Tales of atrocity and treason, the King’s madness and the plight of their Faerie kindred (who had departed so long ago that many doubted the truth of their existence), of impending war and their own possible involvement (which to their minds was highly unlikely), meant little or nothing to the citizens of Nith. Nith was, after all, a city of scholars and artisans, of experts in the culinary crafts and connoisseurs; the Elves therein were a people of art, knowledge, culture and craft. War was not made on such people, and such people had no business meddling in politics.
In their own minds, at least, they were above such things.
At the center of the city there was a wide courtyard, and to one end of this was an odd-looking building, fronted by great marble pillars and centered by a circular rotunda; though ornate, this building otherwise resembled a small fortress. Two guards, an older officer and his younger Adjutant, stood on either side of the only entrance; a single door, the surrounding stonework of which looked as though a wide and open entrance had once graced the front of the building, and had been filled in with closely fitted and mortared stone.
An Elf man, attired as a Loremaster’s Adjunct, strode purposefully towards the Library entrance, the direction from which he had come entirely in keeping with his apparent station; behind him lay the Street of Scribes; a term in which more was implicit than met the eye. Though there were many apartments containing cells in which Novices, Adjuncts, and students were quartered, there were only a few apartments on that street in which Loremaster’s and their families actually lived; there were as many scholars, teachers, and law practitioners and their families living in these same buildings.