The evening was young, much like the Scribe that walked the aisles of his newly sanctioned archive. The finely crafted shelves were bare, each row of cubbyholes holding nothing but potential. Each aisle was lined with dozens of them, and each was made of a beautiful dark wood. The craftsmanship was remarkable and as the Scribe swept up one aisle and down another examining them his head swam, though he wondered if that was due to the thick scent of wood stain in the air or his excitement.
"This will do." He thought.
"This will do quite nicely."
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