The library's a strange place for a blind man to do so much of his research, but there's something about the place--something about not being mured up alone (out of sight, out of mind) in his quarters--that's a comfort to Myr. Creation's a school innocuous enough (in most respects) that he can take his spellwork anywhere; why not the library where the small noises of the archivists about the stacks and other researchers at their reading provide balm to a lonely heart?

So of evenings--his evenings, the last few hours of his twenty-five hour day, lately landing near midafternoon--he takes his less-volatile work with him to a table in a disused corner and settles in to work. Today it's not magic that occupies him--beyond a single shining glyph on the wood at his elbow--but knots. Circle mages aren't sailors but he has a mess of thin cordage, and determination, and an idea, which should suffice--shouldn't it?--where formal training is lacking. Except he's quick to come up against the bounds of his own knowledge; a half-remembered pamphlet on wilderness survival isn't much to go on when it comes to working out a set of unique knots.

At length he elects to give his cramping fingers and strained memory a rest, getting up from the table to pace the perimeter of the library and stretch his legs. Ordinarily he'd keep to the parts he knows are largely unoccupied, haven't changed since last he'd walked through them, but he's distracted by too many cares of late and takes a wrong turn through the stacks--

And runs into Morrigan's table, a tidy hip-check that has him swearing and thrusting out a hand to (fortuitously) steady a destabilizing pile of books. "--shit! Sorry--got on the wrong side of the library--" Hastily tucking his staff against his shoulder he adds the second hand to the effort as one of the topmost of the stack starts to slide, balancing things as best he can.