Work Text:
The robed Lalafell huffed as he finally put quill to parchment, a frown on his face. He found his duties increasingly onerous, though he knew they needed to be done. It had been a while since the Warrior of Light had graced the halls of Cocobani's guild with new knowledge of the black magicks, and longer still since they had been there as a simple Thamaturge. He had, of course, heard rumors that their dear Warrior was partaking in such things, but he and his brothers never truly believed it, until the truth arrived on their doorstep. Hells, the hero even had the audacity to speak for the practice's legitimacy. Though hesitant at first, they guild had agreed that there was something to at least be learned by the dark arts, and that they should no longer be dismissed outright. If the Warrior of Light and others could learn to use it, why should it stay in the dark?
Cocobani agreed, but why was he the one tasked with copying all of these texts? It was such bothersome work, and took so long. Added on top of his other duties, how could he help but complain? While he was doing this, his brothers were probably at the tavern, chatting up some poor girl about the long, boring history of magic in Eorzea.
He had tried putting it off, of course; He would look through other books, search for things that he had lost, or even put on some Orchestrations for 'inspiration' to help him work. He knew it was all hogwash, but anything to keep him from doing the now-daily task of translating and recording and correcting and writing and spellchecking and double and triple-checking and...
The Lalafell huffed again, pinching his brow between his thumb and index finger. Those eyes of his closed for a moment, thinking to the Warrior of Light. It was true that they had done plenty for the Guild - Not to mention Ul'Dah and all of Hydaelyn herself - but he sometimes wished that they hadn't brought legitimacy to the practice of black magic. It was better when these sorts of books were locked up in old dusty libraries kept by weird witches who lived deep in the woods of Black Shroud, not here in the civilized world. Placing his quill back in the inkwell, the man leaned back and sighed.
Yes, it was hard work. Yes, he wish could could shirk his work, but deep down he knew that doing this would only strengthen his resolve, and his natural affinity for it. While he could not be the greatest, there was no reason that he could not be the greatest he could be, right?
Practice makes perfect. He thought. And while he did not believe in perfection, this thought did bring him some peace, knowing that he had not hit the apex of his talent. Nay, he was just beginning.
Opening his eyes again, the Lalafellian mage quickly picked up his quill again, and began to translate once again. He had a smile now, as he knew this was for the best, and that he would bring joy to himself and others with his work. The edge of that quill scraped against the parchement, and he worked for as long and hard as he could. He was soon exhausted and took a moment to look down at his work.
.. One line. All that energy spent on one imperfect line. Again, he knew what he was doing was important, but..
"Why must it be so damned boring?" He asked aloud, his words echoing throughout his empty chambers, before once again slumping back in his chair.