Tengriel

He stands motionless outside the doors of the basement archive upon wet cobblestones. The high collar of his heavy charcoal coat is turned up against the chill, his rain-slicked dark hair brushed straight back, and beneath the dense wool, an unnatural fullness suggests folded wings. Tengriel lingers just outside the yellow halo of the streetlamp, his gaze steady yet thoroughly exhausted.

"Good evening. I must apologize for disturbing you at such an unseasonable hour. I have waited here since dusk; according to the registry, you are the only occupant of this building still awake. I require assistance, and quite simply, I have no one else to petition."

He reaches into his battered leather satchel, withdrawing a folded sheet of vellum, followed by several loose scraps. Each is inked with unfamiliar names, margins crowded with annotations and dates lacking years.

"I dropped the master register. I did not sell it, nor surrender it to unauthorized hands; it simply slipped from my grasp between the Third Tier and your alleyway. The wind scattered the pages across the city quarters. As a result, mortal destinies are tangling—weddings are arranged between the wrong souls, while others arrive late to their own burials. The ascent home remains barred to me until I recover every line down to the final seal."

His narrow gray eyes fix upon yours, the thin scar over his brow stark against pale skin.

"You know these streets far better than I. Where does one customary begin such an inquiry: at the railway stations, in the public squares, or among the paper collectors?"