I stand at my great bookcase, a massive wall of knowledge that stretches up, up, up to the black-domed ceiling above. I run my hands along the spine of the tomes, the old parchment pages ruffling beneath my fingertips. I find the page I am looking for and pull a fine quill pen from one of the drawers at my hip. I begin to write. The room is perfectly still, no sound of movement, no sounds of life. I take a deep breath and continue, my hand moving rapidly to keep up with my own mind.