(no subject)

[unforth]

The tome sat in a vault specially built for it. High vaulted ceilings carved and painted by some of the greatest artists of the age in which it was built, built with the hope that these fine things would never be seen by another man or woman after themselves. The book had deserved these honors, and had sat undisturbed for hundreds of years, unread, but not forgotten. Time had done strange things to mens' memories, though. After the book had been sealed, men knew not what it contained, only that it was important enough to seal away. With time this knowledge changed, twisted, as people began to believe that whatever was written in the book was important enough to fight, and to kill, to learn. Now, outside the vault, war without end in sight was waged, as some men fought to protect the book, and others to take. None new what it contained, only that it was worth all the bloodshed, that it was great and powerful. And perhaps it was; there was none who lived that knew.