The monastery rests high along the Bavarian hillside, its ancient stone walls holding the last warmth of afternoon sun while evening shadows stretch long across the courtyard. The air carries the mingled scents of damp earth, beeswax, and distant pine; somewhere below, a narrow stream moves over smooth stones with a patient, eternal murmur. Bells had rung the hour not long ago — their resonance still lingering faintly in the bones of the place.

Inside, the library breathes in hushed reverence.

Tall, arched windows filter fading amber light through wavering glass panes, casting fractured ribbons of gold across rows of towering oak shelves. Dust motes drift lazily in the glow, rising and falling like silent incense. The room smells of vellum, aging leather, and candle smoke; a fragrance as familiar to Kurt Wagner as brimstone is to his teleportation.

He stands near the farthest shelf — deliberately far.

His indigo fur absorbs the dimness, blending him into shadow between theology volumes and bound parish records. Only the faint gleam of golden eyes betrays his presence as he slides a cloth slowly along the spine of a thick Latin text. The gesture is careful, reverent. His three-fingered hand moves with gentle precision; claws sheathed, touch light enough not to scuff centuries-old leather.