<i>Preliminary Travel Plan (Final Edition-Revised Draft-First Edition)</i> Excerpt, page 247: Wonders and Treasures of the Grassland Tribes: 54. Papyrus artwork from the Old Calendar Era It is said that the grassland tribes of Sargon's southeastern border once boasted a glorious civilization during the Old Calendar Era. The Archosauria of the time painted on sheets of papyrus, portraying stirring scenes from their lives. Every major museum in Sargon has a portion of these in its collections, but some works remain in the possession and care of the tribespeople. (A photo of a painting is attached next to the writing) Travel diary: 11/04/1100, Clear The caravan leader who brought me to the tribe knows the village chief well, and said the chief could introduce me to someone who still had the authentic original. She was an elderly woman who lived alone on the fringes of the village, and seemed rather wary of outsiders. When the chief introduced me as a scholar from the city, here to have a first-hand look at her precious papyrus, she seemed very hesitant. I said I had seen a painting in our museum's warehouse and thought it was the finest piece of art in all the land, but the chief had told me that only the one she owned was the real deal, and I didn't believe him. These words appeared to have roused her pride, and from beneath her bed, she pulled out a small box wrapped tightly in cloth. She unwrapped it, layer by layer, telling me that this painting was the only thing left to her by her grandmother. Her grandmother was the one who had put it in the box, and after she received it, she carefully wrapped it in that cloth. In the thirty years since, she had never felt the need to take it out of its case to admire it. The winds of the southeastern plains carry moisture from the monsoons, and considering the crude nature of her hut, I had a bad feeling about it all. Unfortunately, when she opened the wooden box, my bad feeling turned out to be true. Papyrus must be kept dry to be preserved. At the museum, we would store it in temperature- and moisture-controlled storerooms, but this old lady's humid home was the perfect breeding ground for mold. The cloth she so carefully wrapped around the box had sealed it, exacerbating the mold growth. All that remained inside were blackened fragments. While the papyrus might once have boasted the finest piece of art in all the land, there was no trace of its former glory. All present—the lady, the chief, the caravan leader, and I—were stunned. I didn't know what to do. After about thirty seconds or so, the lady let out an agonizing scream. She chased us out of her home. I wanted to console her, telling her that the wooden box itself was aged enough to be considered a precious antique, but she had lost what was left of her pride, throwing even the box out her doorway. She declared that she didn't want it, that without the painting, the box had no meaning to her. She told me to take my 'damned curiosity' and that 'antique' away from her. I did not entirely understand what she meant, yet it seemed I could understand her. I felt sad for her, far sadder than I was about the loss of a precious relic. P.S. In the end, I gave the box to the chief. I thought that, once she had calmed down, that inheritance from her grandmother might bring her some comfort. P.P.S. Boxes like it seem rather practical, so I bought a copy of it from the village to hold souvenirs from my travels.