The Sheathing of the Sword [DRAFT; DISCARDED]

Battle of the Brazilian Library

An unnatural silence lingered in the air after the last few stragglers had been escorted out the Brazilian library.

The bespectacled librarian glanced about, thin eyebrows arching in suspicion. The air felt...off. Almost as though it were harbouring a secret, some ominous event foreshadowed to occur. The silence said more than it should have. A pair of amber eyes looked towards the door, and then behind her. The unsettling feeling disappeared, and as such, seemingly so did her concern for it.

The Brazilian librarian’s obsidian-dark high heels clicked loudly against the tiled library floor, alternating steps on black and white ground. She walked along the aisles, pushing a few books back into place, righting them up, rearranging those near her in numerical order. The Dewey Decimal system, while convenient, was not her favoured method; she preferred to organize the books alphabetically by author’s last name, but the local residents had gotten far too used to the “Drastically Dumb system”, as she so often referred to it. Sometimes, she considered rearranging the entire library by her preferred method, but that would have required quite some time. She wasn’t keen on such a time-consuming task.

She needn’t have gone through the aisles individually; her kindness and friendly demeanor towards visitors earned her a well-liked reputation amongst the entire city. Due to this, when she asked them to, people were quick to obey and abide by the rules. As a result, the children, teenagers, adults and elderly alike would respectfully put the books back in their correct order; there was nary a mess in her library, thanks to the combined efforts of all those who used this local resource. Still, there were always a few exceptions, and they usually occurred in the same section.

Looking around the aisle she was in, all books seemed to be in place, and she knew that the other aisles were much the same. She turned to leave -- however, before doing so, she collected a large book. The red-covered book was emblazoned with the title Magical Myths: Chinese Creatures. She collected one more in addition, a book entitled Forced to Fly: An Autobiography. Sashaying back to the front desk, she placed the books down on the desk, before rolling up the sleeves of her white dress shirt and smoothing out the few wrinkles on her form-fitting, black pencil skirt. Glancing around once more, she undid the bun her hair was in, allowing it to cascade down her back, blonde rivulets shimmering despite the dim lighting of the library, as was custom of after-hours.

She paused, allowing the silence to reign supreme for a moment. She raised a slender hand up, taking hold of her glasses, and hesitating before taking them off as well and placing it down on the table with a soft clack.

“The library is closed,” she said aloud to the seemingly empty room. “It is after hours, and I suggest you leave at once. Both of you.”

A shuffling sound was heard, as two shadow-clad figures stepped partially forward into the light. Their faces were hidden by shadows, and only their bodies were visible. The woman turned her head slightly over her shoulder, glancing in their direction.

“I’m afraid I must insist. The library is no longer available to the public.”

The two beings remained where they were, silent.

She sighed. “If you aren’t going to leave, at least show your face. Do me that courtesy.”

They shuffled forward, easing into the light. They were clad in black garments, shirts with sleeves far longer than their arms to the point that it dragged on the ground; black pants fastened with belts with a skull for a buckle; taloned, scaly black feet; most notably, however, were their faces. Rather, what was on them.

Their faces were hidden, beneath white, Japanese kabuki masks. One wore an expressionless mask, red lips and blue markings on the cheeks darting out towards the nose of the mask. The other wore a more demonic, oni mask, complete with gnarled yellow teeth and pointy horns atop the mask. The eye slits were minimal, reinforcing their lack of humanity. They said nothing, arms raised slightly, their sleeves dangling mere inches from the ground.