[ WP ] Conan the librarian . Write a short story about Conan and his blood filled exploits as a librarian .

Pain. 
 
 Power. 
 
 I am the sword of the dawn before the final sun rise. Eons ago, my guild was one of secrecy, deceit, power beyond human realm of understanding; Kingdoms fell and rose at our whims. I am the last of my order, an order that will die with me. 
 
 In my service of the Gods, I patrol my catacombs of fallen memories. Ink and blood transcribing the dreams of wizards and histories of various wonders. I am ashamed by my ignorance in my finite understanding of the intangible. By the blood of my mother, I have sworn to learn these runes as a manner to better protect my self from the dark evils that wanderst the halls. 
 
 Thieves of all nature come creeping into this crypt that my bloodied hands swore to defend. An onslaught of these ravenous fiends makes me understand the humble fisherman dumping water from a sinking dingy. It is not an act of self preservation, but duty. 
 
 That was my sin. In an act of defiance from the gods above and below, I made a pact with the tricksters. Yet I was able to outwit them and fan the smoke in my favor. 
 
 They may have any relic of the past, yes, any. And I tell you, I let them walk without a finger in their purse. There is an understanding between us. They want knowledge and I must defend the relics, as is my right of blood. In a 7 moon span, the tomes must be returned. For every night afterwards is a finger gone. Men with no hands are men who never steal. 
 
 I wash my blade, Falstaff, in the evening moor. Named after a great hero in an epic of gods and kings. He was the humble servant of a God King, just as I am the servant of the gods. Falstaff has been my servant. Taking hands and fingers, even a head or two. By the hour, my watch will be suspended. 
 
 Not since Andre was stuck down a fort night ago has there been a breaking of the pact. In his remembrance, I pray. 
 
 I pray for power, pain, and penance. I pray for strength to be clear of debts. A step. Behind me. I swing my servant around in a Dezani Arte meant to kill in single strike. I stop. 
 
 A boy walked up behind me. A simple boy should not lose his scalp for a simple mistake. 
 
 `` I... I would li-li-like to rent this book, sir?'' he said in a feeble tone. I take the tome from him. Ancient text transcribing the details of a blood witch and her brood. Believed to be authored by a king of time and mighty castles. I believe not. I met kings, knew kings, killed kings. Few could read, let alone write such marvelous tales of heroism and horror. 
 
 In sheep blood, I give him the moon date to return *Carrie* into my hands. I place the book into his hand. A simple boy should lose a hand for a grievous mistake. 
 
 My watch ends for a moment. Like the blink of an eye in a year. I escort the boy out and pat him on the head. As he walks down the marble stairs into the moonlight, I close the Temple of Li Bra Rye doors. and make my way to my meager holds between the minds of ghosts and poems of specters.
