The scribe- he says, stammering, that his name is Irrumatus- leads you up a winding, basalt staircase; every third step has a circular design on it, apparently composed of random colors and letters from a variety of scripts. As you reach the castle's ninth floor, he pushes aside a tapestry to reveal a heavy wood-and-iron door, Emblazoned with the Yuran symbol for 'Branch Library', a clockwork hand.

Opening it with a complicated sequence of raps and no fewer than three keys, Irrumatus leads you forth into a space that smells...well, not like swamp gas.
The odor is explained as you enter- dozens of braziers, set well back from shelves of books, are filled with sticks of gently smoking incense...lavender, patchouli, and sandalwood, in equal profusion. It's a nice change from the fen-scent, but all in all, somewhat cloying.

As you advance over the mosaic-and-embroidered-carpet floor, past more acolytes- most cast from the same mold, young, rosy-cheeked, and tow-headed- a figure who can only be the Legifex advances towards you, waistcoat flapping, moving like a galleon under full sail and puffing like a steamship under the same.

He's as rosy-cheeked as his underlings, but considerably more florid naturally as well, with lips that have gone from full to positively rubbery, expressive and large. Most of him is large; not just the midsection but the arms, legs, and feet, are outsize, cartoonish. His hands move compulsively, here twiddling a button, there fiddling with a buckle, there stroking a filigreed belt. He's well-dressed, ostentatiously so, but the clothing all looks slightly ill-fitting, not a product of the cut but of the way it's worn. He has a scholar's distracted air, and his fingernails and hands bear a crusting of ink, though not as thick as those beneath him. He draws up as you come near, and you realize he's actually almost seven feet tall.

"Ahhhhh, ahhhh."
His voice is rolling, ponderous, like the grinding of a mill-wheel. It seems to emanate not so much from his throat as his stomach, as if his entire being were simply a resonating chamber.
"You are, I think, not settlers," he smiles, almost pleasantly, "but what it is you are remains to be seen, hm? You are people of mission, people of direction...adventurers, vagabonds of riches. But what is your direction? What your mission? This, you do not yet know. I think perhaps you seek to know it, and to that end, I am here."
He pauses, fiddles slightly, draws himself up again.
"The library wants you to find something out. This will hardly come as a surprise, I think- we are, after all, engaged in the pursuit of knowledge! But what you will be doing is not merely the collection of sterile datums...we wish you to overturn superstition, to cast down the remnants of ignorance in the plebiscite. You are to be my torches, lit from my flame! Proponents of my, let us hope, enlightened vision."
He gives a barking laugh and pulls Irrumatus close; the acolyte gives a strangled squeak as he recieves an avuncular head-drubbing.
"Just good the lad here brought you swiftly, else the Bronze would have had you chasing that damn drink-sodden fool of a 'king' we're supposed to be propping up..damned sight better if we brought in fresh stock. Kings and wines are the same that way, here...you wouldn't believe.." he leans close, conspiratorial, " the rotgut we found in the cellars."

He leans back, settling his thumbs beneath his trouser-band.
"So; you will be, of course, handsomely compensated....and thoroughly briefed, though not, I think, by me..." he glances at you in turn, and manages to succintly give the impression of being a very busy man to each of you, "so I do hope you're all here for the right reasons, yes? Otherwise we have wasted a great deal of time expounding on the virtues of knowledge..."

He muses for a moment, then strides off, berating a hapless clerk as he goes; apparently the stacking wasn't quite fast enough for his liking. Irrumatus, off-balance after his encounter with near-paunch, is stammering worse than ever...and evidently expected to ascertain you are indeed the new employees of the library to which Adolphas referred.

"Er...well, you heard Monsignor Belgar. Are you here to help us?"
He smiles up at you under a sheen of sweat, heedless of his tea-teeth. His puppy-like eagerness is palpable.