_____Azuran, a young sage probably in his early twenties or so, smiled in agreement as he looked at the first page of the faded, pocked sized tome from which he now read. How fitting that even this morning he’d had no idea that he would come into the possession of this small treasure, which, like most of the treasures he found, was buried among the dusty and forgotten shelves of some small, back alley bookshop. He carefully flipped back to the leathery cover to puzzle over the strange sigil burned into the top right corner, the origin of which he had yet been unable to determine. It was probably nothing important, but Azuran had never let importance stand in the way of curiosity in his thirst for knowledge. Turning to the second page, he read on.
_____The simple, yet enigmatic style of the writing seemed to create a vivid picture in his mind while alluding so little to the actual significance behind it. Azuran studied the entry again, thinking to himself that the book seemed to be some undated journal of sorts, and decided it would be best to take the rest in first, before trying to truly understand its purpose. _____The next page revealed a short poem,
_____He couldn’t help thinking back to the journey of his own young life. How he had been abandoned by his parents at birth, although he hadn’t known this until later in his childhood. Perhaps initially it was the longing to know who his real parents had been that was the source of his craving for knowledge and understanding. He had never found the answers to the mystery of his parents, something he had finally just come to accept, and now he sought information simply for the sake of understanding as much of the world around him as he could. Not really a noble calling, he mused, but he truthfully felt that indeed knowledge was power, and believed that the day would come when his insight would be needed and would make a difference in someone’s life. _____Snapping out of his reverie, his eyes slowly focused back on the object lying on the desk before him, for some reason it amused him that despite its age, the black ink of the writing still sparkled slightly under the bright illumination of the oil lamp hanging above.
_____He absently wondered if the entries he was reading were from a single day or many or even about no days in particular, and subconsciously looked back at the wooden floor of his study, chuckling at how long it had been since he cleaned it, as was evident from the occasional footprint left in the thin coating of dust which had been disturbed when he had varied off his normal path for one reason or another. But had he really left any impressions on those he’d known during his life so far? Azuran felt slightly uneasy at this comparison of his life to the path across the rocky ground in the journal, and decided to put it out of his mind, for now at least.
_____The passages seemed to be getting less vague, although still gave no hint about who the author might have been. He might have felt a certain anxiousness about the increasing sense of danger as he continued reading, but for obvious reasons it was rare that he came across diaries or journals about treks such as this in which the writer hadn’t endured. He wondered just how many fantastical stories had been lost forever with the ill fate of their owners in the wilderness.
_____Azuran was particularly moved by the image of the waterfall; he had always possessed an ultimate admiration for nature and the sheer power of the elements. He would often walk to the shore to read on one of the large rocks that lined that part of the coast, pouring over some ancient volume amidst the crashes of the enormous waves, a habit that had earned him the humorous nickname of the “sea sage” by a childhood friend. He closed his eyes and for a moment he felt himself transported into the stunning memory of the author, standing before the mountain waterfall, engulfed in the roar of the water and captivated by the emotions of such a sight. _____When he finally turned the page he was immediately disappointed as there was nothing more written. Flipping through several more pages revealed only further empty parchment, but in doing so, several of the blank pages fell off in his hands. Apparently time had weakened the binding wax, as was often the case. He would definitely have to visit the bookshop again in the chance, however small, that the missing pages might still be there, having fallen out, unnoticed, at some point. He suddenly felt the toll of a long day, and yawning heavily he closed the book, tracing his finger over the symbol on the cover one last time before carefully placing it back on the desk. .
