(no subject)

[athelstanthescribe]

Athelstan steps into the bar today with a bulging pouch slung over his shoulder, heads for a table and starts unpacking it.

He quickly has an odd assortment of items spread on the table, from tree bark to scraps of rough-tanned pale leather, all covered with small cramped writing - mostly done in the best ink he could make, meaning soot mixed with animal fat, with a goose feather pen. There's even a few pieces of wood with the writing scratched directly into them.

He's soon absorbed in sorting them into a logical order, but would be quite willing to be interrupted.

Comments

[athelstanthescribe]

"It's the least she deserves. I wonder, you see... if she really loved her master so much, or if it was fear, or despair... when I saw her first, they'd given her ale and she was singing, but I saw her face as she went to her death."

[herr_bookman]

"Oh, good heavens," Autor says, shaking his head. "The only one to truly know is her, unfortunately. But you can certainly write those thoughts down in your book."

[athelstanthescribe]

He nods. "And other people can think on her, too. I may never forget her."

[herr_bookman]

"I don't blame you," Autor says, furrowing his brow. "She seems hard to forget. Thank you for sharing your work with me."

[athelstanthescribe]

"You're welcome." He smiles slightly. "It isn't all so... dark."

[herr_bookman]

"I'm sure," Autor says, nodding. "I'm certainly you'll portray their society with a balanced and careful eye, and I look forward to reading it."

[OOC: Headed to a fade? Thanks for the thread!]

[athelstanthescribe]

"I shall certainly try. And bring it to you when it's more presentable."

[ooc: looks good!]