<div class="floatleft">(https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EWE6P0qUMAQQMih.jpg)</div><br/>In many ways, Alwyn was uniquely suited to find the grimoire. People didn't understand dark magic and that was for the best. Normal people never understood the allure, how enticing and seductive dark magic could be. They didn't hear the call, feel the tug like a lover leading you to bed. They didn't understand the smell thinking it all death and rotting corpses and burnt ashes salted with blood. Those were the results of using dark magic of course. That was as far away as possible from what dark magic actually smelled like to a practitioner. It smelled like Cake and Candy and cool nights secure by a soothing fire with a loved one.<br/><br/>Alwyn had been there, sunk deep in the demonic powers from an age before she knew it was wrong. She had broken free and destroyed the dark forces that she had been pledged to. But there was always a fingerprint of darkness on her soul, blood and hatred marring a perfect stained glass. The book would call to her, in hopes that she could once again be turned to the path of evil and chaos and destruction.<br/><br/><em>If I was a dark book, where would I go? Not the docks, because books hated water. Not the slums, because there was too much chance of being eaten or burned or, uh, used as a wipe. Perhaps the guild district, full of people hungry for knowledge and power and other desires. <br/><br/>Not the university, too many people who would want to dissect it or perform bizzare experiments on it or recognize the blight on civilization it represented and remove the problem.  Not the manor district, too small of a chance of being read, and too high of a chance of being put on a shelf somewhere or used as a tea party novelty. </em><br/><br/>That left the marketplace, not at all coincidentally where Alwyn was most comfortable searching. In the limited time she had before the book was snatched up, possessed someone clever, or made its escape to somewhere like RoundTown, Squaresville, or Triangle Triad, familiar ground optimized her efficiency.<br/><br/>So Alwyn set up wards, cast divining spells, attuned her beloved pact spirits to detect the dark magic as they floated around above the stalls, and wandered the aisles and alleys of the bustling marketplace. Keeping a ear open to rumors, disturbances, or other hints of malignant influence, she wandered the market, talking to the other shopkeepers and vendors, crafters and grifters. The marketplace was a tangled nest of greed and competition, stories and wonders, but it was home.