Sir Sinkrattle’s Reliquary and Verboratorium

Sylvia was on the fifth floor of “Sir Sinkrattle’s Reliquary and Verboratorium,” a bookstore in the Fog District. The building itself was very old, and the windows looked out onto the wet, cold, misty streets of Vulane below, where creatures with clandestine missions stepped gingerly on the cobblestones. Usually the store was empty, but she noticed a few female rats reading from the popular section, where the new batch of the Shadowclaw Chronicles - a series of mystery novels - had been deposited. 

From time to time, they surreptitiously checked over their shoulders for Sylvia and laughed. Sylvia was in her regular brown robes: resembling a Tyrian monk.

Suddenly, a voice rang out.

“Sylvia? Your mail is here,” her boss’s voice said through the brass horn installed in the wall. Sylvia’s heart jumped a little: She was expecting to hear back from the Temple’s elite storyreaders that day.

The young raccoon put down the tome she was reading, which was an index of books related to certain wines she had heard about. That would have to wait, however. She took the nearest staircase round and round and round down to the street level where her boss - a cat by the name of Sneer Sinkrattle - was alphabetizing a row of fiction books. He wore a long, smoking robe made of luxurious deep blue and emerald green silk, adorned with intricate gold and silver embroidery depicting pens and books. He turned and lowered his glasses, his long, twisting pipe dipping out of his fanged mouth. 

The cat merely pointed to the front desk, where a single letter lay in wait.

“Thank you Sir Sinkrattle!” She said, scurrying over to the awaited missive. He merely turned back to what he was doing. She took the letter in her paws and hurriedly tore it open.

Yes - she was one of the ten creatures who had won the grand prize: An invitation to a party where the main attraction was a reading of the Crimson Diary. 

“Yes!” Sylvia yelled, drawing the attention of her boss.

“Congratulations, Sylvia,” he said.

Sylvia, still smiling, wandered over to her employer. “Sorry Sir Sinkrattle. I just won a writing contest. An essay, in fact.”

“Ah, indeed?”

“Heh,” Sylvia said, rubbing the back of her neck. “You’ve heard of the Crimson Diary, I take it?”

That stopped him in his tracks. His long, wiry tail whipped into a question mark of interest behind him. He began to clean his glasses.

“I believe so,” he said sardonically. “I don’t suppose you have won that priceless item have you?” He asked, indicating the letter in Sylvia’s claws.

“Ha! No no no,” she said. “I’ve merely been invited to a reading of it.”

“Oh, truly? How much? A sentence? A paragraph?”

“Two paragraphs, actually,” she said, shyly. Her superior had been a librarian for a very long time, and she admired Sir Sinkrattle’s attention to detail and his collection. He only sold about one book a year from his collection, but it was enough to keep his enormous shop open and his employees fed.

Sir Sinkrattle scratched his furry chin.

“Two whole paragraphs? Heh. I recall a party wherein a whole page was read. Selthia the Matriarch of Vulane was there. By the time the Minister Verborum was finished, the entire company was rolling on the ground in horrific ecstasy: their minds filled with tragedies and loves that no mortal heart can stand for long periods of time.”

Sylvia laughed. “No book that wasn’t enchanted could be that formidable.”

“Tis true,” Sir Sinkrattle said with a wry smile, holding his strange pipe aloft. “It contains the most unrequited loves and depraved desires. Tales soaked in the blood of jealous lovers.” He looked up at the high ceiling, as if recalling something someone told him long ago. “Tales of horrors beyond what mortal hearts could bear. All this and more lay within the Crimson Diary. Secrets whispered in the dark corners of forgotten places. Forbidden passions that consumed souls. And sins so dark, they dared not be spoken aloud. The Crimson Diary holds the power to reveal and ruin, to captivate and condemn.”

He gave Sylvia a strange, fangy smile. 

“Y-you’re scaring me a little, Sir Sinkrattle,” the raccoon said, recoiling a bit. Sinkrattle smoothed his creavat and cleared his throat.

“Heh, I didn’t mean to Sylvia.”

“It’s all right,” Sylvia said in turn, her smile returning. “Where did that quote originate from?”

“The Index of Forbidden Works, by your friend and mine, Urstripe of Altarhome,” he said, another wry smile making its way across his fluffy face. Again, Sylvia laughed.

“That huge tome on the fourth floor? And of course it’s banned. You know, I went on a date with a paladin once? it did not go well.”

“I would imagine not. And the poetic words describing the work do not even do the Crimson Diary justice.”

Again, Sylvia chuckled. The irony of a Paladin of the God of Justice not ‘doing justice’ to a work such as the Crimson Diary was deeply humorous to Sylvia, to say the least. “You are too funny, Sir Sinkrattle. But tell me, is the book that powerful? That significant? That the Witch Queen herself would fall to the floor after hearing only a page? Is it much worse than The Fog?”

Sylvia had been living in the Fog District for a couple years. At first the mysterious district’s fog filled her dreams with bizarre fantasies, but she eventually became accustomed to it.

At this, the old cat’s expression changed to one of concern. “Meet me in my study in an hour if you would, Sylvia. I... I would like to speak to you in private.”

Sylvia looked around the floor: it was only she and him aside from the rats on the upper floor. She nodded. He was a gentle cat, and would only be concerned if it was warranted. To take her mind off the hour, she reread the letter carefully. It was perfumed and written on heavy paper in an elegant, glowing hand. She could tell that the ink was enchanted, as it glowed so brightly blue that she turned it over and over, admiring its light instead of its words for a bit.

Congratulations, Sylvia Elderleaf!

She read the first line a few more times, then continued.

Your series of epistles between yourself and your godfather extolling the virtues of the Temple of Veilwinter has intrigued us greatly! Please be so kind as to present yourself, with this letter, on this very eve at the Twilight Palace.

There were instructions given afterward for which of the guards to give the letter to and such and such. Sylvia carefully clutched the paper to her chest as she checked the time again. On the first floor was an ornate golden timepiece from Mr. Whisperwheel’s chronotorium: The hour was almost up, and the young raccoon began to make her way to Sir Sinkrattle’s study, all the way on the sixth floor.

On the way she nearly ran into the set of three young female rats clutching a few volumes of the new Shadowclaw Chronicle close to their chests.

“How much?” One of them asked.

“For all this? Thirty coppers.”

They looked at each other. “It’s worth it,” the smallest one said, shoving the coins at Sylvia. She wondered why Sir Sinkrattle would even stock such a pedestrian series of books, but that is why he was a ‘sir’ and she was merely a raccoon. Soon she was at the ornate wooden door of his study.

She knocked politely.

“Yes, yes,” came the reply. She opened the door and swung it closed behind her. Sir Sinkrattle’s office was absolutely stuffed with parchments, books, globes, little boxes, unhung paintings, and even the gnarled black claw of some deceased creature, mounted on a little base. Across from his desk where he sat smoking out an open window into the misty air was a large chair, itself covered in books.

“Feel free to move those, Sylvia,” he said, not even bothering to look back. Sinkrattle’s tail was curling and uncurling as he puffed on his pipe. Sylvia picked them up but then Sinkrattle spoke up again. “Mind the black claw,” he said.

She did, and after she was seated Sinkrattle spoke up once more. 

“You are sure you wish to hear from the Crimson Diary?”

Sylvia leaned forward. “Oh yes, sir! And it’s an invitation from the Temple, no less! How could I refuse?”

“Very easily!” Said he. “Just don’t show up! Say you got drunk on Veilwinter Wine! They’ll understand... I think.”

“Oh no,” Sylvia said. “I was anxious to hear about it before, but now I’m absolutely tripping over myself to get there!”

“When is the reading?”

“Tonight!”

Sinkrattle looked her over, tsk’ing at her brown robes. “Oh no no, that won’t do. Here,” he said, tossing her a small brown bag. Sylvia caught it, but it was heavier than she expected and she let out an ‘oof!’ Opening it, she saw it sparkling with gold.

“Get yourself something nice from the dress shop down the street,” he said. “When you lose your mind, you’ll want to be remembered for how you look - not what you say.”

The Twilight Palace - the opium den from whence the fog of the Fog District emanated - was situated in the middle of that gray district. Sylvia moved with a distinguished air past the Silvermask guards that roamed the busy-yet-quiet streets with their menacing stares and sharp halberds. The Palace itself was tall, with black and gold minarets, surrounded by creatures of every species lounging and spreading lascivious whispers. Sylvia herself garnered a few before showing her invitation to a large badger in a silver mask. He stared at it with bloodshot eyes before gesturing to an ebony staircase behind him.

The fog was extremely heavy here, as though it was coming from that very stair. Indeed, it was! And the fog - she discovered - was not fog, but smoke! After a few moments, she could hear laughter and whispers from the top of the long spiral staircase. Soon, the young raccoon was greeted by a stunning sight.

In the middle of the huge room was a great black dragon sipping on an opium pipe and smiling at some small mammals seated on luxurious pillows. Seated near the dragon was a fox with shining blue eyes in blue-gold and white robes, a goblet in his hand, his long tail forming a sine wave as he relaxed.

“And here is our raccoon,” he said, toasting her. There was polite applause, but the dragon merely smiled and blew smoke directly at her.

Sylvia coughed while the room laughed.

“Finally we can begin,” the fox said, clapping his hands together. “Minister Verborum!” 

He had a gentle, princely accent and was obviously important, but Sylvia was not quite sure who he was. As soon as he had signaled the beginning of the reading, Sylvia found a pillow - a little too close to the dragon - and sat. From a dark corner stood a creature in a silver mask and black robes who walked into the feeble candlelight with a leatherbound red book. It was some kind of smaller creature, about her size.

“Tonight,” the minister whispered, “a reading from the Crimson Diary, year two: From Whence the Very Beginning of My Troubles Began.”

The room was silent as he opened the book. The candles in the room wavered and flickered. All creatures leaned forward as the words flowed. The aching loneliness and unrequited love flowed forth from the pages like honey mixed with blood. Soon, Sylvia’s vision was blurred as the words made love to her ears.

The young raccoon was now looking at the ceiling as the story of woe washed over her. With each sentence, the earth shook. Each new revelation of the writer’s situation with their various lost loves and lost endeavors left a mark on Sylvia’s soul.

Almost as soon as it had begun, it was ended. The author’s style of writing and story of absolute crushing woe knocked every creature there - even the dragon - onto their backs, quivering with happiness and sadness. Longing and anger.

The wailing is what Sylvia could recall the most. She was sweating under her fur as the minister closed the cursed diary, writhing on the ground like a creature in both pain and ecstasy. In a panic, she got to her feet while the other patrons were still swooning and living and dying within the world spun by the dreaded work. The minister was still standing, his silver mask unmoving, as he watched her waddle her way back down the stairs.

She tripped a few times in her haste, but she didn’t care.

She had to write.

She was still in her dining gown, but it was askew on her shoulders. The guard barely noticed her as she tripped into the street, landing in a puddle.

“I must write!” She said - eyes wild - turning back to the disinterested, mind-stolen guard. Stumbling through the streets of the Fog District, she made her way back to the Verboratorium. Somehow she knew that that would be her new font of creativity. Fiddling with her little purse, she found the enchanted key that would let her into her place of work.

Tripping again onto the wooden floor, now wet with the district’s rain, she clumsily closed and locked the door behind her. The store itself was now completely dark. She - with shaking hand-paws - grabbed a candle from a nearby table.

She had to write. She had to write her story. Whatever it was.

She had to write.