The ornate hall of the Scribes’ Guild feels like a relic of a much older time. Carved columns stretch up to a ceiling far above, the delicate murals visible only in shimmering glimpses caught by the hanging oil lamps lighting the room. Beneath them sit rows of dark oak writing desks, made darker still by decades of ink. These, too, are lit by oil lamps, illuminating the scribes and their work. The scribes themselves are equally out of time. Their coats are the dusty green of antique emerald, hints of which are only visible on their faces and beneath the fluttering robes of scurrying apprentices. The scribes’ deftly craft complex calligraphies with breathtaking speed, stopping only to recharge their quills or turn a page. Indeed, the only sound in the massive hall is the scratching of the quills and the rustling of papers. You cannot help but feel out of place as you look upon them. The crumbling manuscript in your hands was beyond saving, you were told, but the Scribes’ Guild would be able to reproduce it, even in its tragic state. As you stand, hesitating, a scribe notices you. They put down their quill and stand, and you can’t help but notice the quill they were using seems to be made of their own tail feathers. You open your mouth to ask for help, but they silence you with a wave of their ink-stained paw and wordlessly take the manuscript from you, beckoning you to follow them back to their desk. They gently page through the manuscript before taking a small piece of parchment from the stack beside them and writing an elaborate mark and a date. You can only assume the mark is the scribe’s name, although you can’t make out what it is, and the date is when they’ll have your manuscript ready. Before you can thank them, they’ve waved over an apprentice who, after a wordless exchange with the scribe, wordlessly leads you out of the Scribes’ Guild.
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Posted Feb 26
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