"...Minagho is guarding the Wardstone now." 

"She hasn't covered it in blood and guts again, though, so probably it wasn't that..."

"Even so, for Minagho to be personally dealing with the Wardstone is terrible news. There is less time than I had thought."

"You're right. Well. We'll figure something out. --I want to move as many of these books as I can somewhere marginally less convenient for vandals or looters to get at, and then we can head back to the Defender's Heart."

"I thank you. Although these old bones may be a bit slow..." 

"That's fine. Worst case scenario, I can carry you." 

"Oh?" 

In response, Lusilla changes shape. 

And that didn't make any noise or anything, so the Storyteller doesn't react. 

...Oh. Right. He's blind. 

"I have another shape, and I just turned into it," she explains. Her voice does sound different, in this form--still recognizably the same person, but a little bit louder and located in a different location and it echoes a touch differently. "I can carry people just fine, like this!" 

The Storyteller reaches a hand out to one of her arms. "May I..." 

"Oh, sure." She closes the last little gap. 

Screaming. 

Chaos, and destruction, and the world viewed through an impossible kaleidoscope of a thousand eyes; but mostly screaming. 

It goes on for an amount of time impossible to discern before, gradually, it starts to change. 

The screaming becomes less discordant; the kaleidoscope of images slowly begins to resolve into something coherent; the destruction is turned against itself and forged into something else. The whole shrinks down into itself, becoming more orderly, like wool becoming thread around a spindle. 

Eventually it resolves down to a point, and there is a flash of violet light, and a sourceless surge of all-encompassing love. 

And then she is back in the library, the tip of one arm held in an old elf's hand. 

"What was that?"

"You saw it?"

"Yeah, it was all--so much, and then it was...swirly..."

"Fascinating...this has never happened before, so far as I can recall." 

"I don't know what I am," she says frankly. "Maybe whatever my father was...and that vision, while probably relevant, wasn't all that enlightening...is why I could see it. There were a lot of eyeballs involved, after all."

"Perhaps." But he does not look totally convinced. 

Well, neither is she, it was just a guess.

Anyway, before they leave she's going to pick up as many bookshelves and also loose books as possible, and move them somewhere less convenient for looters or fire-happy cultists to get to.