If we never meddled in powers we did not comprehend, how would we gain comprehension?
“Uh… by examining them with science? Preferably by non-invasive, passive means first?” suggested Penfold.
Blenkinsop glared at her. “Honestly. You’re such a wet blanket.”
“Wet blankets survive fires, Blenkinsop. All I’m asking is that you pay attention.”
She sighed and folded her arms. “Really.”
“Yes. There is a reason why you found these tools and instruments in the middle of a ruined temple. In the middle of a ruined city. In the middle of a ruined civilisation with a document-able trail of destruction… Which originated in the aforementioned temple!”
“But my translations–”
“Your translations may well be off. It’s not as if a cataclysmic destruction preserves ink very well. Did you even notice that the last pages of the book were burned? Or that the writer wrote down their own screams?”
“Well I did think it a bit odd. What if it was some kind of narrative device?”
“Blenkinsop…” sighed Penfold. “What earthy variant of narrative device involves bloodstains and traces of acid?”
Blenkinsop pouted. “It’s times like this that you take the fun out of everything, did you know that?”
“And you’re secretly glad, aren’t you?”
“Oh, hush, Penfold,” Blenkinsop blushed.
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