His hand flies across the paper in front of him, moving in a blur of motion that my eyes can’t keep up with. As his right hand scribbles line after line of words his left carefully dips a quill into an ink well, then just as the quill in his right hand runs dry, his left immediately falls upon the paper and continues to write with the same fervor.
“Wow,” I mutter under my breath, watching for several moments as he switches from hand to hand, writing without break.
“Fellas,” I say, turning to face Bastian and Luda. I raise a hand and motion toward the black robed man at the desk. “Meet the Scribe!”
“Hello, sir,” Luda says quietly as he keeps a distance. Evidently the dark robes and snow pale skin, combined with the ridiculous speed of his hands, is keeping Luda at bay.
“Good afternoon,” Bastian says. He steps forward and bows with a flourish. “A pleasure.”
I turn back toward the Scribe to find that he has no acknowledged Luda or Bastian’s presence in any fashion. I suppose he must not have time for minor characters; though, Bastian is the main character. Perhaps this is all too meta for the scribe to acknowledge anyone in the story.
“We’ve never met, but I’m sure you know who I am,” I say, stepping to stand opposite the scribe at his desk. I pause to give him time to reply, but he doesn’t. I clear my throat.
“It’s… it’s me, the Narrator,” I say, and pause again. The scribe does not acknowledge me.
“The Narrator,” I say again. “Your connection to the author?”
The Scribe does not acknowledge me.
I jump and spin on my heel, forgetting there were others here besides myself and my companions. To the side an elf stands with a fresh tray of tea.
“Uh, yes?” I say.
“The Scribe does not speak, sir,” the Elf explains. “He does not speak, he does not see, and he does not hear.”
I raise my brow at this curiosity.
“Really?” I ask. The elf nods and motions toward the Scribe’s hood. I turn back to face him and carefully lean over the desk to pear under the hood. I am greeted with a pale face, blank of features like a stick figure head with nothing drawn inside.
“Huh,” I mutter. “That’s… disturbing.”
I raise a brow as the Scribe’s hand stops. It’s barely half a second before he immediately starts writing again, but given his speed the deviation is very apparent.
“You’ve offended him,” the elf says.
“How?” I ask. “He has no ears.”
“You said you are the Narrator?” the elf asks, I nod confirmation. “Well much like yourself, the Scribe… knows. He does not perceive the world in any normal way, he simply knows of it. Images appear in his mind and he writes them down. Whole stories play in his head, fed to him by, we believe, you.”
“By me? I-” I pause to consider this. I suppose it makes sense; I’ve never actually spoken to the guy but he somehow gets all of my stories and puts them to paper. “So we’re connected on a psychic level?”
“Yes, sir,” the elf replies.
I pass around the desk, watching the Scribe’s hands continue to scrawl line after line.
“So, what is he writing now?” I ask as I lean over his shoulder and peek at the paper, reading what he writes.
“I lean over his shoulder and peel at the paper, reading what he writes. “I lean over his shoulder and peek at the paper, reading what he writes. “I lean over his shoulder and peek at the paper, reading what he writes. “I lean over his-” ” ” “
I am yanked away from the pages. The room spins around me and I reach out to steady myself, finding my hand on Bastian’s shoulder and his hand on mine.
“Thank you,” I mutter at him. “Don’t read that.”