There is much debate over the existence of the Boilermen. Yes, they are present in the artistic renditions of Librarians but never are they present in the center. Always the Boilermen find themselves pushed to the side, filling the negative space of a story that only exists in the image.
Literature describing the Boilermen is few and far between, and descriptions are repetitive, copied in some places. Questions fly through every Wanderer's head whenever they come up in conversation. What is the Boiler for? What even are raw words? Those who go searching for the Boiler Room in the Archives either don't come back or never seem to remember their journey.
These facts have led many a Wanderer to not believe in the existence of the whispered fourth Librarian, even distrusting the words of the most prominent Archivists. Every now and again, a Wanderer will tell the tall tale of a fire in the library (a rare sight in the first place, especially if the Wanderer hadn't set it themselves) shortly followed by a behemoth with metal and fire for a face inhaling the flames. These stories have done little to convince the skeptics, and yet the stories continue to arrive, year after year.
- Excerpt from Of the Boilermen, Volume 22 by Aard Card
"Just because you're stuck looking like a clown does not mean you have to act like one."
Patch stood with Adakite at the Way between Shelf 72H North-West and Shelf 092D Zero-Start. It was funny really. For some reason, when a Wanderer came through this one, they were shunted out about ten feet higher than usual, so they had been assigned to catch whoever happened to start plummeting towards the floorboards while a new solution was thought up.
"Well, Adi, all you're doing is catching these poor people. At least I'm trying to brighten their day after such a scare." As Patch said this, another human fell out of thin air, dropping into the waxy arms of Adakite, who proceeded to unceremoniously dump them on the floor.
As he straightened his red sash, iconic of a Lower Wordsmith, Adakite said, "No nicknames. I am quite certain no one wants a balloon animal. Balloons pop, and popping does not fit in a nice, quiet Library." Adakite punctuated the last three words by tapping his fist into his open palm.
Despite Adakite's objections, the confused Wanderer found herself with a new hat, made completely out of balloons.
"Have a good time!" Patch yelled as the Wanderer left, him waving enthusiastically after her as she hurriedly walked away. Patch turned back to Adakite pouting, saying, "You're just grumpy since you have ta' stand here all-day. You should make the most of it like me!" Patch noticed his guardian had stopped listening to his advice, as usual. The normal sour expression on Adakite's face, however, had suddenly changed to mild surprise. The rare change in emotion wasn't meant for Patch though, as Adakite was staring past where he was standing.
Turning around, Patch's eyes fell onto an entity he had never seen before. At the other end of the stacks, standing at least seven feet tall, was an individual with a cast iron grate for a face, itself containing violet fire burning quietly. Their arms were as black as the night sky, and in fact, there were faint purple and blue markings along with softly glowing white dots, forming a beautiful night sky dancing across their skin. A large leather apron, along with strips of leather and furs trailing on the ground in the back, covered the rest of their body.
The Library is full of interesting and unique individuals, so Patch wasn't necessarily shocked to see the assumed-Wanderer. He leaned over towards Adakite, who had already regained his composure, and whispered, "What's with the guy you're staring at? An old flame of yours I presume?"
Adakite pushed Patch away from him as he snickered, saying, "Don't be ridiculous. Give this situation more respect." The strange patron stood still, watching the exchange.
"Why? It's just some guy."
"That is no Wanderer," Adakite whispered, "That is a Boilerman. They're meant to stay in the Archives."
Adakite pulled out his pen, a rather dull and boring one, and announced, "Hold on one moment. I'll just open a door and send you back to the Boiler Room."
Adakite began to move his pen through the air in front of the Boilerman, drawing an ink door into the three-dimensional space. As soon as it was obvious he was drawing a door, however, the strange Librarian lurched away from the Wordsmith, shaking their head slightly, moving towards Patch instead.
Patch frowned at Adakite, patting the Boilerman on the arm. "Look what you've done now Adi, you've scared them! I bet they get nauseous when going through those doors just like me."
"I don't see another way to return them to the right place," he said in response.
Slowly, Patch came up with an idea. It could convince his stubborn guardian that he can be trusted and it would get him some free time. "How about this?" he asked, "I'll guide this fella up to the entrance of the Archives, and then send them on their way."
"That isn't such a -"
"I'll stop making balloons for a week."
Adakite paused for a moment, mulling it over. "Just to the entrance?"
"Of course!"
He squinted briefly at Patch, searching his face for any hint of mischief. "You have yourself a deal. Be back soon."
Patch pumped his fist in the air and grabbed the Boilerman by the hand, pulling them back towards the main thoroughfare.
As the pair wandered off, Patch skipping and the Boilerman slowly lumbering after him, Patch barely noticed the bin full of newly made balloon animals.
Wanderers are curious folk, so Patch didn't mind the stares as he led the Boilerman through the Main Hall, making his way to the nearest Archives entrance.
Patch nudged the Boilerman with his elbow, saying, "Y'know, if we're gonna be partners for a bit, we should get ta' know each other! I'll start. My name is Patch! It may look like I'm wearing make-up, but this is actually just how I look. Cool huh?"
The Boilerman tilted its head, silently staring. Patch tilted his head farther, smiling at the Librarian as if sharing an inside joke only Patch knew about.
"Not much of a talker I take it? I'll just call you Stellar, how about that?"
Stellar's flames flew higher, so brief Patch only realized there had been a response sometime later.
"Don't look now Stellar, but we've got a fan," Patch said, pointing towards a Docent who had its eyes fixed on Patch. Giggling slightly, Patch said, "Apparently I still smell like a mimic. This is a weird story so I won't bother you with the details, but I used to be a shapeshifter before coming to Library."
The metal making up Stellar's grate creaked slightly.
"I know right? Crazy stuff. Anywho, when I came here I got stuck like this," Patch gestured down towards his body, "It was a little distressing at first, I mean who wants to look like a clown every day? Ha! But I'm good with it now, don't you worry." Patch furrowed his brow for a moment. "What was I talking about again?"
Stellar glanced over towards the Docent, still following at a distance, then back at Patch. Patch wished he could tell what they were thinking.
"Right, right. So yeah that's why most of the Librarians don't like me, I kind of confuse them." Patch grabbed onto Stellar's arm and pulled them into a hallway, lined with various arts. At that point the Docent turned away, apparently satisfied. "Oh, what a twist it could be if the Docent is following 'cause of you? I bet you don't interact with the other Librarians all that much, so they might not recognize you either. Is that true?"
Stellar, while either ignoring the question or not understanding it, moved its gaze from Patch to the opening of the hallway, which led into a large Atrium. Stopping at the entrance to the room, the Librarian curiously looked up at the miniature star slowly rotating in the middle of the area.
"Welcome to Lost Star Lobby, bud!" Beginning to mimic a tour guide, Patch continued to say, "If you look to your left you'll see books and if you look to your right you'll see even more books, but the real attraction is the namesake of the lobby, the star! The natural lighting is really nice, so I like coming here when I can." Proceeding to lean in close to Stellar, he whispered, "Apparently, there's some bird who lives here, but I've never seen it so it probably doesn't exist."
As the two took in the sights, an opening at the other end of the atrium loomed large, a sign hanging above that read:
Be Warned
Beyond this point lies the Archives. Any unprepared Wanderer or Patron are advised not to enter
There are many fates much worse than death
After pausing at the door for a short period, Patch and Stellar began to head towards the large opening. As they walked, however, Patch heard a quiet rustling. Could that be another sound Stellar makes? Nothing else could have made it. Hopefully.
"Did you say that Stellar?"
The Boilerman slowly looked up. Following his gaze, Patch's eyes climbed up the seemingly endless shelves. At the very top, Patch's eyes fell onto the second being he thought didn't exist that day. How ironic.
With the sound of what could only be described as a tremendous growl, the huge bird Patch had just written off launched off of the shelf, hurtling towards the pair. Shocked (and terrified, although he wouldn't tell you that), Patch didn't move for the first few seconds. As the bird grew closer, it became obvious it was made of plants, or maybe was a plant, but Patch wasn't necessarily concerned with the specifics at the moment.
Suddenly, two hands wrapped themselves around Patch, fully wrapping around his small form. The hands belonged to Stellar, who picked Patch up and proceeded to dash towards the Archives. They were too late, as the bird landed thunderously in front of the fleeing Librarian, flowers blossoming into dozens of confusing colors from its vines and foliage.
Wasting no time, Stellar held Patch in one hand, before Patch could even realize what was happening, and threw him. Patch screamed from fear, enjoyment, or maybe even both as he tumbled through the air between the legs of the bird.
Landing only a few feet from the entrance, Patch scrambled to his feet and called to Stellar, "What about you!?"
The Boilerman and the bird squared off, Stellar's vibrant violet color now seeming dull in contrast to the bird's warning colors. Patch dug through his pockets, searching for anything that could help. Seltzer? No. Handkerchiefs? No. Balloons? No. Patch stared in disbelief as his newfound friend was about to be gored by a plant, and he was powerless to help. Useless. Like always.
The imposing avian creature reared it's head tall, releasing a triumphant call of crackling wood as Patch was helpless but to watch. Finally, after what seemed like forever, its beak rocketed towards Stellar.
… but nothing happened.
Patch peeked out from underneath his hat, which he had pulled down in front of his face and covered his ears. The bird was still in the same place, and if Patch scooched over to the side, so was Stellar. In fact, the bird was extremely close to them, but not touching. Stellar must have a death wish. If the bird missed they should've taken the chance to escape.
Patch moved slowly in a large circle around the bird towards Stellar, flinching as it reared its head to strike again. But no, it missed again. Or maybe it stopped itself?
Again and again, the bird tried to intimidate or scare Stellar, lunging and crying and stamping its feet, but eventually, it lowered its head down to Stellar's level. Patch watched in utter disbelief. He still thought that the bird might suddenly snap Stellar up, but here they were, placing their hand on and stroking the bird's beak.
It was almost as if they were having a conversation, the bird's large blank eyes staring into the fire of Stellar's face. Patch found himself wandering up to Stellar's side, even as his more rational side in the back of his head yelled to run to the Main Hall and never come back.
Stellar slowly reached down, grasping Patch's arm. Scrunching his eyes together as Stellar lifted him off the ground towards the bird, his hand found itself on a wooden surface. Opening one eye, Patch saw that his hand was now on the bird's beak. Patch allowed himself a slight smile, thinking about how Adakite would never have let him do something as terrifying as this. Looking up into the bird's eyes, he realized that maybe it wasn't out to get him and Stellar.
Clearing his throat, he stammered, "Uhm, thank you for, uh, not eating us. Trust me, I would've tasted funny." Seemingly what Stellar had been waiting for, they pulled Patch away from the bird, placing him on their shoulders. The agreement was to go to the nearest entrance to the Archives, but wouldn't Patch be doing an even better job if he delivered Stellar directly to the Boiler Room? Besides, it wasn't like they were putting Patch down so he could leave. Patch nodded to himself. Surely, nothing bad could happen in the Archives.
The Archives were nothing like what Patch could have imagined. Already, the pair had passed through rooms wildly different from each other. At one moment there had been a room full of typewriters clacking away by themselves, another awash in a dark blue light from seemingly nowhere. Stellar always seemed to know where to go, be it a trapdoor underneath a rug or a simple door. Not wanting to be left behind, Patch stayed close behind Stellar after they had put him down.
Stepping through another doorway, they were met with a cavernous hallway, a rocky cave structure that had glowing green and purple alcoves. The atmosphere was quite calming, all things considered. Looking inside one particularly bright green alcove, Patch saw a strip of paper floating, encased in translucent rock. What did it say? Patch could almost make it out, but the words were just too distorted.
Without thinking, he reached out and touched the stone. Patch's eyes widened as light and sound collided to form images in his mind. An acorn, A tire swing, Sap, A table, A house, Silverstein, Yggdra-
At that moment, Patch was yanked back from the rock by Stellar. A small amount of smoke trailed out of his ear as he reeled away from Stellar and the rock. The entire concept of what a tree was, what it could be, how it existed in the minds of creatures across the multiverse seemed to have burned the word Tree into Patch's mind.
"What the hell was that?" Patch looked at the unchanging face of Stellar, half expecting them to start talking about the difference between pine and oak. Could that have killed him? It probably would have if Stellar hadn't stepped in.
As he let this thought stew, Stellar turned away from Patch and began walking away. Patch once again scrambled up and hurried to the side of Stellar. The green and purple lights glowed softly on the two as they walked, but they didn't seem so calming anymore. Patch had been a drag on Stellar this entire time, he thought. If Stellar was trying to get back to the Archives, it was probably easier to get back without him in tow.
These thoughts were put to the side, however, as they rounded a corner into a much larger cavern. Patch gawked as more of Stellar, more Boilermen, patrolled this cavern. As they walked past, Patch clinging to Stellar's arm, the other Boilermen took no notice, scraping away at the rock surrounding the translucent stone, eventually revealing full stalagmites and stalactites made up of the strange material.
The Boilermen were mining this too, molding it into little marbles with their hands. Were they experiencing the visions Patch had too? Thinking back, he couldn't imagine holding onto that stone for any longer than he did. Despite what Adakite thought, Patch had listened to his lectures sometimes, and something about 'raw words' reminded him of these rocks and the things they did to him.
"Is this where you work? It doesn't look like that much of a Boiler Room. Not that there's anything wrong with that," he whispered to Stellar.
The Boilerman looked down at Patch briefly, patting him on the shoulder and continuing on towards the end of the cavern, which shortened into another hallway that quickly turned off to the right.
Only just noticing it now, the temperature had been getting hotter and hotter as they approached the end of the cavern. Looking down at the rock, it became darker and darker, stained by soot and ash.
You find yourself waking up at a long desk, having fallen asleep during your research. Scatter-brained from an unexpected nap, a few aspects almost manage to pass you by. It takes a moment to realize, but you're not "at" the desk, you're on it. In fact, the desk stretches away from you for quite a while. As you look up, all you can do is stare in awe at the books surrounding you, the shelves containing them extending so far up it looks like the shelves are twisting and turning. Maybe they are.
Now, you've seen books, you're a Wanderer for goodness sake, but these books tower over you. One of the books, with the pages and cover just about as tall as you, and much wider, sits in front of you. As you stare, first in disbelief and then in curiosity, you notice a peculiar aspect protruding from the book's binding. It seems like a slot has been opened, containing the same book that looms so large in front of you, but in a much more desirable size.
Picking out the book, and glancing at the title, you begin to do what one does in the Library. Read.
The Drake and the Dragon
Drake looked out upon the city, the small beings scrambling, their silly bells ringing in alarm. These creatures never seem to give up, building their towers and constructing their defenses. He is confident and cruel, sweeping down upon the city, walking through the walls as if they were paper. They are destroyed, of course, and the rewards are plentiful, but they do not come without many wounds and loathing. Despite his rash plan, Drake's hoard grows much that day.
In another place, viewing another city, the wise Dragon looks down upon a city as she circles above. She is patient, watching as her followers, her hoard, do battle with the city's inhabitants. Unlike Drake, she knows there is more to these small creatures. Once it seems as if they've tired themselves out, Dragon drops down upon the city leader's building. For three glorious months, those left in the city and her followers brings all things shiny to her feet, while she never has to lift a claw. Drake added to his hoard, yes, but Dragon squeezed every desirable item out of the city, making her truly the victor.
The small-ones are more useful than you think
The Wyrm and his Hoard
Fae had lived in the same large cavern for quite some time. They enjoyed the quiet dripping of water off the stalactites and being able to fly around in its spacious area. Of course, it was quite a surprise when Fae learned that Wyrm had moved in while they were away.
I'll teach him to move into a clearly lived-in cave! thought the tiny dragon. They climbed into their cave, finding Wyrm lounging upon his hoard lazily.
"Oh my!" Exclaimed Fae, "I had no idea someone was here. You see Mr. Wyrm, I used to live here, and I'm sure you know how difficult it is to find a lair these days. Please could you spare me but a piece of gold? As some type of compensation."
Wyrm looked down at the tiny creature. Normally, he would scoff at such a ridiculous request. It looked so depressed, however, Wyrm decided it would be worth it to give one coin just to make it leave.
"Fine. Take a coin and leave." Fae snatched up the treasure and fled before Wyrm would change his mind. Fae continued their clever plan, telling everyone that Wyrm was giving out treasure, showing the coin as proof.
The first to arrive was a group of Wyverns. Wyrm initially refused, indignant at the number of dragons asking for handouts, but once the Wyverns made it clear he was outnumbered they took as much as they could carry.
The second to come was Hydra. Wyrm feared Hydra, as did most, so he put up much less of a fight than before. Hydra laughed and taunted Wyrm, hoping for a fight, but all Hydra came away with was half of the hoard and the image of a terrified Wyrm.
As droves of dragons came demanding more money, Wyrm found it impossible to refuse. If he tried, the dragon in question would threaten to tell the others, ensuring the rest of his hoard would be taken. Slowly but surely, Wyrm's treasure, his beautiful hoard, dwindled. For some time all Wyrm did was rush to collect more gold, only for it to be taken just as quickly. Torch a town, transport gold back to lair, wait for a dragon to take. Torch, Transport, Take, Torch, Transport, Take, TorchTransportTaketorchtransporttake…
Until the final day. Wyrm gave up, waiting for whoever to arrive and discover there was nothing left. Claws, unfamiliar claws, tapped on the cold stone floor as he looked down towards the ground, defeated.
"I don't have any more gold, I'm sorry," said Wyrm, dejected. All that responded was a raspy laugh, the raspy laugh. Wyrm snapped his head up to see him, Old Croak, meat barely holding on to his bones, beak sharpened to a point, oil sloughing off his few remaining feathers.
"Fortunately, that's not what I want."
All the next dragon that visited Fae's cave found was a single, oily feather.
Never give away anything, or eventually you'll have nothing left to give but yourself
The Lindwyrm and the Argument
Underneath a crabapple tree, three creatures take part in an argument. First is Bear, stubborn, and strong. Second is Moose, proud and staunch. Third, is Lindwyrm, watching the argument while a sly thought was forming.
"Truly I am the strongest of the forest. No one can rival my stature and might. I am unmovable. How could you stand up to me?" said Moose as he cantered around Bear haughtily.
"If you had your antlers I might consider being scared. No one cares 'bout how strong you might be, cause everyone already knows to not mess with me," Bear said, huffing. "I do everything you do but, better."
At this, Lindwyrm spoke up, saying, "Gentlemen, I'm sure you know I have no stakes in this argument, as I do not live in the forest. It hurts me so to see you fight, so please allow me to offer a solution."
Bear and Moose looked at each other quizzically. "What do you have in mind?" said Moose.
"I'm sure you've heard about this, everyone of note has, but the best way to know who the bravest animal is is to put your head in the mouth of a dragon. You must feel very fortunate that I, a dragon, am here to help." Lindwyrm opened his mouth wide, plenty of room for both of the heads of Bear and Moose.
Neither Bear nor Moose had heard of this, but not wanting to admit this fact they slowly placed their heads in between the rows of teeth within Lindwyrm's maw. Needless to say, Lindwyrm had a very satisfying meal.
Work smarter, not harder
The Fae and the Fox
Fox strut down the forest path, looking about for something to do. Rooster, nor Dog, nor Crow, nor anyone else was around. Fox couldn't help but think that he was being watched, however. Playing along with whoever's game he stumbled into, he continued on his way.
Suddenly, a flash of color dropped down in front of Fox. "BOO!" yelled the small dragon. Fox was unfazed.
"Why hello little Fae! What brings you to my neck of the woods?" said Fox slyly.
"Long time no see, Fox. I have come to make a proposition to you. We both enjoy a trick or two, so I say we go on a trip! We'll prank and confound the mightiest dragons in the land!" At this, Fae flew into a somersault in jubilation.
This excited Fox. Without a partner, he wouldn't dare go against most of the dragons. "I think this would do nicely for both of us."
The day was soon filled with pranks and confounding, angry dragons and chasing. Fae and Fox tricked them out of riches, eating their fill of gullible animals, and even fooling one Drake that a chicken was a new type of dragon.
All tricks eventually lead to some type of consequence, as both of them knew, so when they were faced down by Dragon, newly applied bright pink paint practically steaming off her head in anger, they were hardly worried. What became worrying, however, was when they were backed into a corner.
Fox spluttered, stammered even, looking for a way out of the situation. Fae, of course, already knew how they were escaping. Before Fox could notice, Fae lifted off with a short flap of their wings, grasping Fox's shoulders. In their now all too familiar somersault move, Fae flung Fox, who's eyes only just began to widen in surprise, towards Dragon, who promptly snapped him up. Fae slipped away as she chewed.
Self-preservation is key. Anyone else is secondary
The Author and the Fool
Drake, ever the halfwit, began his ascent up the Spire. He slammed his claws into the rocky face, pulling himself slowly. Of course, the dragon who lived at the top knew he was coming. In truth, he knew what they all were doing. How else could he write the Fables?
Reaching the opening of the cave, dragging himself into the crevice, and standing up, he saw his target. There a dragon sat, glass eyes shining as he wrote these very words.
"Author!" he roared. "I'm tired of your literary tyranny. I'm no fool. I have a name."
The dragon looked up, still writing. "If you have a problem with my writings, simply don't read them" rasped his voice, not used to being used. Getting up from his perch, he slowly began slinking towards Drake.
"It wouldn't matter if I never had read them, everyone treats me and my brethren like we're idiots now. It was never like this before! Change it, or I make you change it" said Drake.
"My archetypes are carefully thought out, and if you challenge me, you will fail, just as you did in The Drake and the Dragon, The Drake and the Storm, The Fox and the Drake, and of course, my newest fable, The Author and the Fool" growled the Author, moving ever closer to Drake.
"What are you - what are you on about n-now? I haven't even read tha-that last one." Drake had only just noticed how close the Author had gotten. Perhaps challenging him was a foolish idea. It could even be considered an idea fit for the Fool.
"That is because, my dear archetype, I am still writing it," said the Author. Drake lunged for the Author's throat in a panic, but the dragon had already thrown himself up into the air. Moving as fast as lightning, the Author slammed Drake to the ground, snapping his neck upon impact. It was over.
As the Author, Tallowsear, moved back to his quill and parchment, he thought about how inconvenient it was that there wasn't a Drake to write about anymore. Salamander would do nicely filling the archetype, however. He continued with his life's work, as Drake's body cooled on the cavern floor.
Never challenge Tallowsear
