Entry the ninth - underground in scholar vaults finding red book

Such great breadth of soul was not gifted to those for reason beyond the scholars. For countless ages they have guarded lore, the vision of the gods and the holy relics, there was no place in the imperia where their touch could not be felt.
Walking through vaulted corridors where even the echo of their footsteps dared not disturb the sleeping dust. A wave of cold dread slipped over him as the realisation of how many generations the stillness had lain undisturbed emerged in his mind.
From hewn black walls dark faces stared out. Eyes followed the ruffled air along their path, biting into his back. It took all his will to stop them pushing him over in foul chorus. A knowing glance from the scholar brushed them from his mind, a muted query to the walls put them back to slumber.
Two vast doors appeared before them, emerging like tall peaks of mountains from the cloud. Invisible until nigh upon them, cut from the same rock that towered around them. They glared at him, demanding an explanation for their arousal. Murals and carvings covered their surface, tales and kings of memories faded; they chronicled the history of the universe, but permitted none to read.
Placing a withered hand upon a small dais beside a carving of a beast the admiral dared not imagine, the scholar spoke a few words of a language long dead to the behemoths before him.
Letting the hand slip back once again into the heavy cloak, the scholar bowed without word and beat a hasty retreat back along the cathedral of stone. When his footsteps once again hushed a silence, something began to stir.
A vibration crept through his feet, shaking his core but leaving the dust in peace, the mountains above him moved as a rusted hinge after years shut. Locks of unintelligible strength and being slipped home into their recesses, large booms signifying each one finishing a laboured cycle. All the armies in the imperia would never have breached the monoliths, magic and fear placed upon them by the gods themselves.
Without warning, the tremors stopped, the crunch of something unbolting permeated his bones. Slowly, such as the ancient things they were, the two doors began to part. A stale air escaped through, not full with decay, but the breath of something stirred from rest. Pivoting on hinges unseen, unfathomable in size, they continued to open, vast hordes may have entered in rank at only half travel.
The cavern around him was as if continued when they settled into their home, made for something vast he thought, far beyond anything in the mortal realm. He looked up, and saw no seam, they returned to the walls as a piece once of. Magic, or technology beyond his want stood afoot.
In the vast cave before him, no end stood in sight. Black more only stole the light seeping from behind him. Lying in the centre of the vault stood a stone pedestal, half a man in height, illuminated by a shaft of silver light from a place above unseen. Walking towards it, a pale shimmer bounced from its surface, growing stronger as he crossed the expanse towards it.
As he crossed an unseen mark, a muffled whisper permeated his thoughts. Spinning, the two doors had closed silently, he had walked for time of the smallest amount, and such magic was imposed for them to do so. They faded beyond view, and he stood, alone, in the empty hall, the spear from above his only guide.
Time left him as he walked silently, in spirit and body, towards the throne. Whence he finally came across it, not stone, but a single diamond, cut with skill long lost, covered with shining platinum runes, the writing of the pass spoken ago by the scholar.
Two steps, green marble, took him next to it. Things of old, organic writings stirred within. None for a thousand years, scholar, emperor, warrior had stepped foot upon the shrine, nor seen its pure wonder. The way sat clear towards him, everything that ever was, ever is, ever will be gifted to his understanding.
Not his own, words formed in his throat, slowly climbing to his mouth, gripping his lips and speaking themselves. Watching from above, the language of the gods spoke true from his heart, the prayer of the ether.
Returned to his heart, he looked down, before him sat a volume of earthen tales. Thick as the steps beneath, bound in faded leather, the fire not dimmed from its surface. Upon its front spelled out, in five lines of tarnished gold, its title, scribed in the tongues of the ancient ones.
Such time as when the fountain stood before him, not lust danced within its beam, stillness crouched all around.
For how long he wrestled, gazed, stared and studied, its meaning was beyond him. Forever he felt the urge, until a hand rose from his side and reached, quite lightly, without compelling, and touched it.
Cold under finger, the lore contained within rushed through his veins. Ancient deeds, quests, evil and light, towers and sunken treasures, all heard, none spoken.
No longer his soul could wait, another joined on the book, clasping its side gently. Mild resistance as the book tried to will itself shut, he opened.

Catapulted to a world of the gods, he stood amongst a field of grass, a blue sky high above, a gentle breeze and warm sun. He did not need to think, he did not need to understand how, it was as if he had known all his life, this was home.
Ripped from this place, he was thrown from the pedestal by a word of the gods, sprawled across the hard floor, the breath in his lungs leaving in a most undignified escape.
His head span, the void rushed towards him, dark times once more threatened his soul, but a voice penetrated, like a hand it pulled him up, and left him once more upon the ground.
“They give you their blessing, be glad, they do not tolerate such impunity from the arrogant for long”
A hunched figure stood above him, cradled over a knurled stave, beneath a cloak of discoloured purple and green a mass of white hair flowed, with two small eyes peering from behind eyebrows as thick as bark. He grinned, flashing old yellow teeth at this new curiosity.
The admiral looked up, his head still spinning, he felt as if he had just been fired through a torpedo tube.


When reading this my advice is to think Moria from the LOTR movies, big grandiose stone structures streching wherever the eye can see.
The actual place is far underground, a sacred place of the scolars (the religous monks of the imperia universe) which contains their vast amounts of treasures. It is also the place where everything that survived the fall of our civilisation, and those before it, is stored where possible. There are grand vaults containing millions of books. The place the admiral visit is one of the largest vaults, guarded by magic (from the valar, who through the scholars are still remembered and worshiped) and high technologies. I think i might stick with just technology, but i do like the idea of magic.
The book that the admiral finds is a copy of the red book of westmarch, the book that bilbo and frodo wrote, along with the silmarillion and the unfinished tales, a consise history of the first 3 ages in middle earth.
I am currently toying with the idea that the old man at the end is olorin (gandalf) sent back to help men find their way in fighting the enemy once again. He may just end up an elder scholar, but once again, it is a very intriguing idea.