Myron Epimetheus
Clutching a book that is strangely intact after so many years of turning pages and scribbled notes in its margins, he shuffles to the staircase. His legs are no longer accustomed to movement upon stairs and he stumbles slightly on the first step and nearly falls. “That will not do,” he whispers. “No. No. No. It just will not do. I cannot be falling when there is still so much work to be done. No, it just will not do.” He pauses and stands unsteadily on the step and thinks, combing his mind for words he first read so many, many books ago. “Ah! Yes! That is the formula. I simply cannot be falling when there is so much left to be done.” His mutterings change in tone as he softly mumbles a few syllables of a long dead language. As he mumbles, his feet rise a few inches above the step and he levitates slowly down the stairs to the bar area, muttering these strange syllables all the while.
[ 04-28-2002, 05:14 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]
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