You pull a thin tome from the shelf, a worn and haggard piece jutting from the collection in a way that is slightly ajar. Unlike the books to its sides, this one is dustless and is effortlessly moved, as if it is blessed with regular reading- an unusual feat for a library as broad as this.
You flick past the nondescript cover and through its few pages, they all seem to follow a similar format (albeit with the text appearing to be written in numerous ways, from right to left, down to up, and even in some kind of Spirograph configuration) in a few dozen forms of language and pictograph you have only a passing familiarity with.
Finally you find a page you can understand, all the way towards the end, and begin to read.
An incantation, for all that you seek.
Ritual ingredients:
* Three sprigs of parsley, removed from the stem at least a day in advance.
* Two mugs of ceramic make.
* Exactly eight ounces of tea leaves.
* Half a teaspoon of ground vanilla.
* An effigy of the one you care for most. (Can be anything in their likeness, photograph or otherwise).
* Twenty beads, all of different colours and sizes.Procedure:
* At the stroke of midday, ensure the mugs, tea, and vanilla are placed neatly upon the nearest table.
* Organise the beads around the table, into the shape of the northernmost star visible from the ritual site. Place the effigy at its centre.
* Sit at the southernmost point of the beads, staring northward. Dull your senses through whatever means you desire (For beings with eyes, closing them is often enough)
* Remain in this position until the last light of twilight begins to fade.
* Leave all ritual components in their current position, and return to your abode. Sleep.If you have successfully carried out the rite, you will find yourself seated seated at the table the components were left upon. You will be faced with an elderly crone, her back arched and face gaunt.
She will begin to brew a tea for the two of you, from the components you have assembled. You may decline it at this point, but she will continue to serve you anyway. Should you leave the table, you will awake the following morning where you began your slumber. This will disappoint the crone, though is no punishment for doing so.
When the tea is served, you may speak with the crone if you wish, although she will not acknowledge it. Instead, she will ask you of your greatest desire. Answer truthfully, for she already knows it.
If you have answered truthfully and your true desires are not locked deeper within your heart than even you may even reach, the crone will nod thoughtfully. She will not speak again until she has finished her tea.
If you have answered untruthfully, or are unaware of your true desires, the crone will frown instead. She cease to drink further, in this case.
Regardless of your answer, the crone will share with you a story from her life, one that aligns with your truest desire. She will claim that it is true, although you may choose not to believe her. Only she will know the veracity either way.
The crone will speak of lost loves and found soulmates, great poverty and even greater treasure, journeys to far away lands and the desire for the closeness of home, of grand heroics and underhanded treachery. Her dry voice will choke with sadness, crack with laughter, and burn with ancient anger. You will be enthralled, not through the powers she wields, but through the power in her words.
When the crone's tale is finished, you will know it. She will smile, a thoughtful and forlorn sort of smile, and you will feel satisfied.
Should this not be the first time you have undergone this rite, you may now speak to the crone. She will listen, and she will ask how you've fared since you last met. She will know already, but listen intently regardless. She will care deeply for what you have to say.
When dawn nears, the crone will know. She will excuse herself from the table, and collect your mugs. Your conversation is over once she does this, and she will no longer answer you.
The crone will speak only one more time before you awake back where you first began slumbering. She will tell you only a single thing, an insight into your greatest desire. You will already know what she tells you, deep inside, but you will only truly know it once it leaves her lips.
You will then awake, more refreshed than you ever have, and know the crone is gone. The rite is complete.
You return the book to its place of rest, assured that another will need what is contained within soon enough much more than you will. After all, you've got some parsley to find.