Prose: A Needed Change

CW: blood, ritiualistic self mutilation

On the 6th floor of the Scriptorium Soiram, a bright poof of white wool was bent over a large tome in a secluded study alcove. Wynnie’s ink stained finger flipped pages with increasing slowness. The hour was late and it had become a struggle for the drowsy firbolg to focus on the historical text. The arcane lamp above cast a warm lulling glow over the chaotic mass of books and notes covering the desk. She closed the book with a sigh after realizing she’d read the same paragraph 3 times now.
None of her research was working. All these tales of people making great changes, taking transformative journeys, making sacrifices, devoting whole years of their life to study as she was doing now. Even the huge historical tomes regarding the Web and the Breaking, things she specifically traveled all the way from home to learn about, sparked seemingly no change in her.
Why doesn’t this work? Do I just need more time?  Wynnie had uprooted herself and made the journey to the Scriptorium. A journey none in her family, the generations of textile workers and craftsmen, would think of doing before her. That in itself could have been enough, but she was prepared to dedicate her time to study. She wanted to learn after all. Wanted to know about magic and change. Wanted to know how everyday folk reach out and touch what was previously possible through the gods. How they asked the Web for a bit of itself and why the Web responded. She wanted to know, and most of all, she wanted to experience it. She had been here for a year and a half now, but so far the Web had not responded to her.
Have I changed enough?
The thought came unbidden into her mind, more an intrusion than a thought really, met with an immediate rebuttal of ‘Of course I have.’ But she was logical enough to tamp down her indignation and examine the idea.
Had she really changed? Truly?
Afterall, she had really just moved locations and continued devouring any information she could get her hands on. She just had access to a much larger source now. I’ve certainly learned a lot… but maybe academic study isn’t enough if it isn’t transformative in some sense… it doesn’t feel like I’m changing much to be fair. Just sitting around stuck at the same desk. She frowned at the thought. Stuck. Stagnant. The cogs of her brain began spinning rapidly grasping onto the patterns she’d seen within the journals. Studying is all well and good when the knowledge you learn fundamentally changes you. Not like this.
Bolting up from the desk in a rustling of tulle and skirts, Wynnie felt something scratching at the back of her mind. An idea, urge, instinct, and intuition all at once. The hard clip-clop of her shoes rang out on the polished floors and she returned to the small study space a few moments later.
“Okay,” She whispered, “Screw sitting around and studying, nothing’s going to happen if nothing changes.” In a matter of minutes she had cleared the small workspace for the most part, stacking books and papers to the side. She set down the small bundle of supplies-medical wraps, a dagger, a stone, off to the side. In the center, she placed her own journal, one she’d poured everything into once she read her first story of Godcrafting in the tower.
It detailed the start, a transmutation wizard passing through town, being kind enough to tell her the story of his Godcrafting and actually demonstrate his connection to the web as he turned a small bundle of scrap fabric into a beautiful blue slate stone. It held every detail of her pursuit of magic from then to now. Her curiosity in her youth. Every step she took in her hometown to get more books, more knowledge. To learn. All the details of her journey to the Scriptorium Soiram and every thing she thought was important to her Godcrafting journey since she’d gotten there. It was 30 collective years of her struggle to be something more than what her family, what it seemed life, had planned for her.
Flipping open her journal to the first set of blank pages, she placed that blue slate stone on its pages before covering it with her palm and splaying her fingers over the blank parchment.
“From now on, I learn by doing.”
Before she had time to change her mind, she grabbed a small research novel and bit down on it hard before grabbing the dagger and slicing off her pinkie with one brutal chop. Her hands switched places and almost without thinking the same sacrificial act was complete on the other hand. Three whole heartbeats passed before she gasped, the book falling from her lips as the pain registered past her manic rush of adrenaline. Where her left hand remained on her journal, the pool of red flooded ever outward, and she watched as it soak through the pages of her journal. Erasing all that had not worked. Erasing tales of the life that held her back. Washing away that struggle in a great red tide.
Only a scant few seconds passed of this almost contemplative watching before the pain throbbed through her hands, her stomach rolled, and her vision seemed to narrow. She just barely had time to reach for the wraps before she fainted and collapsed onto the cold floor.