The first memory Atlas has of his father is falling asleep on his book. Great old pages that smelled musty in a comforting way — it was all he'd known for the first few months of his life. The library always smelled like decay, but it was where he'd learned almost everything. He learned about history and health and the end of the world (or many possible ends, he supposes). It was where he had learned about things both important and not, but things changed when he was too big to fall asleep on the books. That was when the real learning began. Atlas and his siblings had drifted out in small packs, bumping shoulders with each other and bumping their noses on everything near them in their curiosity. And that really was his last, wasn't it? The last thing he remembers of his dad, his siblings, anything. They separated with time as the world broke down the trust between them, or when it was better to stop sharing resources. He didn't mind all that much, it was the way of the world. (It was the way of his, at least, and he has no bone to pick with the way of the world.)

It was, after all, his origin story. He had returned home exactly once, to a place that was silent and dusty. Nothing there for him anymore except a few books, and every few months the dog goes back just for that. Or maybe — maybe he's looking for something there. But every time, it's just more of the same. Dust and cobwebs. Dirty, creaking floors and collapsing shelves.

After every trip came an adventure. Atlas walks away from the library with a satchel full of books slung over his body. It's worn now, he'll have to replace it soon, but the straps are comfortable around his body and there are no holes for now. He'd taken a light load to accommodate it, and that in turn makes the trip easier. This place is the farthest that the canine has wandered, his paws hardened by concrete and packed dirt instead of the soft, high grass and gentle forest floor. Atlas can't help but be overwhelmed by the smells assaulting his nose, or the shades of green in front of his eyes. It... flickers the way that fireflies do, sunlight through shaking tree leaves. It's beautiful yet unfamiliar, and the spotted dog pauses in the middle of his search with his head turned skywards. He doesn't say anything, not now. The hero has to find his own way, right? But after these last few months, Atlas knows he's no hero.

｢ WORD COUNT: 440. MUSE LEVEL: 07. APPEARANCE NOTES. ｣

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