The owl blinked at him, its eyes wide with mock innocence before it shrugged, an almost human gesture. "But the elves know. They can turn winter into summer with their magic. If they don't know something as trivial as Solesia, well, who else would?"
Bastian felt a hot wave of anger rising, then let out a bitter laugh. "You, "
But before he could finish, the owl interrupted, its tone suddenly serious. "'The Veins of the Earth: The Theory of Geological Veins', it's part of the 'On the World' series, written by the Sage himself. That's where you'll find your answers."
Bastian stood there, taking deep breaths, trying to regain control of his emotions. How many times had this owl toyed with him, led him down a path of confusion before casually handing him a shred of information? It was infuriating. And yet, it was exactly what he had come to expect. The owl's unpredictable behavior was almost routine at this point.
Still, Bastian had learned to be cautious. From the very moment they had met, his instincts had warned him not to trust the creature before him. It looked like a snowy owl; rare, yes, but not impossible to find in the North. However, its ability to speak in perfect elvish, to manipulate conversations, and its odd sense of humor made it something far more than just a bird.
That fateful night when the owl had first spoken of "soul loss," Bastian had refused to take the bait. Though the strange memory lapses and unsettling presence of undead creatures around the North were troubling, they hadn't shaken him enough to follow the owl blindly. He had learned, from old fables and life in the harsh northern tribes, that trusting strange, unnatural beings often led to disaster.
Despite his caution, the owl's persistence had eventually worn him down. There was something about the way it played with words, always leaving a door slightly open, tempting him with half-truths. And of course, there was the letter.
"The old village chief's letter vouched for you," Bastian muttered to himself, recalling the words that still echoed in his mind. "But you know how sensitive the elves are. Don't cause any trouble. And if you do, don't drag us into it."
The village chief, Turbatu, had vouched for the owl, why, Bastian had no idea. Without Turbatu's endorsement, Bastian would never have agreed to bring the owl into elven lands, let alone embark on this confusing journey to uncover the truth behind his Solesia. But the old man's words held weight, and so Bastian had reluctantly agreed.
"Just remember," Bastian had told the owl before setting out, "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it because of the village chief's letter."
Now, standing in his cabin with the owl fluttering around the room and laughing its strange, bird-like laugh, Bastian knew he was in too deep to turn back.
Without another word, he walked out of the room, leaving the owl behind, still circling in the air, its laughter following him out into the cold night.
The Snowy Owl, that mischievous and mysterious creature from the North, was a constant source of trouble. Bastian had learned not to trust its whimsical nature, but he couldn't help but wonder, would it cause chaos among the elves? Part of him hoped it would. If the owl stirred up enough trouble, perhaps the elves would finally regret letting such a creature into their lands.
But for now, Bastian had a mission. He was here for a reason, one that outweighed his amusement at the potential havoc the owl might wreak. The old village chief had sent him with a task, to uncover the truth behind the mysterious Solesia plaguing the giant tribe. And to do that, Bastian needed to find the book.
"A book written by the Sage himself? I hope it's not impossible to track down," he muttered to himself, scanning the shelves.
This wasn't his first visit to the library, nor the first time he had combed through its tomes in search of knowledge. His dragonborn heritage granted him fragmented pieces of ancient wisdom, but those bits of knowledge were often disjointed, incomplete. To turn that scattered information into practical skills, he needed to rely on the libraries and books of the North.
The elves, for all their coldness toward him, were the only people whose intellectual resources he had access to. He had studied their texts on metallurgy, leatherwork, and art, spending what little money he had on books and tools, even obtaining a coveted "borrowing card" for the village library.
". . . Half-blood, you know the rules," the library guard grumbled as Bastian presented his card. The guard, though clearly irritated, stepped aside reluctantly. "Don't cause trouble."
Bastian nodded, ignoring the disdain in the guard's voice. He was used to it by now.
The library itself wasn't vast, just a modest collection meant for the village's use. Most of the texts here were not rare or particularly valuable. Local history, basic cultural guides, and practical manuals lined the shelves. The villagers, in their own way, profited off the system by selling or renting out their borrowing passes to outsiders. The guards turned a blind eye, as long as everyone got a cut of the earnings. Bastian knew the game well enough.
"Maybe that's why the old village chief asked me to come," Bastian thought with a smirk. The giants didn't value books the same way elves did, and if a frost giant wandered into the library, it would become the talk of the North. It was far easier for Bastian, with his elven blood and borrowed pass, to slip in unnoticed.
With a sigh of relief, he stepped into the familiar quiet of the library. Here, among the rows of dusty tomes, he could lose himself in a sea of knowledge, free from the wary eyes of the elves who surrounded him in the village.
But this time, his search was proving difficult. Hours passed as he combed through shelves and flipped through volumes. He started with the history section, then moved to cultural studies, but the elusive Sage's Series remained frustratingly out of reach.
"Damn it, is it not here?" Bastian muttered in frustration, slamming shut yet another irrelevant book. He glanced out the window. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a dusky twilight over the village.
The library would be closing soon, and time was running out. He had hoped to find the book before the elf village chief returned tomorrow. Staying late would draw attention to himself, something he couldn't afford. But if he left now, empty-handed, he wouldn't have time to come up with another plan. This trip, already a gamble, would be wasted.
Panic began to bubble beneath the surface of his calm exterior. He had to find that book.
Bastian's fingers brushed the spine of another volume as he worked his way through the last shelf. His thoughts raced, trying to piece together alternatives if this lead turned cold. The snow owl's cryptic hints, the village chief's commission, none of it would matter if he couldn't find the book in time.
Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself to focus. There was still time, if only just enough, to uncover the truth buried in the elves' ancient tomes.
Bang.
The loud thud broke the quiet hush of the library, drawing Bastian's attention immediately. Heads turned briefly in the direction of the sound, but most quickly looked away, uninterested. The noise had come from the children's corner, a section where young elves would gather to read stories and explore colorful books filled with fables and magical lore.
There, amidst a scattered mess of books and a toppled shelf, stood a small elf child, looking utterly perplexed by the scene he had caused. The child blinked in confusion, glancing between the fallen bookshelf and the mess of toys and books now spread across the floor.
Bastian's first instinct was to help, though he couldn't help the pang of unease that tugged at him. This was elven territory after all, and he; a half-elf was used to the suspicious glances and unspoken judgments cast his way. Even the children, with their innocent faces, were taught to be wary of those like him.
Still, he smiled and rose from his seat, walking over with a gentle, friendly demeanor. As he approached, Bastian couldn't help but expect the child to run, as they usually did. Elves were careful to distance themselves from his kind, even at a young age. He knew that behind those wide, seemingly innocent eyes, this elf child was already older than him in more ways than one. They knew the customs, knew what to do when a "half-breed" showed kindness: reject it, distance themselves.
True to form, the child's expression shifted, and without a word, he scampered off, leaving Bastian standing there alone amidst the fallen books. A flicker of disappointment crossed Bastian's face, but it was fleeting. He had long since learned to hide the sting of rejection.
With a sigh, he bent down to gather the scattered books. His hands moved quickly, organizing the mess without complaint, though he muttered under his breath, letting his frustration slip through.
"Why are you here?"
His voice, low and almost a growl, was directed at something or someone, that lay hidden among the mess. His eyes narrowed as he picked up a small book and turned to face the source of his unease.
"Gearlard?"
There, perched on the collapsed bookshelf like some eerie, lifeless doll, was the spirit of Gearlard, a giant's infant spirit. The creature's single, unblinking eye stared back at Bastian, its gaze unnerving, sending a shiver down his spine. The spirit remained motionless, a silent, unsettling presence that always seemed to appear at the most inconvenient times.