From an early age, you have not performed acts of spectacular physical prowess, unlike most of your kin. It was certain that your life was to be with the pen, not the sword. You were not heartbroken, after-all, violence is futile. At least, that's what your mentors have hammered into you throughout the years.
Oddly, the battlefield does not phase you. Some, the brave warriors and guards, lust for battle. They seek conflict, crave it, cause it. You, despite your pixie-instinct, do not suffer such an affliction.
History, the tales of your ancestors. Books, Parchment, Quills. They are what you live for.
Much happens, unbeknown to you. The library is your sanctuary, a bubble that escapes the events that occur outside it's walls. Until one Tuesday evening.
Screams and cries. Are they for help? The sound is muffled, you cannot be sure. Hurried footsteps; running? A fulminating series of noises. Drums? A giant's footsteps?
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