[ Oh, that doesn't sound good. The Librarian is a powerful adept in his own right, but he's not accustomed to working in such conditions. The ritual to produce salts is commonplace enough, but usually when he's doing it, he's in his Library with a book, a sturdy chair, and a glass vial, not being pursued by a shrieking monstrosity in an ever-shifting maze.
Still, he does his best to ignore the pounding in his chest and focus on what needs to be done. With one hand, he produces a brass pocketwatch from his coat's breast pocket—a bit of a relic even in his time, but useful for impromptu Forge rituals like this one. His fingers explore the brass surface with practiced meticulousness, running over the grooves in its edges, the faint gradations of the engravings, the delicate loops of the chain. He pictures the creation of the tiny pieces inside it, the pins, dials, and screws, the molten bronze of the case and the delicate work of engraving it. All the while, his other hand remains extended in front of him, fingers cupped like a bowl. And as he works, his breathing even and steady and peculiarly warm, black grains begin to dust his palm—
—and then the beating of wings closes in on him. He leaps up, dodging out of the way as the creature swoops at him. Garrulous as he'd been before, the Librarian is silent now, too busy trying to simultaneously retain focus on the ritual and avoid falling into the monster's claws.
He just needs a few more moments. Jaw clenched, he begins to inch back towards the monster's lower half, desperately willing more of the black grains to form in his palm.
This is going to be a very embarrassing death if they're wrong about the salt... ]
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Still, he does his best to ignore the pounding in his chest and focus on what needs to be done. With one hand, he produces a brass pocketwatch from his coat's breast pocket—a bit of a relic even in his time, but useful for impromptu Forge rituals like this one. His fingers explore the brass surface with practiced meticulousness, running over the grooves in its edges, the faint gradations of the engravings, the delicate loops of the chain. He pictures the creation of the tiny pieces inside it, the pins, dials, and screws, the molten bronze of the case and the delicate work of engraving it. All the while, his other hand remains extended in front of him, fingers cupped like a bowl. And as he works, his breathing even and steady and peculiarly warm, black grains begin to dust his palm—
—and then the beating of wings closes in on him. He leaps up, dodging out of the way as the creature swoops at him. Garrulous as he'd been before, the Librarian is silent now, too busy trying to simultaneously retain focus on the ritual and avoid falling into the monster's claws.
He just needs a few more moments. Jaw clenched, he begins to inch back towards the monster's lower half, desperately willing more of the black grains to form in his palm.
This is going to be a very embarrassing death if they're wrong about the salt... ]