I am lying prone on the ground. The only sounds I hear come from my body; a heart beating, a regular breath. The floor is smooth and cool under my body; I am naked. This seems odd to me. The darkness around me is absolute, but I can sense things around me. Disorganized book heaps on my right, two high structures on either side of me. Bookshelves. Where am I? How did I get here? Nothing comes to mind.

My eyes are still closed. I open them, with no hope to see through the total absence of light. Everything around me becomes clearer: the ground is made out of blue marble, with elements in spotless alabaster. I can sense every title engraved on the books, the shape of each page just at the limit of my perception. But keeping my eyes open is tiring, and my weakness weights my eyelids down...

I must have lost consciousness. I feel less tired now, but the emptiness in my stomach is uncomfortable. Maybe I should move.

All four arms struggle painfully when I lift my chest from the floor. My whole body aches. Which direction should I choose? The floor, the bookshelves and the combination of gravity and my weakness block all but two possibilities. The room is so big I cannot sense its walls. Have I passed out while walking? Running, perhaps? Walking toward what? Running from what? In either case, moving in the same direction my head was facing seems the most reasonable option, albeit not by far. There are too possible variables involved in my unconsciousness and supposed amnesia, it seems of little use to pursue this particular trail of thoughts now.

I stumble when I try to step forward; the pain increases unpleasantly. I slowly drag my heavy feet toward the bookshelf on my left until my two left hands can rest on it. Walking is more easy, now that the strain of my weight is distributed among four limbs.

The bookshelf ends after a few minutes of walking. My current path is crossed by another one. There is still no sound except for the ones I am making. There is still no light. The new path, perpendicular to my current one, separates countless regular couples of bookshelves. There is nothing noteworthy on that path, and I still cannot sense a wall. There is no reason to change my direction and wander aimlessly. Walking without something to lean on is hard, but I make it to the next bookshelf.

Once my walk falls in a slow but steady rhythm I focus my attention on the ceiling. It is made of stone; a series of crystals set in the stone forms a complex arabesque. A very weak trace of mana glimmers from them; they probably were used to illuminate this vast library. They would probably work again with some mana infused in them, but I am too tired and the dark does not hinder me. I find the pattern of the crystals soothing. Very soothing.

The perception of a wall in front of me surprises me; I must have lost track of time.

Before the wall seven low bookshelves form a square, within which six writing desks have been positioned in two precise rows. On the opposite side of the square, three mahogany doors beckon.

I walk around the central bookshelf; the pain has diminished, I can move without leaning on it. On its middle, a bookstand hosts a thick volume. On its cover is engraved “000 - Introduction and Master Index”. I concentrate to stray my thoughts from it; I am afraid I will lose track of time again delving in the contents of this immense library.

Above the three doors, a set of four glyphs are inscribed on the wall. Under each glyph it is written “years”, “days”, “hours”, “minutes” and, and under those four inscriptions: “since the Azure Vault was finished”. The glyphs were apparently crafted to keep the track of time, maybe showing glowing numbers, but the magic that allowed them to work has faded as well. Would it be possible to extrapolate the last numbers they were showing when they stopped working, and how much time has passed since that day? With an error of a year or twenty, maybe. Marginally useful.

Doubts surface as I approach the doors. Is it wise to wander around naked? On another hand, there is no sensible other option. I lay a hand on the leftmost door and focus on the other side. No vibration, no sign of magic; nothing alive in the next room. I hesitate before the central double door; I will try the other small one on the right first.

No vibration from the other side, but a trace of blue magic seeps through the door. Something to check later.

I breathe deeply, and face the double door. I gingerly put a hand after another on the polished wood, projecting my senses on the other side. At first the silence seems absolute, then a whisper. Then a dozen more, a thousand voices echoing at an impossible distance; countless sounds, auras, smells, tastes and other indefinite perceptions, coming from all directions and none at the same time, luring my conscience further away…

I stagger backwards, my hands shaking. The whirl of sensations was familiar, but felt dangerous; some part of me knows that walking through that door is not an option right now.

A magical aura is probably related to something that still works properly, so I open the rightmost door. It offers little resistance; a spiral staircase leads below. Still no sign of life.

The room below is claustrophobic, if compared to the huge library. Also more cold and humid, but my body seems to gladly accept the change. The walls are lined with tall chests, apparently the source of the cold. I lay a hand upon one of them. No magical traps, and probably no mechanical ones either.

A small cloud of cold air rolls to the ground when I open it a few inches. Within the chest, a stock of dried meat and a cheese wheel. The magical aura comes from the walls of the chest, lined with little cyan crystals.

A few seconds of contemplation, then I recognize the Eternal Ice; the owner of this place used a fabled item to conserve common food. I realize I am smiling at the idea; after all, these crystals would exhale mana and cold until destroyed. Efficient, yet very extravagant. A little sacrilegious, even.

Then a growling from my stomach makes me grab two handfuls of dried meat. It is bad form to steal, but it would be even a worse form to be found dead in a stranger’s mansion. Maybe. The meat is still frozen; keeping it against my chest will warm it.

The room has two doors, but they both lead to the strange sensorial kaleidoscope, so I ignore them. There is something wrong with this place.

It is time to go through the leftmost door of the library. Another spiral staircase leading down; the builder understandably liked symmetry.

Down the stairs, the mirror of the other small room. This time there is a bed, a night stand, an armoire and a little dry fountain. Two doors, leading to the kaleidoscope. The Blind Eternities. I am used to travel them, but they are dangerous to a weakened mind. Good, I have memories.

I am a planeswalker; I travel the void between worlds. I can leave this place. A sigh of relief escapes my mouth.

There is no mirror, but I realize I do not need it. My naked body has no hair, does not seem to be used to physical exercise, and my skin seems to be… blue. Vedalken? Yes, that is the right word. I am vedalken.

The armoire is mostly empty. The two sets of clothes are indistinguishable from one another. I put a piece of cold meat in my mouth and leave the rest on the night stand.

The texture of the dark trousers and the white shirt feel good at the touch. Their quality seems high, but they are devoid of any decoration, as the heavy robe that seems to be the final piece of the uniform: this is probably the room of a well-treated servant. The owner of this place is unlikely to grief over the loss or a uniform.

The weight of the clothes is comfortable, and the size is about right. The shirt and the robe also have holes to make my lower arms pass through. The owner of this clothes was a vedalken, and this explains the fit; I do not think my body shape is uncommon among them. Us. Vedalken.

Was I the servant? Are planeswalkers usually servants? It sounds unlikely. Was I a servant here before my Spark ignited? The ignition is usually triggered by trauma; that would also explain amnesia, but it is unheard of a planeswalker ending their first travel on the same plane where it started. Furthermore, the thought does not seem familiar, though familiarity does not seem a reliable parameter right now.

The rest of the meat quells my hunger. I feel thirst now, but I doubt I will find fresh water here. My weakness feels less smothering, I may be able to travel the Eternities; but I will not leave before giving that book a read.

I approach the bookstand; I open the book, and the contents of the first page reach my conscience in less than a heartbeat.

The book goes on describing the articulated branch archive used in the Vault and the little space warps used to allow a measure of nonlinear archiving; their collapsing explains the heaps of books on the floor.

The Storyteller. Of course, individuals need a name. Even this very room has one. Have I got one? I search for familiar phonemes. Femath. Erup. Aymas. Hemas. L’fim. Eluphee…

Yes. This sounds right. Even familiar.

Elphimas.

I am lying prone. My breath is regular, the beating of my heart at the edge of hearing. Hundreds of books are abandoned in heaps on the floor, and farther than them two high structures tower above me. Bookshelves. I can picture them clearly, but my eyes are still closed. Curious. The floor is smooth and cool under my body; I am naked. Odd. Where am I? How did I get here? My memory is failing me.

I open my eyes; the darkness is absolute. And yet everything around me becomes clear: the blue marble and alabaster floor, each letter engraved on the cover of each book, the precise shape of every single page just at the edge of my perception. Keeping my eyes open is tiring; weakness weights my eyelids down.

I feel less tired now, but the emptiness in my stomach is uncomfortable.

All four arms struggle painfully when I lift my chest from the floor. My whole body aches. Which direction should I choose? I cannot sense the room's walls, they are too distant. The floor and the bookshelves seem solid, I am too weak to climb; only two possibilities remain.

I may have passed out while walking. Running, perhaps. Walking toward what? Running from what? Too possible variables involved in my unconsciousness and probable amnesia: the pursuit of this trail of thoughts seems futile. In either case, moving in the same direction is the most reasonable option. Barely.

I stumble when I step forward; the pain increases. My feet feel heavy and cumbersome. I approach the left bookshelf until both my left hands can rest on it. It makes proceeding easier.

The bookshelf ends after a few minutes of walking. My current path is crossed by another one. Still no light. No sound either, except for the ones I am making. The new path, perpendicular to my current one, separates countless regular couples of bookshelves. There is nothing noteworthy on that path, and I still cannot sense a wall: there is no reason to change my direction and wander aimlessly. Walking without something to lean on is hard, but I make it to the next bookshelf.

Once my walk falls in a slow but steady rhythm I focus my attention on the ceiling. A series of crystals is set in the stone vault to form a complex arabesque. A weak trace of mana glimmers from them. Exhausted light sources? They would probably reactivate with a little infusion of mana, but I am tired and the dark does not hinder me. The pattern of the crystals feels soothing. Very soothing.

There is a wall before me; I did not notice it approaching, I must have lost track of time.

Before the wall seven low bookshelves form a square, within which six writing desks have been positioned in two precise rows. On the opposite side of the square, three mahogany doors beckon.

The pain has diminished: I can walk around the central bookshelf without leaning on it. On its middle, a bookstand hosts a thick volume. On its cover is engraved “000 - Introduction and Master Index”. Promising, but there will be time to read later. Hopefully.

Above the three doors, a set of four glyphs are inscribed on the wall. Under each glyph it is written “years”, “days”, “hours”, “minutes” and under those four inscriptions “since the Azure Vault was finished”. Time-keeping glyphs; they probably displayed glowing numbers. Their magic is expired as well... would it be possible to extrapolate the numbers they were showing when the enchantment wore out, and how much time has passed since that day? With an error of a year or twenty. Marginally useful.

Doubts surface as I approach the doors. Is it wise to wander around naked? Have I got other sensible options? I lay a hand on the leftmost door and focus on the other side. No vibration, no sign of magic; nothing alive in the next room. I hesitate before the central double door; I will try the other small one on the right first.

No vibration, a trace of blue magic seeps through the door. Something to check out later.

I breathe deeply, and face the double door. I cautiosly put a hand after another on the polished wood, projecting my senses on the other side. At first the silence seems absolute, then a whisper. Then a dozen more, a thousand voices echoing at an impossible distance; countless sounds, auras, smells, tastes and other indefinite perceptions, coming from all directions and none at the same time, luring my conscience further away…

Panic makes me retreat hastily. The whirl of sensations seemed familiar, but dangerous. My hands are shaking; I have less conscious control of my body than presumed.

I open the rightmost door; a spiral staircase leads below. Still no sign of life.

The room below is claustrophobic, if compared to the huge library. Also more cold and humid. My body seems to gladly accept the change. The walls are lined with tall chests, apparently the source of the cold. I lay a hand upon one of them. No magical traps.

A small cloud of cold air rolls to the ground when I open it a few inches. Within the chest, a stock of dried meat and a cheese wheel. The magical aura comes from the walls of the chest, lined with little cyan crystals.

After few seconds of contemplation, I recognize the Eternal Ice. The owner of this place used a fabled item to conserve common food. Efficient, yet very extravagant. A little sacrilegious, even. I realize I am smiling at the idea.

A growling from my stomach makes me grab two handfuls of dried meat. It is bad form to steal, but it would be even a worse form to be found dead in a stranger’s mansion. Probably. The meat is still frozen; keeping it against my chest will warm it.

The room has two doors; they both lead to the strange sensory kaleidoscope. There is something wrong with this place.

It is time to go through the leftmost door of the library. Another spiral staircase leading down; the builder understandably liked symmetry.

A bed, a night stand, an armoire and a little dry fountain. Two doors, leading to the kaleidoscope. They are the Blind Eternities. I am used to travel them, but they are dangerous to a weakened mind. Finally, some recollection.

I am a planeswalker; I travel the void between worlds. I can leave this place. A sigh of relief escapes my mouth. Another unconscious reaction; this is annoying.

There is no mirror, but I do not need it. My body has no hair, does not seem to be used to physical exercise, and my skin seems to be… blue. Vedalken? Yes, that is the right word. I am vedalken.

The armoire is mostly empty. The two sets of clothes are identical. I put a piece of cold meat in my mouth and leave the rest on the night stand.

The textures of the dark trousers and the white shirt feel good at the touch. Their quality seems high, but they are devoid of any decoration, as the heavy robe that goes with them: this is probably the room of a well-treated servant. The owner of this place is unlikely to grief over the loss of an uniform.

The weight of the clothes is comfortable, and the size is about right. The shirt and the robe also have holes to make my lower arms pass through. The owner of this clothes was a vedalken, and this explains the fit; my body shape is probably common among them. Us. Vedalken.

Was I the servant? Are planeswalkers usually servants? Sounds weird. Was I a servant here before my Spark ignited? Knowledge resurfaces: the ignition is usually triggered by trauma, that would explain amnesia, but there is no documented planeswalker that ended their first travel on the starting plane.

The rest of the meat quells my hunger. I feel thirst now, but I have little hope of finding fresh water here. My weakness feels less smothering; I may be able to travel the Eternities. But not before giving that book a read.

I approach the bookstand; I open the book, and I instantly take in the contents of the first page.

The book goes on describing the articulated branch archiving used in the Vault and the little space warps used to allow a measure of nonlinear archiving; their collapsing explains the heaps of books on the floor.

The Storyteller. Of course, individuals need a name. Even this very room has one. Have I got one? I search for familiar phonemes. Femath. Erup. Aymas. Hemas. L’fim. Eluphee…

Yes. This sounds right. Even familiar.

Elphimas.