noun: Literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm; poems collectively or as a genre of literature.

As most of you new to poetry may have found out, this definition is useless as hell. This doesn't really help if you want to start writing it. Here is what you actually need to know:

• Poetry refers to stuff written in verse rather than prose. Note that "prose" is defined as "a non-metrical style similar to ordinary written or spoken language", while verse is about lyrics to music, poetry, and sometimes religious texts.
• Poems are organized into stanzas. Stanzas are made up of lines. This, thankfully, is straight-forward. The ends of lines can have the same sound at the end to create rhyme. When rhyme is used consistenly and repeatedly in a poem, you can find the poem's rhyme scheme. Rhyme scheme is also simple: Each line is replaced by a letter, and each letter represents a sound. For example, if I said:

The rounder the house,
The smaller the yurt;
The larger the cow,
The more it must hurt,
To round up the cattle
Into the yurt-pen
...And even more painful
To do it again.

...The rhyme scheme can be written as "ABABCDED".

• Poetry can take different forms, with most forms having their own requirements (except most notably free verse). The requirements can range from the subject of the poem to the rhyme, rhythm, meter, stanzas, and lines. Meter is usually where everyone goes wrong; skip ahead to the "Meter" section if you think this is you. Otherwise, keep reading for more on generating ideas and writing good verse.

I want to say right now that writing poetry is definitely easier if you read it, as goes with any type of writing. For future reference, if you ever encounter a type of poetry and want to use it, look at examples first; this will show you what you can do and help give you ideas.

"Why poetry?" and misconceptions

At this point, some of you might be wondering why you should even bother with poetry. It's just art with words, right? And who cares if I need prose more in life and if people like reading prose more anyway?

The answer is the same as "Why do you need art/music/theater/dance/(insert other art form here)?" It's just fun, and it really is enjoyable to read when it looks like the poet gave actual thought to what they wrote. Similarly, it's also true that you won't be writing science papers in verse anytime soon, but it's definitely a good creative outlet that takes time and skill to master.

Here are some common misconceptions about poetry that might make you think twice about talking trash about the poet in the house:

• "Poetry is too easy for serious writers." I'm assuming that if you're reading this, you don't share this opinion. If you do, I have no idea why you're reading this. Poetry takes time, and if you scrapped something together within five minutes and called it a "poem", it probably isn't good until you find a proper poet to review your work.
• "Poetry isn't a good way to tell a story, and even if it's 'good', it hardly makes any sense." This is extremely false, especially considering that several well-received poems on-site tell a story or otherwise describe a character, place, or plot. If it is too hard to understand, the poem is either using advanced vocabulary, structure, and mechanics, or the poem was not written with enough care.
• "Poetry is stupid; people write whatever they want in lines and call it "poetry" just to sound fancy." What most people refer to by this is Free Verse, which, admittedly may seem like less skill-demanding¹, but usually has to double-up on the emotion and imagery rather than on the beat².

What forms of poetry are there?

There are many, many different forms of poetry out there; Some will be listed here, but make sure to check out other forms online to expose yourself to new things, since you may find something you're good at. I recommend starting with the the Poetry Foundation.

Common forms:

• Rhyming Quatrains in general: Quatrains are one of the basic things you need to know. Four lines making up one stanza sums up the existence of a quatrain. Usually, there will be a rhyme scheme. "ABAB" or "AABB" are common.

• Shakespearean Sonnet: In the USA, and I would imagine in some parts of Europe as well, almost everyone hears about these in English class at one point or another. At its core, Shakespearean Sonnets are made up of three quatrains and one couplet at the end; the rhyme scheme is "ABAB CDCD EFEF GG". All of the lines are written in iambic pentameter, which means that there are five "units" to each line and each one contains a stressed and unstressed syllable. The best example I can give is one of Shakespeare's actual sonnets (the source for this is here.):

Sonnet LV
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.

• Free Verse: So we're finally here. The definition from Oxford when you do a standard Google search is this:

noun: Poetry that does not rhyme or have a regular meter.

So there. That's it. The definition makes me want to smash my head in a wall because it's so vague, but that's really it. Note that Free Verse describes poetry without sound structure, but that doesn't mean it can't have structure in terms of language and organization ³. I have a less successful article on the site as an example, but there's plenty of other examples online and on-site.

• Sestina: I'm stealing the definition right off of the Poetry Foundation.

A complex French verse form, usually unrhymed, consisting of six stanzas of six lines each and a three-line envoy. The end words of the first stanza are repeated in a different order as end words in each of the subsequent five stanzas; the closing envoy contains all six words, two per line, placed in the middle and at the end of the three lines. The patterns of word repetition are as follows, with each number representing the final word of a line, and each row of numbers representing a stanza:

1 2 3 4 5 6
6 1 5 2 4 3
3 6 4 1 2 5
5 3 2 6 1 4
4 5 1 3 6 2
2 4 6 5 3 1
(6 2) (1 4) (5 3)

The envoy (or envoi) is a final conclusion that can be a dedication to a person, or a final message about the work, and is found in books as well. In poetry, it serves the same purpose. To see this in action, check out this poem by Vivax and other sestinas on-site and online.

There are other English forms such as Limericks and Acrostic poems; Haiku and other east Asian poetry forms also exist, but since the original language of these formats are so different from English and other languages with alphabets and latin scripts, I will leave them up to your research, as the English adaptations are criminally easy to work with in most cases⁴. Again, do some of your own research to really know everything.

What are some good ideas for a poem?

Anything and everything. The brainstorming for a poem is the same as prose, although it's harder to provide information in a scientific fashion with a poem. You can write poems about emotions, events, entries, and much more. All you have to do is execute it correctly.

If you're talking about a place, for example, and you're trying to write an ode to the place, you have to use imagery and metaphors to bring it to life.

If you're telling a story, you have to know what kind of story you want to tell beforehand, and use good word choice to give off the right message. Use some sort of structure and beat to keep it entertaining.

The main things to think when brainstorming a poem are...

• What do I want to write about?
• What message do I want to give?
• How do I want to do it?

...in any order. Don't limit yourself and be flexible.

Meter, Rhythm, and Other Killers of Poetry

The main issue I have with writing this section is that I cannot give examples of bad poetry on-site because A) that would be mean and B) they've probably been deleted already. Instead, I will try my best to explain concepts that people seem to struggle with often here. For all of these terms, I recommend you first look them up for their literal and basic definition because I'm sick of quoting other sources on this page.

• Rhythm: This is the beat/pulse/feel of your poem. Rhythm is more of a general term that people hear most often. An example would be someone saying, "The rhythm of a limerick sounds like 'Dee Dum Dee Dee Dum Dee Dee Dum'"
• Meter: This is the structure of the beat/pulse/feel of your poem. An example of this would be someone saying, "The meter of a limerick is closer to an anapestic trimeter, rather than an iambic pentameter as found in Shakespearean sonnets." Your meter decides your rhythm, and inconsistencies make a poem sound "off" or "forced". Let's take a look at an example where the meter is flawed:

The rounder the house,
The bigger the yurt;
The larger the cow,
The more it all must hurt,
To round up the cattle
Again into the yurt-pen
...And even more painful
To do it again.

Do you see where the meter is off? To find the words that are causing the rhythm problem, read the poem again and see what words you can take out to fix the meter, and, by extension, the rhythm. If you cannot spot the words, here are the "problem" words in bold:

So, the rhythm of your poem is thrown off by the inconsistent meter.

• Story Flow: Yeah, plot twist, right? I bet you were thinking something along the lines of "I thought we just had to throw in random words that made sense and rhymed." Well, if you have been paying attention this whole time, you should have realized that telling a story with verse mimics telling a story with prose, which is to say that it should also have a plot. I will not go into the basics of a story, but know that you have to have some sort of beginning, middle, and end if you want to write a narrative poem (a poem that tells a story). Each stanza and line should also have a purpose; if you want to repeat something just so it sounds fancy, don't do it unless it adds more effect, like imagery, rhythm, or another poetic device.

• Metaphor: These are comparisons between two or more things that aren't normally associated with each other. In a sense, they're very similar to similes, except they don't use "like" or "as" to compare things directly.

Example: The water of the lake was an endless void.

As a note, remember that a lot of poetry terms, including rhythm and meter, can also be related to music, as both disciplines are often intertwined.

How can I make my poetry better?

In case you haven't caught on by now, poetry is different from prose. It's harder sometimes, and it definitely requires a different mindset. One of the issues I see a lot is that writers that are trying out poetry for their first few times don't quite get the full potential and idea of poetry, and they end up giving verses less sparkles than they should. If you're one of those people that don't really understand the concept of poetry, here's my own analogy to help others understand the big picture:

Poetry is like prose on steroids. Every single word in a poem is designed to pack more punch than a word of prose, and every stanza in a poem is like a paragraph in a short story, or even more. Following this rule is the best way to show that you've put effort into a poem; in other words, you can tell when you've succeeded with a poem when it takes just as long to think about the true meaning of the words in your poem as it does to think about the true meaning of a short story.

To accomplish the idea above, you need to go big. Imagery, metaphors, good words, good structure, and, most importantly, thought. These are the things that make your poetry better, and it's easier to improve once you get how poetry works.

Aside from that, make sure to practice poetry, read it, and get it reviewed.

How can I review poetry and give feedback?

This is always the tricky one, huh? A lot of people think poets are just prose writers that are high at the moment, and are thus unable to be helped, but this isn't the case. The best way to see a poem's problems is to understand what you feel when you read it⁵. If you feel bored midway through a poem, maybe the author is repeating a message or an event too much, or they're not varying their word choice. If you feel like the rhythm of a poem is off, try experimenting with different words with different syllable counts and accents. If you feel confused, spot where you're confused and think about why the line doesn't make sense. Consider even asking the author, as they're the ones who know the poem best.

Remember that poetry shouldn't just consist of rhyming words and fancy structures for the sake of rhyming words and fancy structures. Because poetry is prose on steroids, there are less words in a poem, but each word has much more impact than a word in a work of prose. If a line or phrase seems unnecessary, it probably is, unless there is some deeper reference involved; in the case that it isn't crucial or efficient⁶, ask the poet about it and see if you can make it better and more impacting.

Where can I find examples?

There are plenty of examples here on the Wanderer's Library; anything with the "verse" tag should be some form of poetry. To see all of the pages with the verse tag, go to the bottom of the page, and click the "verse" tag attached. You can also go to the Tag Guide linked in the top bar and click "verse" in the "Style Tags" section. Besides that, any kind of poetry you can find either online or offline should help expand your knowledge. I recommend reading at least one collection by any published author (whether online or physical) to get a feel for their poetry, so you can know how a poet's style and their work can look like.

FAQ

If you have any questions, feel free to add them here in block quotes, or leave them in the discussion below. I will add/answer your question so all may know more.

Over the rolling hills of the Dolton country, on a springtime afternoon, dark, churning clouds frowned upon every blade of lemongrass that covered the land. A young boy in a cloak stared at them on his own hill, one that was taller than the rest.

"Why do our people always despair like the clouds..." The young boy asked, "...When there is so much to do, to believe in?" He pulled the dark purple cloak he was wearing closer around his thin body. He was neither tall nor short, but rather of a build that suggested a baker's son. The burned crumbs on his clothing strengthened the impression that he had just left the furnace after a morning's workload.

"Why would they not?" An elderly woman creeped a few meters behind him, off to his right and out of sight. She was garbed in the blue robes typical of a Dolton historian, a common profession in the Rolling Hills. She had a strong voice, gained from a long life of guiding people on tours where if you look to the left, you'll see our famous Maloon City Tribute Graveyard, and no, you cannot use our graveyards for necromancy rituals, do not waste the Office's time with such inquiries. The boy spun around as the woman continued. "The fields are overgrown, the recipes are many lost, and the chefs that made them have left long before. Our food is now as tasteless as a sack of flour mixed with raw egg in a pan, and that alone is enough to despair for."

Denial still rang in the boy's desperate mind. "But we can still improve! What of Grenalia's baking academy?!" he cried. His voice cracked unexpectedly, much to his chagrin. Grenalia was the last remaining culinary instructor — one of the last to not believe in the powers of flash-heating everything "if it tastes too dry", at least — and she had the sole mission of preparing the next generation to improve Dolton's reputation by teaching them how to properly prepare the annual harvest. It was a tough mission, to say the least, but it was the only north star in a dark sky full of charred bread, wasted ingredients, and no culinary career options. The blue-walled academy rested in Maloon, the capital of Dolton.

The oldie, as they are known in Dolton, looked grave. "The academy is failing. You know this yourself. Your brother was part of the last graduating batch and they couldn't even decently toast a slice of bread if they tried. But of course you still want to enroll yourself and join the ranks of the disciples of a lost teaching. You have another year before you have to set your mind on a school of profession. Choose wisely." Thunder clapped overhead.

The boy used the loud sound as an excuse to stare off into the grassy distance. There were hills and fields as far as he could see, completely devoid of people. No guided tours today. The oldie took advantage of the boy's momentary lapse and approached nearer. "Take my advice and leave. Leave while you can and take on some apprenticeship far, far away. Don't keep yourself in Maloon." She brandished the distant view with a gloved hand, and slowly brought her hand near the boy's face. The back of her hand sported a blue and black symbol, the mark of a chronicler. "There are always places for historians, in this day and age," she added.

"No," he replied, "I won't; I have to stay..." he trailed off. He never could admit why he felt obligated to stay—even to the friends he could always depend on, Donya and Caleb. Caleb personally thought that he was into baking because of the "strong ladies", while Donya thought that his father was forcing him because he wanted to keep the bakery. He never had the heart to tell them otherwise. "It's just...Being a baker is something I've always wanted. I've always wanted to be famous one day for my bread and show the world what a Doltonian can do. It's not fair that everyone else in Elra gets to have something they can be known for, while Dolton gets all the scraps. We need someone to prove that Grandia didn't take all of Dolton's glean when it left!" Lightning flashed, and thunder quickly followed. This time, however, Gerbier stood still.

"And you think that you can fulfill that role? That you yourself have enough skill to bring back glory to Dolton? Do not deceive yourself," Madame Clooma admonished without mercy. "Your family needs you to succeed, to survive. Would your mother be proud if she learned that her son threw his life into the dying flames of a baking oven?"

She was met with silence, and pushed through with frustration. Her wild eyes and straight nose were made sharper by the lightning as her mouth carefully pulled up and down to leave a final message to the boy. "...Fine, stay quiet and 'principled'. But I will not leave you like this. I know that you remember me still, even barely—enough for me to arrive in a dream mixed in a memory—and that is enough to give me hope that you have remembered more besides. Wake up. And watch the clouds. For the next few days, stay alert, because you will have a chance to do as you must..."

Gerbier's vision jumps to him sitting in his bed, his orange eyes snapping open, his chestnut hair itching, and his breath slowly becoming faster as his mind tries to process what it had just seen. He looks up at the ceiling and sees the small mirror he installed. I always want to know how I look when I'm in bed, before and after, he thinks. Eh, maybe not right now; I look like a total mess. Let me see if I can find my comb and some fresh water...Oh, the time! I'll save my dream—vision?—for later, when I stare off into space, at the sky.

His view had swept over his bell clock, which read 9 hours and 10 minutes—in the morning, unfortunately. Time to get to work... He can already smell the furnace and the crumbs.

"In the other times, before the Singularity struck, there were more people. There were less strange and wonderful things. And most of all, there was more science.

There was so much science, in fact, that some people studied one of the many branches of science their whole lives. Some even studied several, or some at least were introduced to several before the lovely thing called 'university', or 'college', or even 'tertiary education', since there were just so many possibilities before. Then, they may choose to pick different, specific paths, depending on what they wanted to be when they grew up.

It was an interesting system, however riddled with corruption, inefficiency, and financial robbery it was, and, like most interesting things, it came to an end after the Singularity, and gave way to something greater.

More science.

Of course, when I refer to 'system' I do not merely refer to schools: I mean to bring to mind all sorts of institutions that either facilitate or limit scientific studies—or do something in between. I was actually one of those that worked in such a place, one that raised science like a child, and nurtured discoveries, or redirected efforts when such discoveries did not work out. My name back then was not 'Edgar'. It was, in fact, 'Allen'. Back then, I was closer to a human being than the knight of metal that I am now, but I do not miss much, besides the very thing that led to my survival soon after the Singularity, soon after the catastrophe to end approximately 88% of the global human population, other animals and plants excluded.

The science of biological cybernetics. Oh, and for your information and curiosity, I was indeed polite. Not polite enough to let my selfish co-workers survive though. Ha.

Resuming to the story once more, the Singularity struck and I survived, while some—most—did not. I will skip over the details of the Singularity as a whole, since you no doubt recall them in your sleep unless you have finally mastered the breathing exercises I taught you when we first met. Instead, I will go on to say that I was in the institution, which will remain unnamed, when all Sell broke loose.

As you also undoubtedly know, the ensuing chaos and destruction was wrought forth by several things, the prominent being the endowment of usually-destructive or self-harmful supernatural abilities. If you were not aware, these were known as Compensations for the Survivors, although they usually caused more hurt than healing. One of my co-workers for example, an intern brat named Andrick, suddenly began fuming toxic, corrosive gas that flooded the place horribly—I still have some acid marks on my suit, here, here, and here—and eventually killed everyone else besides him and me. I, who was granted with a strange ability I have dubbed 'Preemptive Safety Action Takeover', or PSAT, transferred my brain into an android suit that I had worked on for around a year before then, the same suit, more or less, that you see now. The details of the brain transfer are still blurry even to me, most likely as a side effect of my Compensation 'taking over', but I remember the encounter with Andrick most clearly. Let us hope that my memory projection equipment still functions.

Oh dear, no auditory output. Well, I'll narrate for you! This footage is from my perspective, obviously, as recorded by my head camera. The green, hunched figure stalking over to me from the green mist is Andrick. He looks more pale than usual because of the mist emanating from him, which was taking a toll on his body at the time and contributed to his defeat. It is extremely dark in this scene, since I was in a hallway where the power connections had melted. I was trying to find one of the main exits out of the building, and encountered Andrick accidentally.

Hiss, hiss. That's the sound of the gas leaking from his pores.

Grunt, grunt. That's Andrick, trying to speak, but failing, since his jaw is almost detached by this point.

I then attempt to reply. 'Andrick, stop this madness immediately!' Squish. I tried to step forward in that moment, but I ended up stepping into the skinny stomach of one of my co-workers who had decomposed because of the mist. Blood and stomach insides splatter and stain my right leg, much to my disgust. My post-filming analysis suggested an intense and painful death. Her name was Mariah.

Grunt. He rushes at me, the mist clinging oddly to his shoulders.

'Stop rushing at me or I will be forced to put you down like a rabid dog at the pound!' My robotic hand is held up in front of me, to convey 'stop'. It is ineffective.

Roar. OK, maybe not a roar exactly, but more of a mix between a yelp and a grunt. He pounces upon me, bypassing my outstretched hand and going for my cranial compartment. Not good, if you can't tell.

'Back off, you beast.' There are also more hissing noises, but this time from my armor plating corroding rapidly. Metallic whirling is heard as I snatch him off my chest and slam him to the wall.

Crumble, crack. His shoulder bones chip away easily and reveal bone marrow and flesh, sure signs of defeat for him.

Slump. He dies silently, followed by violent hissing as the remainder of his body decomposes almost instantly into green gas that obscures my vision and the camera.

By now, you might be wondering why I am telling you all of this. Why I am showing you such raw footage right before the supposed start of your new journey into science.

Essentially, it is hard for me to explain. But I will try anyway.

I was not the only one that survived a few moments after the Singularity. There was, of course, Andrick. But there were also other security guards and researchers, not to mention one or two particularly clever custodians. Indeed, after I looked back at the camera footage within the institution, several of them had almost escaped using projects around the facility, but they all failed in the end when compared to me.

Take Mariah, for example. She could not survive because of the technology she used, not because she lacked the wits. What she wore was an artificial biofilm skin, meant to protect against harmful chemicals and light radiation. Where did she obtain it? She was the team lead of the development team for the project. Unfortunately for her, the crafting of the suit was rushed, developed for mass production for citizens of urban areas. What was wrong? All of it. They were underfunded by themselves, as they tried to minimize costs and maximize vanity and appeal. Everyone on that team succumbed to the failures of the thin material, which was not coated with Kelaminon, a chemical that would have saved their lives, but driven up costs thricefold. An unacceptable price to pay for the corrupt safety industry, no doubt. So unacceptable that I bet several draft designs were rejected in exchange for worse, just-sufficient ones.

Now, contrast this with my own suit. Unlike them, I worked under a grant given by the institution to create something worth making. In fact, everyone was given to work under this grant, but most did not challenge it, since they had to pay back the grant—more like a loan in this sense—if they did not design something of good use. Rather, they took a less-risky approach and accepted offers from industries and private companies, just like the one Mariah and her team signed off with.

Thus, I did not care about specific budgets or looks. I did not have major restrictions. I worked to Sell and back because I wanted to, because I wanted to create, not sell or profit off of something. I even went as far as to create my own parts, since cybernetics was not well-explored at the time. My final product was a cyborg android suit, in which the user could implant some of their organs and live on in a metal shell. My purpose? None in particular. Perhaps I wanted to create stronger soldiers. Perhaps I wanted to empower the elderly. Perhaps we will never know honestly, because my memories of the time before the suit are greatly damaged because of the implantation process. A defect, but at least not one that cost my life and that of my team. On the bright side, I lived. Mariah and Co, and the many others, did not. They all relied on technology, cheap, ineffective technology, distributed by factories, factories created as a result of our consumer society, while I survived from my own yield and loss.

So, I guess the lesson of the whole debacle is that there is no substitute for passion and crafting. You cannot mass manufacture perfection, nor can you rush art. Remember this moving forward in all that you do.

In the end, science lacking industry was, and still is, superior. It is that which lasts, and last it will, our work in cybernetics. It is handed down from maker to student, from crafter to pupil. And finally, in this moment, from me to you.

Good luck, Damien. Let us begin, for real, without limitation."

"Flip again."

"There's nothing here, Basar. It's been two days since we've started, maybe we should take a break?"

"Flip through the stack again. There has to be something—Stop. Look at that."

"What? You're not even facing me, how can you—"

"No questions. Not anymore. No time."

"Fine."

DATABASE OF THE MOONLIGHTS

SEARCH LOG: PG: 577

ID: BIBLIOVORE

TAGS: Book, Shelf_16, South_Shelves

TRACK RECORD: Remains unseen (Twelve Reports, Thirty Missions, Zero Sightings, Zero Captures)

DOCUMENTATION NOTES: Most documents mentioning the vicious entities known as the Bibliovores have been transcribed from eye-witness reports. Very little is known on the topic of the Bibliovores or the shelf that they currently occupy (South Shelf 16H). The entities for an unknown purpose and through unknown means consume or otherwise remove book covers from all books that reside on South Shelf 16H.

RELEVANCY: Extremely relevant. Potential harm to implants in the Library is predicted. Implanted knowledge and research efforts are also stunted in the Earth Science Literature area, which will most likely lead to a decrease in developments in that area once the books are left without identifiable covers.

CURRENT EFFORTS:

• Squadron INVICTUS
• Team Parallax
• Unknown group of amateur ghost-hunters
• Library Staff (efforts unclear but present)
• Other minor, although undeclared groups

OTHER:

• 10/23/[ERROR]: An official bounty on any information/materials pertaining to the Bibliovores has been raised, leading to an increase in groups currently diverting efforts to searching for the elusive entities known as the Bibliovores.

Basar faced me before I finished reading the entire doc. Strangely, I could sense that he had mouthed the words "bounty" just as I read the erroneous date, his silent words betraying his ill-tempered demeanor for curiosity.

"There is no sense to this." He muttered, his voice quiet.

"What do you mean?"

"The Library has staff equipped for dealing with threats like this. It does not make any sense that they are putting out an official bounty to hunt these - things. It would just add unnecessary chaos."

"I guess that is odd. Maybe they needed help-?"

"No." Basar had cut me off. He leaned forward in his chair, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin on them. "A single Docent - the lowest of the staff - is able to withstand gunfire, blunt force trauma, anomalous abilities, hell, just about anything without so much as breaking a sweat. They would not need support on something as small as a pest."

I nodded in agreement, but didn't know what else to say. It was strange, to say the least. Basar pulled out another page from the file and handed it to me. It was a photocopied page from some notebook. He continued speaking.

"But of course, everything is a lead. Like this. The first eyewitness report of the events taking place."

The Gatekeeper's Sketchbook.

Monday.

Hell, I can’t explain how much I hate writing in a sketchbook. It feels so wrong, y’know? Like I’m doing something forbidden. These pages were meant for art, for drawing, for visuals, not words. But, even so, my memory tends to be shit and I just have to document all that’s going on right now. It’s a fucking mess, literally, and there isn’t enough time to document everything visually besides a few simple sketches, so I guess I’ll have to sacrifice a page or two to writing. Just don’t expect any more out of me anytime soon, at least, not until I get a proper writing book.

Regardless, point is, it’s as if a mini war has started in the Library. A bounty was posted a few days ago and it lead to a complete riot. Everyone wants dibs on the reward. So many people and creatures are coming out of the woodworks to participate you’d think there’s some sort of, I don’t know, party going on? There’s a lot of new entities here interacting. I don’t know how else to put it besides stating that its making introverts like me uncomfortable.

From what I’ve observed, there’s some sort of little critter, or perhaps group of critters, loose in the Library and the Library staff want them gone. Apparently they’ve been damaging books by ripping the covers straight off and then running away with them. Why they do this is unknown, but it certainly is a violation of Rule Two of the main Library rules - Do not damage Library property. So, yeah, in my opinion the staff have every right to use whatever means necessary to remove the nuisance from their property. It’s exactly the same as I would do back home, so I don’t really have a right to complain about their methods. Maybe I’ll take part in the hunt too, as, yeah, I do this type of stuff around home all the time too, so it wouldn’t be too difficult. Either way, I will be keeping track of these events, as I have never seen so much chaos in the Library before.

There was never any stopping Basar once he applied himself—after a decent cup of coffee when he could get one, of course. This was known to all but a few rock-buried few, especially considering his recent exploits, like the search for the Makotex, the Fossil Races, and currently, the hunt for the Bibliovores. By this point, most who knew him were afraid, at least mildly, and those who didn't know him should've been. It wasn't because of his well-trimmed facial hair, but rather his reputation for more than participation that lead him to being known as one of the best investigative agents out there—and that, along with a select few other things, fueled him to the point of extinction.

Then there was also his abilities that were more than just extraordinary luck. Futursense is a gift that must be used for the benefit of humanity, and Basar treated it as such. Of course, it did not always provide him the chance to—hence, the two day failure in investigation, although things definitely seemed to be picking up steam now.

He extracted his attention from the diary account and faced the closed eyes and mouth of his young deputy, Harris Idle. Some may have thought he was sleeping, but Basar understood that it was his way of comprehension and immersion for auditory input. Harris was a good person and an inquisitive agent, Basar thought, but if only there were more time to train him. No matter now, since time really was ticking to find the Bibliovores, books were ripping and people were fighting as they read through piles of documents. They were in a dull room with several tables interspersed, or in other words, Basar's idea of an investigation room.

"Is that the end of the document?" Harris asked tentatively. He had thoughts boiling about him, Basar could tell.

"Yes. Harris, are you aware of the nature of our investigation?"

"Yeah...We're trying to find evidence about the location of the Bibliovore's home, right? Or at least anything we can use to stop them. In order to either claim the bounty for ourselves or at least minimize the length of the, uh, competitive investigations."

"Correct. If you have such a good idea of our mission, then why do you appear to have a doubt in the knowledge in your possession? Is there a detail that you are missing?"

"Well...I suppose I am wondering about the kind of people who are after this in the first place. How dangerous are they if they're in the Library, after all? And if they are dangerous, why haven't they claimed the bounty yet?"

Basar moved to a stack to his left and seemingly pulled out a random paper. His power was on his side today; he could feel it. He handed it to Harris, who began to scan it intently.

Harris slowly opened his eyes. He saw something in his mind's eye, a burning vision that made him shudder. How strong was the enemy, really? He turned to Basar.

"Is there another follow-up document to that?"

Basar tilted his head as he reflected for a moment. "It appears to be the last log made." A beat of silence. "Are you familiar with Team Parallax?"

"In a way. They're bounty hunters of some sort, and they normally hang out here in the Library, away from all of their clients and targets. Keep logs often and from each member on each squad for each mission. Each is skilled in some aspect of hunting, whether it's operating tech, fighting with supernatural talents, or just staying sane." said Harris. He knew he should be concerned when Basar was asking him the questions. Maybe it's his way of directing attention to the task at hand? He thought carefully. He never knew if Basar actually had some psychic power after that mission in Jerusalem with the mind-bender. "Am I right?" he asked.

"Correct on all accounts, although you missed the part where they are extremely successful with almost every contract they take on, since they are a large group with approximately 60 to 70 members that are all well-trained. So, as I already assume you have concluded, it is very uncommon for them to leave a log incomplete, or a mission unfinished. Like this one." He explained in monotone, although his body was moving quickly throughout the large stacks of paper around them, his hands grasping for a specific paper.

It had already dawned on Harris a few moments before. "And the Bibliovores are still on the loose. What are you planning?"

Basar anticipated the question. "We will make our own move. At the very least, we need to see our object of inquiry. And by the way, I have high hopes that we will not be required to venture in solitary. Read this."

"Before you ask, the author of this document is a well-known biologist throughout the Library community and beyond," said Basar, "and we will definitely need a knowledgeable and scientific mind on this contract. In all honesty, you and I are both aware that we are mostly investigators and fighters. The situation with the Bibliovores seems to have more depth than being deserving of investigators and fighters, it seems."

Harris stared blankly at him. "What are you saying? Are we going to enlist the help of a civilian?" He had thought that they were good enough. After all, it was their own contract, and it wasn't typical for Basar to ask for help.

"Correct and incorrect. I am saying we will enlist the help of an experienced and qualified field biologist whom I plan to contact immediately. I am a little shocked, frankly, that he did not spring to mind earlier."

Harris surprised Basar. "I have no objections whatsoever. I think that's a good idea." Now that he thought about it, they really were out of their depth when it came to scientific research, and on the bright side, it wasn't as if they would have to rely on him for safety—they were both trained fighters, with a little supernatural talent on their side, too.

Harris smiled. They were forming a little team of their own.

The two investigators interrupted me as I was writing in my journal. I was quite surprised at their punctuality.

We met in the Jazz Parlor, as I requested from them through the email I sent a few hours ago. They came over to my booth seat, which was equidistant from the entrance and the stage opposite. I positioned myself there so I could drown in the music playing and sight Basar & Co. when they arrived. It was also conveniently visible to the nearby security guard, if these "investigators" were to attempt anything to harm me. As you may have guessed, however, I did not personally believe that they would attempt anything; Basar's credentials were indeed verified by the Inquisitive Guild, and I respected his formality.

But just in case, I did end up bringing a shade-thrower.

When they slid into the seat in front of me, two things immediately stood out to me: their age and their markings. One of them was young and excited, while the other one was, with all due respect, old and worn. I was beginning to doubt their acclaimed specialty in combat, since the former seemed a little inexperienced, while the latter seemed outright tired. I, of course, maintained my demeanor and pretended to tense slightly, with the aura of a true intellectual with a backup plan in case something went awry. As for their markings, the younger one was covered head-to-toe in scars, while the older one had a tattooed eye on his forehead. The forehead-eye also appeared seared and forced on, as if it were a marking by an enemy, and not an ill-timed decision as a youth.

Again, I was beginning to lose the slightest bit of confidence in these two.

They introduced themselves as Basar (the older one with a three-piece suit) and Harris (the younger one with a camera around his neck). To spare the unimportant details, we essentially discussed the Bibliovores and our plans. Then, we finally arrived at the heart of the meeting: A second meeting.

"So when would you be available to travel with us to the South Shelves?" It was Harris' voice, the energetic one. It mildly reminded me of my own, when I was a younger lad.

"Well," I told him, "I was actually planning to go as soon as possible, and I had already packed all of the essentials by the time your mentor had emailed me." He appeared slightly surprised when I mentioned that I was emailed—by what else was I supposed to be contacted through? Telephone?

Basar spoke up next. "We were discussing the same plan. Would you care to leave now? We are ready as well; our bags are in the front—" He gestured to the entrance. "—unless of course you still need to make some preparations."

"Agreed. I just need a moment to empty my bladder, if you don't mind." I smiled sheepishly. Age was hot on my tail, and my excretory patterns were already showing it. "But before that, I do have one more question: What are your combat techniques, if I may ask?"

Basar and Harris exchanged quick glances. Basar spoke for the both of them. "I am familiar with hand-to-hand combat fighting, combat analysis, and firearm usage. Harris is a master of the mace, barbed whip, and yo-yo; he also specializes in combat with a switchblade a mage made for him that radiates with, ah, 'golden light energy'."

I raised my eyebrows and decided against more questions, lest I lead to rampant and excess questioning. "I see...Now, please excuse me for a moment. I will meet both of you outside."

The call of a magnificent, flaming falcon echoed through the impossibly tall halls of the Wanderer's Library, as it flew above and in-between shelves, its flowing tail trailing golden stardust. Below it, a trio made its way between the bookcases, prepared for adventure, as Harris would put it. Basar would have called it "investigative action", while Sqr'Ik described it as "field work".

Sqr'lk's large protruding ears twitched, and his bald, green head swiveled from side to side, as his four yellow eyes scanned his surroundings, searching for any danger. They were finally here, at South Shelf 18H. All of them stopped. Two more shelves down was South Shelf 16H. Sqr'Ik's phoenix perched itself next to him, on a nearby ledge protruding from a shelf. In its beak was a clump of pages: It was a book, with the binding torn and the covers ripped off.

"This is the place." Sqr'Ik announced. No more words were needed, as they had internalized the course of action beforehand: Basar would take the lead, a firearm at the ready for any threat. Sqr'Ik would follow loosely behind him, watching and noting everything down in his journal, and his falcon would be overhead the entire time, mostly out of sight as to not give them away in the dark mist that surrounded the shelves they stood in. Harris would trail from behind, looking behind occasionally and remaining alert for danger.

In less than a minute, they assumed position with their equipment out, and creeped on silently. Sqr'Ik spotted the plaque that read "Shelf 16H". There was a small rustling coming from behind the shelf and there was a small, purple flame floating in the air. As they approached, closer and closer, Basar let out a small gasp as the flame moved towards them and left the mild cover of the shelf dotted with books. Sqr'Ik came to an understanding. This was a pure specimen of the beings that everyone had been chasing, looking for, debating over. It was not, in fact, a dinosaur, an alien from another world, or some kind of fantastical humanoid never encountered. When the purple fire walked and turned the corner, the trio saw a Page.

A tiny click from the back of the group informed them that a picture had been taken by Harris, who could not give up the perfect opportunity for documentation. As a result, the sound triggered what seemed to be a lifetime of silence, as a transparent Page looked up at them, its fire illuminating the dark shelves around them.

Etruscan Town, Dolton: On April 1st, 2202⁹, Karl Golàn, master stone architect of the century, was contracted by Skyline Design Inc. to incorporate his unique style into their new city projects for the next two years. Skyline Design is a city planning and building design firm with the intentions of creating a more physically appealing urban environment for those living in the rolling hills of Dolton¹⁰. Enlisting Karl Golàn into the ranks of their design team is a major step in realizing this mission, and his first job is to use his skill to create the Contented City, a city that will specialize in buildings designed to increase happiness and reduce idleness rates for all citizens¹¹. Because Skyline Design Inc. recognizes that this would prove instrumental in reviving some of Dolton, the Super-Mayor Boss of SDI is increasing gains and potential citizen benefits for all stakeholders that support this project¹².

Alan Mallard, SMB of Skyline Design Inc, commented on the same day of Golàn's contracting and the announcement of potential benefits: "Nothing gets done without innovation. The past hundred years or so of Dolton's falling economy and happiness is indicative of that—and it's time to change. After the resounding accomplishments we've made within our now-lovely Etruscan Town, I think it's also about time to recruit more and more local-but-unexplored talents such as Karl Golàn and spread our holdings into other quadrants of Dolton...For starters, we'll be constructing a new town from scratch to bridge the economies of Alcove Grounds and Deathville in Quadrant Why...I only see bright things ahead of us, and for everyone else as well!"¹³

Recruiting Karl Golàn, a new talent from the Baking Suburbs¹⁴, along with other less expressive aspiring architects¹⁵, was no easy task. This is because of the lack of support for the visual arts in Dolton¹⁶, and so the company acted accordingly:

• Several posters with fascinating designs¹⁷ to draw in artists were distributed throughout the towns in Dolton that were designated as "the top 20 towns that are not likely to become colorblind in the next century" by Color Bounce Newspaper¹⁸. These towns supposedly had a higher collective portfolio of art over time. Said posters included information on a job opening for designers, and when and where to contact recruiting officers¹⁹.

• Artists traveling²⁰ from their hometowns in order to work in Etruscan Town with the rest of the firm also receive compensation: Hired designers have their own personal studio that they share with one other artist that specializes in a similar style. They also have free access to professional mental health²¹, a new thing for Dolton companies.

About Skyline Design Inc: Originally a cemetery planning organization, Skyline Design Inc. evolved from a small construction studio in Etruscan Town, Dolton, where it is now situated. Face-lifted in 2195, over 500 employees are contracted by SDI, making it one of the largest companies in the nation. SDI currently designs architectural structures and large-scale projects for various towns across Dolton, and has helped over 20 towns and businesses so far²².

Dear, dear Karl,

I will work on the assumption that you had no idea of yesterday's horrible, monstrous effects on the city of New Houston. If this proves to be untrue, and I find out that you really did mean to cause that messy... meltdown, I will find you and make sure that you do not forget the faces of the men, women, and children that you so "unwittingly" murdered.

I find it absolutely terrible that someone with your caliber of strength would even imagine to do something so horrid, that even us quaint thieves, bandits, and ne'er-do-wells on the roads of the Del Rio-Canadian Highway have heard rumors—rumors that include words which are most definitely not synonymous with "good", "pleasant", or "deserving of life". This truly shocks me, mainly because I was of the opinion that in a world where even the old man might be able to stab your mind with his eyesight, large-scale evil would disappear. I mean, of course the small stuff would always be around—no police, no worries, as you know—but lines of betrayal and revenge are absolutely revitalized in this time of disorder, so I hope your family and friends know of your stupidity. Stupidity in even being associated with such a tragedy, if you really claim innocence.

However, for the sake of my letter to you today, I will assume you've committed the crime, but didn't mean to lash out in such a heated manner. As you probably know, this is a judgement made by my own attitudes towards the natural goodwill of humans in this day and age, and not the result of an analysis by a post-apocalyptic news station. Even though, ironically, this would be the best time for 24-hour news in a world where you're not even sure if the Earth still spins at the same rate. Those strange, walking, wire-like, artificially intelligent monstrosities known as the Journalism Robots, or the Jo-bots, if you will, have been spitting serious misinformation and bias since their conception, but there's not really much else to get info from. I'd stay away from large settlements if I were you.

Of course, surely you also realize that just because the world is half-empty because of some disaster from space doesn't mean you get to act as if the world is completely empty. Remember that the things you do have consequences, Karl. Know that anyone you come across could potentially have the key to defeating you, so keep your temper.

You know, all of this reminds me of when I was still finding my way around the beautiful business of dangerous living, back when I had decided to settle on kidnapping (something that hadn't worked out and caused me to change course, after a certain gaseous gal escaped too easily and almost killed me). We met at what was left of a bar, remember? The piano was playing and the rain outside was comforting, if a little wet. The wood walls were dim in the lighting, and blended the sounds of rain, song, and chatter into a calm scatter. You were so young and powerful and fiery in that time, powerful because of your acclaimed drive to do more. You wanted to see past the strange skylines of living buildings, past cyber-trees, past lands burned by radiation and haunted by those with unfathomable powers...It seems you've failed slightly, hm? Causing a catastrophe like the rest, and making everyone who survived sweat a little more. I mean, I'm sure there's still time to get back on your original plan of action...Of course, that was quite some time ago...

Why am I even writing to you, you may still ask? Well, if you haven't figured it out, it's finally happened, after crossing paths with you several times to the point where I wonder why we aren't quite enemies or quite friends yet:

I've been contracted to kill you. And I'm giving you ten days before I start trying to track you down. As I write this from a low-lying apartment room, I can already feel the sun shining on my blades as my blood pumps, my heart fueled by the thought of another job done. For now though, it's dark out tonight, really dark, frankly, and a little chilly. I'm not well-bundled in layers, but perhaps I'll be able to afford to buy some from the market after I'm through with you.

I think you already know I have a talent for sniffing out blood with my blades, a talent which made me so fit for tracking and hunting ventures; and if you're wondering where I got a sample of your life juice, look no further than those who also wish you dead. Again, I'm giving you time to either end yourself or expose yourself. The end result will be the same, but I'm "cutting you some slack" because I think you weren't that ill-meaning.

Your pal,

Lekter, Primary Hitman from Roth Incorporated.

P.S: If you were wondering how this letter got to you, don't. I will admit though that the new carrier birds are a wonder—And don't worry about me putting a tracker on the bird, because 1) I wasn't able to find a suitable tracker in time and 2) I do like a challenge =D

From a Gatekeeper, Пользователь 'UncertaintyCrossing' не существует.

The cromwell proves amazingly for flying information across the worlds, for they can navigate Ways, the Library, and most notably, any otherworldly combination of deadly smogs, wind turbines, and trees. The poems below have been collected by Page Tamto in honor of the 100th Library-sponsored cromwell migration, in which the Library and its patrons encouraged the flocks and reduced obstructions and/or distractions in their path. Aside from that, cromwells often take up the role of book-finder when they rest in the Library, during which a patron may attempt to approach them for directions on finding a document or section of the Library.Tamto says to enjoy!

The CrommWelle, by Aphelia Carton

'Twas once a fast squirrel that would've matched thee,
Or 'twere a quick pigeon which mastered the trees—
But none of above could hope to compare
To the mighty cromwell once launched in the air !

Wayward explorers and grandma's alike
Have certainly asked to the Desk at some time
For maybe a kiwi, or a phoenix *en route*,
But 'twas the scaled bird that bore the best fruit—

Whether it were a package, or a locked-in-cage ghost
Or even a speaker²⁴, or a colored French loaf,
No fowl of kind could hope to defeat,
The kind of spark wings that flew out of reach.

And even to now, to the electricity days,
To the noon's and evening's where the Rounderpede strays,
None can dent the sharp beak or the smart power plays,
Of a swarm of cromwells that wants to go that Way.

Cromwells search, not send, by DORIAN

Have you ever hid in a shelf?
A shelf,
One too quiet for a hawk,
Or too large for a goose,
Or too smart for a crow—

But there's never a Library shelf
Too hard-to-find
Too mysteriously ominous
Too obstructive, no matter how tall the shelves look—
Never any of that, for a cromwell.

Once, in a trip to myself,
I slowly fixated my eyes away from the wooden casing
To the metallic bird next to me
Whose bloody scent swept away my tears and the shelf-musk,
Whose shiny gaze both pierced my self-contempt and my hiding place,
Whose brown casing blended both my wariness and with the shelves.

I wondered, if
The soaring complexity was on a quest for my heart
For a friend, or maybe an enemy...
But there was no message attached to her or him
No parcel laced.
No strings attached.
She or he had searched for me
And I didn't want to counter that.

So I stayed silent as it searched my soul, waiting
Leaving something that no one would have sent.

Small Rap for the Big Help Bird, by Ostric-ized

Checklist
Breakfast
"Bro I gotta text this"
That's all humans do when they wake up to start ventin'

Ain't having bird issues like soaring through a nexus
Don't care 'bout trees or smoky sky wreckage—
And patrons don't praise, they only ask questions!

When we gonna acknowledge what scholars,
bird ballers, shelf fawners, and help callers
Refer to in our Library as our best book trawler
For rude aisle walkers and close to no dollars?

You won't find nothing better than instantly blessèd
And so we should consider to confess it:
Arrested, caressed it, weren't your hearts so invested
When we invited in a bird that we so relentlessly tested—
And so just provide some air space and leave the bird space for restin'.

A notice for fellow Wanderers.

Greetings, fellow Wanderer. You've managed to find the Field Guide to the Shelves, Volume One. Congratulations! Whether it was passed to you, picked up by you, or mysteriously found its way into your possession, you are in for a treat.

This Volume aims to document all the flora and fauna that have made up residence in the Library. What does that mean? Well, are you having trouble dealing with pesky foxburns stealing your stuff? Or perhaps a bibliovore has given you a spook one too many times? Document it here. If we work together, the collective knowledge we obtain can help us all deal with living here in the Library.

Please note this is for wild creatures that have not been tamed! A collected list of the tamed, owned, or obedient critters can be requested from the Main Desk at any time. Reports about troublesome pets go to said Archivists as they will reach out to the critter's owner, do not report about it here! Thanks!

If you have issues identifying Staff variants, natural Library phenomenon, or other items that do not fall into the category of nature and wildlife, please see our other Volumes, currently pending.

Not really. There are some really nasty fields in the Crypts that swallow all sorts of creatures, from laughing bugs to watermelon giants, without a trace left; it depends on the size of a field, for the most part. Oh...

---

DEREK

DEREK Lintukasvihirviö³²

Species or individual: Individual.
Size: Absolutely humongous. Slightly bigger than the floating shelf monoliths in the Weightless Atrium.
Identification: A behemoth of an avian, this phytoid ³³

resembles the colorful king vulture, except that it is seemingly made out of plant matter.
Regional Shelf Variants: Not applicable. I'm fairly certain that this creature isn't native to the Library, and has been stranded here from somewhere else instead.
Habitat: Lintukasvihirviö dwells within the Lost Star Lobby. It has built a nest high up on top of the tallest shelves, and uses the miniature star within the space as a source of nutrition through photosynthesis. It's call sounds like leaves rustling in the wind, but like, really loud.
Behavior: Very hostile. When approached, it will let out a call similar to the sound of a tree being unrooted, and the flowers across its body will blossom in a stunning display meant to intimidate and disorient. My attempts to observe it more closely have been unsuccessful, as I have not dared to go within crushing distance. Mine weren't though. Wait, what? I mean, I was just hanging around Lost Star Lobby the other day when I heard its call. I decided to climb the shelves to take a closer look at it. It did try to scare me away at first, but when I moved very slowly and carefully, with a chocolate bar outstretched as a peace offering, it allowed me to approach. It relaxed quickly when it realized that I wasn't going to hurt it, and now we're best buds!
I think it was just scared.
Warning: Very hostile. Do not approach. Nonsense.