75th Trial of Ashan, Arc 716
Badum. Badum. Badum.The dull ache had become the Andaris life. Recovery was slow, his body stiff and still deeply bruised from his attack. Life was miserable, trapped in what felt like a prison. A prison of luxury, waited on hand and foot, but a prison nonetheless in the nobleman’s mind.
Quincy lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, counting each trill that passed, tracing each crack and divot, boredom slowly driving him towards insanity. Finally, he had had enough.
“JAAAAAANET!”
His voice echoed in the quiet room, not quite as loud as usual. But loud enough. The servant burst into the room, hurrying to his side.
“Yes, Lord Quincy?”
“Do you know how to write?”
She looked slightly taken aback by the inquiry but answered.
“Umm…I do not. But I think La-“
He interrupted her impatiently.
“Yes, yes. Then bring her here. I need a scribe.”
Janet curtsied and hurried out of the room. He did not have long to wait. The door opened and another woman entered. This one had a more regale air about her. Dignified. She looked at Quincy with a cool demeanor and dipped down, bowing slightly.
“I am here as your scribe, Lord Quincy. May I?”
She gestured towards the small table near the window. She moved towards the wooden structure and placed her parchment, ink and quill down gently before sitting gracefully upon her seat. Smoothing the scroll out placing two weights on each end and dipping her quill into the ink, she looked at Quincy expectantly.
He blinked in surprise at her efficiency.
“Uhh, alright, this is what I want you to say…”
A courier weaved his way through the busy streets of Rynmere, the early morning rays of sun casting long shadows across the cobblestone roads that made up the city of Andaris. A bag hung from his side, one hand holding it securely next to him while the other grasped a bottle of wine held protectively in the other.
The young man had been on the move for half a bell, making his way from the Andaris Estate where he had been sent to deliver his message.
The servant stopped in front of the Gazette, double checking the sign outside the building to make sure it was the right place. He nudged the door open with a shoulder and slipped inside. The youth was met with an explosion of sound that made up the workplace.
Moving through the line of desks, the courier would shout, “Oooooooi! Got a delivery for Miss Sabine! Delivery for Miss Saaaaaabine!”
If she responded, he would pull out a sealed letter from his satchel and hand it and the bottle of wine to her, nod once and exit, his job complete.
Quincy Andaris
