You are one of many hundreds who sit in the room. It is dark, almost too dark to make out anything of any real significance. What little you can see tells you that it is rather large, designed to seat thousands at a time and yet somehow retains a sort of cozy feeling. You are not quite certain what you are doing here, but you are almost certain that you are dreaming.
Before long, the chatter and noise of the other occupants of the room ceases. A light shines down from somewhere in the room, making a circle upon what appears to be a wooden stage. All is silent.
And then there is the sound of footsteps.
They are slow and deliberate, and with every step there is the tell-tale sound of someone walking with support. Into the circle of light steps a young man, no older than eighteen. He stands at around six feet in height and in his pale hand he holds a wooden staff just as tall. His long, dark brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, whilst a pair of thin glasses sit before matching eyes. From the ground up, he is wearing a pair of black leather boots, black trousers and a white shirt with a black waistcoat with a matching tie. There is a silver ring on the forefinger of each hand, engraved with arcane symbols and ancient runes. About his neck, there hangs a silver pentacle on a chain. Over the whole, there is a black leather duster, obviously well-worn and loved. And then the silence is broken, for in a clear and mildly aristocratic voice, he begins to speak.
"Sing, O Muse, or speak, or dance, and so your audience entrance: For voice, or step, or gilded phrase - each art shall mortal minds amaze. But Muse, ensure whatever work is safe from harmful law and clerk, the legal hounds who howl at we who honor creativity. Who honors more an artist's skill? The fan who will the soul distill from artistry, and so conceive new tales from what that art achieved? Or one who simply reads a book and even if their heart is hooked, tells none, nor lets their minds be swept to lands where untouched tales are kept? But yet let needful words be said, which still I treat with grief and dread: I own the narration within, but not the world it happens in. It isn't hard to separate my words from those I emulate. What's mine is mine, what's not is not, I lay no claim to other plots. So guard, Calliope, and Sing! The humble words which I might bring would in your speech flourish and thrive, in ways I could scarcely contrive. And listener, if you would allow just one more moment, here and now to introduce my nascent glory — Sit back, relax and enjoy the story."
The room is understandably silent. It's kind of difficult to respond to something like that. Taking note of this, the man smiles, and continues.
"My Lords, ladies and gentlemen. My friends, old and new. I welcome you to this, my home where all fictional dimensions converge, the Library of Eldritch Lore. Our collection is an extensive one, ranging from the mystical to the mundane. Artifacts line the walls, ancient creatures walk our halls and even I am unsure what some of them are. Allow me to introduce myself. I go by many names and titles, but you may call me Rorek. Rorek C. Literatus, also known as the Loremaster Alchemist. I am the autistic and eternal curator, creator and owner of this facility. These are my assistants."
He bangs his staff upon the ground once. A light shines down behind him, illuminating a reasonably attractive young woman, with something of an Asian air about her. She is dressed in a black skirt, with a white shirt and brown waistcoat. At her throat is a red tie and she wears sensible shoes on her feet.
"Firstly, Ms. Mirage Nightray, silver-tongued and fond of illusions. She enjoys a good book and long walks on the beach."
He bangs his staff again. A second light appears, revealing another woman of comparable age to the first. She has glasses and shoulder length mousy brown hair and is dressed the same as Ms. Nightray.
"Secondly, Ms. Belladonna. She likes to draw and write occasionally, and like myself, she is autistic."
Once more, he bangs his staff upon the stage. A third light illuminates a girl, younger than the others, dressed in the same manner as the first two. Long, light brown hair falls down her shoulders.
"Finally... Well, she doesn't exactly have a name. I usually just call her Little Mad, for that is what she is. Poor thing was born insane. Of course, that's not always a bad thing."
A fourth bang and the lights go out. He is alone upon the stage once more.
"Good people, I have gathered you all here to hear a story of my own devising. The settings and characters will likely seem familiar to some of you, for they are not all of my creation. But the story is mine, and mine alone."
The light begins to fade. He turns and walks back into the darkness, leaning on his staff as he does so. His voice rings out, echoing about the room.
"And so it is without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, we begin this, the first part of the grand and glorious saga entitled 'The Scholarly Pursuits'. Assuming you're all sitting comfortably, that is."