• Closed • [Job Thread] Adventures in Copy Writing

[Solsarin]

3 Vhalar, 716

The tell-tale galumph of Sol's heavy boots heralded his arrival. He offered a curt nod to one of the standard-duty guards as he passed under the library's welcoming arch. A slow day. He glanced about the lack-luster crowd; a singular, old fellow pawed at the corner of a low-laying shelf, two university students argued over some trivial quip or another, and he caught a glance of Penelope busying herself with some important task. More-so than his own work, anyway. The scribe lowered the hood of his cloak and advanced across the open floor, the usual scowl held to ward off any incessant nagging. He parked himself at a desk at the far side of the main room and removed his pack, setting it aside the wooden stand while he rummaged through the contents to produce two wide, thick books of similar girth and placed them side by side.

Sol withdrew a smaller pouch and placed it on the desk. From there he found his reservoir pen, sinking the edge into a vial of blank ink and waiting, his eyes latch to the process with a dull, half-glazed over countenance. The practice allowed him a measure of perspective for the day. He glanced aside at the title of this latest request, a copy of Merrigold's "Dowsing for Materials: A Scientific Approach to Divining Gold" and rolled his eyes. Some businessman or another came with the request. Nets were nets. Sol removed his pen from the vial, opened the still half-blank book to his left and read the last passage before yesterday's end.

"...While there is no sure-fire way to determine the quality of the materials beforehand this technique assures for the maximum quantity..." Ah yes, the great mysteries of the world opened their doors to his every whim.

With a sigh, the scribe opened the tome to the counterpart page of his unfinished 'masterpiece.' He sprinkled a handful of drying dust over as-of-yet blank pages then gently shook the book. Once the material settled he squared his shoulders and set his arm parallel to his work and set the pen to parchment. He started slow, of course, his wrist turning in a practiced, direct manner, keeping its motions small as to not tire so quickly. Sol glanced from one tome to the other, reading a passage once, twice, then transcribing the entry to the copy. He followed the form of the original as close as possible - yet Merrigold was a very superior scribe it appeared - taking note of the long, looping cursive and the somewhat-slanted lettering.

"...your technique used to mine is as important as your location! An experienced foreman makes all the difference whilst hiring..."

Sol glowered at the text. Merrigold's abuse of the exclamation mark brought forth a new hatred of grammar. Shouldn't one strive for some sort of balance between the subject and the material? Though, of course, he mused that if that held true the writing herein would make for a better death-knell than a work of non-fiction.

[Solsarin]

Sol gave notice to his form. About a hundred-or-so strokes in now, he noted how sloppy his lettering became, falling to inconsistent dips and the occasional blotch. He paused, then, setting his pen down and shaking his hand out, wiggling his fingers one by one to soothe the cramps of a dull morning. In the respite Sol allowed himself a momentary stretch, vaulting up to his feet and extending his arms up over his head. Several light pops cracked down his back. Pressure did little good for precision. Satisfied, he returned to his chair and scooted himself back in, grabbed the pen and titled it back into the ink well. His finger tapped the side of the glass vial. Meanwhile, through the windows, he spied the every rising sun and a day barely spent.

"Housing, of course, is essential for on-site efficiency. The costs for the initial set-up are heft and may require additional investors..."

Sol returned to his wide, sweeping letters. The scratching of his pen-on-parchment played to an odd sort of rhythm, making its own melody in conjunction to the length of the lines. Merrigold, of course, wrote long-winded sentences overladen with sketchy grasp of Common grammar. Did the man possess no editor? With all the comments concerning costs and how to cut them Sol imagined not. No matter, the scribe was paid to write, not question - nor edit. He turned source's page in time with his own, though often he found himself lagging behind, his own script employing a smaller scale than the original text. To compensate, Sol slowly adjusted his style as he went, translating his own, personal flair to match. The result was the eventual uneven writing from one page to the next, but the event occurred often enough to seem intentional. A style choice, of course.

The client mentioned nothing of technique used to copy, merely the act itself. Most lacked the raw aptitude to sit in the same place for breaks on end, wiling the day away with inaction; or maybe it was the split focus? Sol found himself steeled to the idea of multitasking, his eyes tracked both the passages and his own cursive simultaneously, reading whilst checking his work for errors. That of which he made. Frequently.

"Damn it." Sol cursed under his breath. He set his pen down once more and grasped a vial of ink thinner, shaking the contents thoroughly before he set it down again - the liquid tended to solidify without use. Fortunate, then, that he found a near perpetual need for the stuff. Sol popped off the top and lifted the vial over his copied page, gently tilting it until a single drip fell from the mouth to the writing. He tapped the back with a finger, easing several more drops out before placing the item altogether. With the back-side of his pen he ran the drops together until they covered the mistake - a spelling error, of all things; that ironclad focus of his failing for the dozenth time since he began.

Time seemed to cease its progression while he waited for the mark to dry.