[ he's a feral man, wild and untamed and lost and the pale librarian feels her heart skip a beat as he stumbles towards her. it's an uneven shuffle full of desperation, a pitiful display: a molting peacock that can't put it's money where it's mouth is. she rests her elbow on her throne built from the ground up on a bed of bodies and books and knowledge. balances her chin upon her pale, just barely pink skinned knuckles. her golden gaze rests on the smudge of black hobbling toward her.

his weapon touches her. she says nothing of it. she fears nothing. if this is the end, she can rest knowing she got to hear his voice at the end. it's enough to hear it spill out of his mouth; his truth, his world, the life he came to live.

the pale librarian sighs. angela breathes, slow and even. ]

A trick? In that vein, I have nothing for you. Books, perhaps, knowledge, yes... May you find that which you seek, dear guest.

[ she plays the role, reads the script, but something sits so heavy on her heart. her blood is pumping. he's still masked; somehow, it hurts. ]

I made a mistake a long time ago. I won't be making it again.

[ before she can be quiet for too long, she continues, her voice a river that can't stop flowing. ] Roland...

Is the mask... because I can't remember your face? Or do you no longer wish to meet me?...