Chortin reads, and reads, and reads, and reads, and reads.

Every beautiful battle, every clever engagement, every mangled quote from a chronicler captured and nurturingly raised back to prominence by a writer, every blood-stained conqueror, every blood-stained guerrilla fighter repudiating his degenerated descendants, unable to keep the leash.

And Chortin reads them all, every knife fight, every creeping barrage, every screaming maniac expertly applying his trade with antiquated tools to the throats of his enemies.

And Chortin reads, and reads, and reads.

A thousand pages of philosophy, of the pure order, the degenerates, the scum, the putrid, the vile, the beautiful, the pure, the heroes, the villains, the barbarians, the civilised.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, say the Books, whispering to him.

He reads, more now, finds the new, and finds the books have betrayed him now too, their siren songs growing dimmer in the light of the present.

The scum, the vile infection, they have taken swathes of the Library now, he cannot be exposed to it he says.

Chortin prunes, and prunes again.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, say the Books, whispering to him.

He arrives at work again, and again, and again, and again, and the filth is here, and they speak to him, and the filth is here, again, and again, and again, and again.

On his screen, there is a man, who knows the truth, who hears the whispers, who sees through the Miasma, and he knows the filth, and he knows so much, and Chortin knows so little, he must learn, he must read the books, he must listen to the man.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, say the Books, whispering to him.

In the glory of the book he finds a man, a dead man, of great stern vigour, so many campaigns, so much done, and then he arrives at work again, and again, and again.

He is at work again, and the stern gaze of that man hewn into the rock will last forever, the stone will erode, but the Books will always hold him.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, say the Books, whispering to him.

“Are you OK?”

Chortin looks up, from his book at his co-worker, she was smiling, and, Chortin hadn’t really noticed it before, but she was pretty-

Chortin catches himself, no, you understand, you must understand what this is, you must hold fast, stay low, do not allow the-

He notices he has taken too long to respond.

“Ohh, ah, y- yes, I’m fine, is there anything you want?”

“I just noticed you tended to be alone at Lunch”

“Ah-yeah I-i, I tend to prefer, I usually, I usually prefer that.”

“Well, don’t feel scared to come over” she smiles, and her smile is so pretty, and as she walks back Chortin-

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, he begs the book, tell me, Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, his brain cries.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, say the Books, whispering to him.

The Man on the screen is telling him, telling him what the Books have already told him, the robbery, the indignity, every stone laid on him by the cadre of degenerates.

The Man tells him, the spirit must be found again, must burn those who have worked so hard to kill her, to smother her pretty smile.

The Man shouts, and rages, he proclaims himself, Chortin had rarely done so.

And he is at work again, and they are breaking him, but he will not be broken.

He is at work again, and they are breaking him, but he will not be broken.

Work again, Breaking him, “No”.

Work, goad to surrender, negation.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, say the Books, whispering to him.

“And I’m telling you, if we don’t, if we don’t do something, if we don’t light the fire inside ourselves, we are as good as dead right now, and these demons, they see it, they see you, if you’re down, if you’re depressed, and-” The Man runs his hands across his face, and begins to mime imps gleefully dancing, he gives a high-pitched cackle before placing his hands firmly on the desk “THEY ARE LAUGHING AT YOU.”

He has the Gun now.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi, scream the Books, come, join the library.

Anonymous 18:24:08 >4982

>le epic crusade larp

>bro I swear to freaking god u guise this guy was so brave

this dumb faggot shot himself in the balls, pissed himself crying after the police found him, and then died attempting to CQC the cop with a knife he got for 3 credits made out of steel that folded like your bitch ass at poker, what the fuck are you talking about??

49 – Chortin Bales.