I descended the ancient cobblestone stairs entangled by the roots of an enormous Spruce standing among a vast army of like in a rocky tiaga. Alone, I trespassed the domain of long forgotten ages and entered into the plutonic stronghold. I knew of no living soul within a hundred miles of this secret, no comrades would follow me on this quest. I was the utter authority here and utterly vulnerable. Down into the earth, past podzol and into stone I plunged. My steps were lit only by a series of dim, guttering torches I had fashioned out of the supplies I had on hand. This was the second such expedition I had taken in as many months in search of power in the sunless deeps.
The first of these strange keeps I had found lay hidden at the base, or I should say under the feet of, a forbidding mountain range and had been rent asunder by massive chthonic forces, perhaps an earthquake, perhaps something else, something with INTENT. It perched, perilous, on two sides of a jagged underground ravine, which tore through its heart like a scar, or a hungry mouth with screeching bats traversing its teeth.
I searched, my boots scant inches from that sudden edge, for the treasure, I knew, must be within these crumbling walls. Several times I thought I slipped, that my pains and journeys had been for naught, that I would tumble into the abyss, forgotten by men and consumed by that inky maw. But I persisted, and in those depths I found the hidden cobwebbed libraries I had been looking for. Watched over by sagging chandeliers, bound by iron grates, and closed in cracked and mossy stone bricks the book hoards lay, and I left not a single volume behind.
It took several days to bring every last eldritch tome to the surface, across my unsteady makeshift bridge, up damp spiraling staircases, past the undead guardians of that place who groaned and clattered behind me. It took several more to bring them all back to my sanctuary, where an athenaeum of my own stood waiting. I even hauled out several of the dusty oak bookcases, as if the presence of those familiar shelves might buy my forgiveness from the kidnapped codices.
The second subterranean fortress had survived in much better condition and I thanked the stars for that kindness. These heathlands were not as restless as the previous mountains, and it showed in these dark, sturdy halls. Another blessing was that the libraries here were adjacent. I needed merely remove a few dozen stone bricks from the wall between them to gain access to the entirety of this sepulcher of knowledge. As before, I barricaded all ways but the one to the surface and proceeded with my robbery. God help me.
The design of these strongholds-turned-tombs baffled me; long staircases descend into sudden smooth stone walls, barred cells with iron doors connected to finished hallways, empty storerooms served as the only access to dead-ends decorated with strange fountains. All the while I was dogged by haunting sounds from behind every wall. Ghostly train whistles, ragged pneumonic gasps, distant creaks and whispers, all followed me through every mystifying turn.
It was in these stolen occult pages, late at night, that I found the key to lasting magicks. I commenced the creation an arcane altar according to the description in a faded manual. It was hard to discern the excitement in my heart from the disquiet.
One week later a square of crimson velvet lay draped at an angle atop a waist-high slab of igneous glass circumscribed with blue gems. Upon the cloth I placed a grimoire, completing the cabalistic arrangement. Outside the moon was darkened by clouds, thunder rumbled, and a chill wind coursed through the room, disturbing pages, as if nature itself objected to this kind of power residing in the hands of a mortal like me. Into this obsidian shrine I focused my will. As I channeled myself into this working, the grimoire lifted off of the fabric beneath it and the pages began to flip back and forth faster and faster. The books on the shelves around me began to shift and whisper as if answering a summons by their lord and ghostly writing in languages I did not yet comprehend began to fly from them and into the massive text before me!
Such power. As my mind opened it became difficult to tell which memories were mine and which were alien. Thoughts, philosophies, images, and stories flooded me so quickly that it became impossible to contain them all. I poured them, intertwined with my desires out into the artifact. I did not care if I would be left weakened by the ordeal. I knew that even if I were less than I was before, it was nothing compared to how great I would become.