Role

Chapter 9

Smoke poured into the tight confines of his office, a modest little nook
towards the top of the tower long unoccupied hastily converted into a
private study as quick and messy as his own promotion to authority.
A place to ruminate on the more difficult cases that fell on his discretion.
The truth is less prestigious, he comes here time after time to retreat
from the pressures and demands of his position to enjoy the more refined
vices provided by his pay-grade, fine liquors, Ayr'Trinillian Cigars and
exotic game from every corner of the land. Dim lantern light provides
the majority of the meager light in these narrow corridors, constantly
tripping over a mop or discarded wash bucket reminds me daily of eccentricity
of his office. Felar... Something about these tight spaces comforts his kind,
or maybe it's just so he can keep his back against the wall. Fumbling can
be heard from the corner and then the distinct strike of a match heralding
an incandescent glow about his face, and the accompanying smoke burning my
eyes. Actually, it makes it really hard to write, my only relief a small
archer's slit in the far wall. Oh, but you don't know me do you?

My name is Revarios. I spent a lifetime of scribe work in the palace of
Darsylon transcribing and attending to affairs of state for the royal
regiment, it's a noble calling but how many ways can you write "A drow
was spotted in the bushes, your majesty." before it becomes a farce?
I always had a reputation in some circles for my freelance work, tweaking
a bard's limmerich here, some scholarly prose there. I've known the Provost
since he was a young magistrate who could barely grasp the intricacies of
an inkwell, gold was another matter entirely, when he came to me offering
mounds of it to proof-read his drivel how could I possibly refuse?
It's not to say I'm taking advantage of him, his hearts in the right place,
let's just say I'm glad he still can't quite decipher some of the bigger
words I pen to paper.

Every now and then I catch him glancing out from the tower, looking down
on the people, the far reaching roads and the many named lands beyond.
His ears fall limp, his snout arching down and his eyes narrowing as he
stares into that vast expanse blurring into nothingness the harder you
look, and he looks... Tired, the primal nature of his being giving way
to the burden of a man's heart. Often when he retires I have peered
through the gap myself hoping to gleam what worries him so. Below I
see the many trappings of the common people, merchants and guardsmen.
Everyday they make the same rounds in the lot in life they have found,
if you ever stop to look at them from so high it's not unlike looking
at a mosaic, ever unchanging. There is a serenity to it I find calming.
In the far east, beyond the blood stained roads and scorching sands a
creeping woodland festers, it's briars entangling and consumning the

Continued in part two