Location: Docked. That's the only word for it. The house isn't on land, precisely, but sort of… attached via shifting magical umbilicals to the outer wall of what appears to be one of the Great Libraries. Specifically, judging by the faint smell of ozone and crystallized paradoxes, I think it's the Biblioplex of Unbound Tomes. Haven't been here in… eighty years? A century? Time blurs, especially when dealing with libraries that exist slightly outside conventional spacetime.
The last two weeks near Bramble-whatever-wick were uneventful after the star-charting and the dead Nav-Orb discovery. Mostly involved me trying (and failing) to recalibrate the dodgy compass, attempting increasingly obscure methods to wake the Nav-Orb (including percussive maintenance, which it ignored), drinking tea, and generally developing a profound sense of 'well, we're fucked geographically, might as well organize the spice rack'. The Hair seemed mostly content chasing dust bunnies. Then, three nights ago, I went to sleep smelling damp earth and woke up smelling old paper, arcane dust, and the specific, sharp scent of excessively powerful preservation enchantments. The house had moved. Again. No warning, just… poof. One minute, foothills under alien stars; the next, interdimensional library car park.
Have to admit, this location is potentially more interesting than most. The Biblioplex holds damn near everything ever written down in several dozen realities, provided it hasn't been eaten by bookworms (literal or metaphorical), accidentally classified as 'existentially dangerous and therefore indexed only by forgetting', or borrowed by a forgetful archmage three millennia ago. If answers about cold obsidian spheres or weirdly directional river stones (the Lesser Navigator Nodes, apparently) are anywhere, they might be here. Big might. This place is infinite, labyrinthine, and parts of it actively resent being researched.
Venturing inside requires preparation almost as intense as going into town, mainly because of the Hair. Libraries – especially magical libraries like this – have rules. Silence. No unauthorized magic. No shedding (problematic). No touching fragile manuscripts with appendages that might have minds of their own and questionable intentions regarding ancient ink. The Hair had to be put into the Maximum Constraint Braid today – tighter runes, stronger soporific charm, layered with a secondary Stasis Field just around the braid itself. It hangs down my back now like a heavy, inert rope, radiating pure, unadulterated sulk. Better than having it try to 'read' a scroll bound in demon hide or 'helpfully' re-shelve books according to its own chaotic aesthetic.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Spent most of today just trying to navigate the damn place. The indices are sentient, occasionally sarcastic, and demand payment in riddles or obscure historical trivia before pointing you in vaguely the right direction. Tried looking up 'Obsidian Spheres, Unnaturally Cold, Magic Resistant'. The index (which manifested as a floating, spectral monocle with a disapproving voice) sniffed disdainfully and directed me towards sections on 'Cryomantic Artifacts (Failed)', 'Geological Oddities (Probably Cursed)', and 'Paperweights of the Damned'. Helpful. Not.
Then I tried researching the pulsing stones again, using the 'Lesser Navigator Node' terminology the lexicon gave them last time we were near civilization (feels like ages ago now). Found a brief, dusty entry confirming they are indeed ancient navigational aids, highly sensitive to specific dimensional frequencies, notoriously difficult to calibrate, and yes, occasionally known to attract large, migratory, reality-warping sky-beasts. Still no clue why my house collected them or where they might point from. Progress, I guess? Ish?
Found a relatively quiet alcove in the 'Dubious Meteorology and Weather Witchery' section to sit down and consult my own notes for a bit. Pulled out this very journal. Flipped back through the recent entries. Gods, my life is absurd. Floating islands, underwater reefs, sentient hair, mystery packages delivered by moss… It reads like a fever dream. Started to wonder again why I'm even bothering to write this down.
Just as I was sinking into a proper existential mope, the bookshelf next to me sighed. A literal, dusty sigh. I looked up. An entire shelf of identical, grey-bound volumes titled 'Proceedings of the Third Symposium on Applied Thaumaturgical Inertia' seemed to collectively deflate. One of the books near the middle then slowly slid out about an inch, as if trying to get my attention.
I stared at it. Then at the shelf. Then back at the book. "Don't start," I muttered, closing my journal. "I haven't got time for cryptic bookshelf prophecies today."
It slid out another inch.
Right. That's enough high-level research and atmospheric weirdness for one day. Time to retreat back to the house before the furniture starts offering unsolicited advice or the Hair breaks free of its Stasis Field and decides to 'critique' the library's organizational system. Maybe I'll just read some trashy adventure novel I picked up last century instead. Far less likely to sigh at me.
