A disturbance rustled through the ancient library. A footstep, a shuffle, the whisk of fabric. To Enkidu's ears, it did not sound like the reverent, rhythmic march of the devout who saw him as a god, nor did it sound like a mere animal that had found its way into the warmth of his home.

An interloper? A thief? A vandal?

Not in his library.

He rose from his resting place in the cold underbelly of the library, where the smell of aged and spoiling wines reigned supreme. Thoughts of his vast collection of texts, scrolls, and tomes coming to harm flashed behind his eyes in the dark. He couldn't part with a single rare volume, nor a mere sliver of a century-old love letter. Each piece was special, priceless.

His shadowy form ascended from the lower levels, blocking light spilling in from the stained glass windows and across the rotunda at the library's heart. Quiet. Still. Not even the dust rustled.

Were they hiding?

His face plates rattled in irritation. Where were his priests and priestesses? His oracles? His librarians? Why was no one dealing with this intrusion, swiftly and with a sword? This was unacceptable. He ambled towards one of the halls like a bear woken from hibernation, seeking out the presence that dared disturb his drunken stupor.