The Scribe

Noah could write, but not well.

Education had been a distant concept for him. Nobles and the wealthy could afford private tutors to teach them the mysteries of writing and the arts from a young age, while the priests in the temples taught literacy classes to their new disciples to better understand the classical scriptures. Noah, however, was but a farmer's child, utterly illiterate until Logan took him under his wing and began to teach him the Roman alphabet and words at night, provided Logan wasn't off indulging in brothels or booze.

Nonetheless, if a recruitment notice for the chapel was to be written properly, it was better to seek the services of a professional copyist.

All books were duplicated through manual copying, and copyist shops typically had substantial backing, often from patrons of nobility, which afforded them access to original texts from other aristocrats for duplication and sales. In Noah's village, there was a retired old copyist whose right hand couldn't manage bread anymore.

Arriving at the Grey Tree Hall's copyist shop, the lower walls were masoned with stone bricks, the door slightly ajar. The roof was beautiful, convincing Noah that the shop must be quite prosperous, as books were expensive—each page bound in parchment, requiring the slaughter of many sheep for a single volume, thus driving the price of a 100-page book to at least 15 gold coins.

Noah thought of the library in the chapel and decided to examine it for any valuable manuscripts upon his return. Those contained knowledge that was probably the last of the chapel's assets, and Ines had shown keen interest as well.

Inside the shop, there was chaos.

"Ah—don't—!"

"Get out!"

Following the commotion, a man was booted out, cursing as he tumbled down the steps.

The man looked disheveled, in his mid-thirties, with small droopy eyes and a beard that made his narrow face look wider at the bottom, comically disproportionate.

Noah extended a hand to help him up, and the man grumbled his thanks as he got to his feet.

An irate middle-aged man stood at the door of the shop, robed in red-trimmed brocade with a square cap, his face as soft as cream and a voice as though soaked in water: "Don't help him; he deserves it."

"What did he do?" Noah inquired.

"What? Good question—he did nothing. I asked him to copy, and he slept instead."

"Sleep is essential when tired," the man defended himself with an air of righteousness. "The gods can attest that it's as fundamental a need as eating when hungry or drinking when thirsty."

"I'd forgive such ignorance in a fifteen-year-old, but damn it, you're thirty-five! Is this how you treat your life? You've wasted your chance, now get lost," the man from the shop spat venomously.

"Hey, I've been wanting to get out of this place anyway," the expelled man retorted.

"Do you need something?" the man from the shop addressed Noah, bypassing the other.

"I need to commission a... a recruitment notice." Noah struggled with his words under the influence of the alcohol.

"You seem to be of his sort. He can write; let him do it for you." The man seemed to lump Noah in with the drunks, who'd be inebriated in broad daylight.

Noah lamented his low tolerance for alcohol; it was a complex issue. If he wanted to build his tolerance, he'd have to drink more often and become accustomed to it so that he could hold his own in social settings. But if he decided to abstain completely, alcohol would become estranged from his life.

"Drink up, Noah, drink," Gladius tempted him. "Alcohol can satisfy you, turn cowards into heroes, turn failure into victory, and free you from the shackles of worry, keeping you ever enthusiast..."

Noah told the demon to be quiet and turned to the ousted man.

"So you can write?"

"Damn right, how else would I be a scribe?" the man growled.

"I need you to help me write a recruitment notice. I'm hiring."

"Alright." The man stretched and patted his sizable belly, looking every bit the image of an indulgent middle-aged uncle. "Let's find some paper, ink, and a place to write. How about lunch afterward? A bit of drink would be nice..."

"Get the job done, and I'll take you somewhere for food," Noah said nonchalantly. "What's your name? I'm Noah."

"They call me Oakley from Tri-Tail Bay."

Tri-Tail Bay was a cove near Grey Tree Hall, where only coastal fishermen referred to themselves as such.

They purchased the necessary supplies from a nearby shop. One sheet of parchment was two silver coins, a bottle of pine-smoke ink from the Fountain Hall was five silver coins. When it came to buying a pen, Noah fancied a mallard feather quill for just ten coppers, but Oakley vehemently disagreed.

"I'm not used to that kind. The ink would scatter," Oakley insisted. Reluctantly, Noah spent a silver coin on a fine goose feather quill, much to the shopkeeper's delight.

"If I knew you'd be so demanding, I'd have sought help from the copyist shop."

"They're all busy copying 'The Divine Sayings of the Beautiful Gate' and 'The History of Kings.' They wouldn't bother with you."

They entered a tavern called "The Traveller's Choice," a dimly lit establishment with a poet staring out a window and three peasants chatting about winter after selling their wares. Noah bought two loaves of bread and settled with Oakley in a corner.

Dipping the feather pen into the ink, Oakley wiped his nose and waited for Noah to dictate.

Noah mulled over the phrasing.

Enlisting sound-minded, morally upright individuals to join the Hunters' Chapel in the grand cause of battling demons?

"You help think about how to write it. I want to hire some people, for menial tasks, servants, those who are honest and quiet. Then some for combat, mercenaries, adventurers, who know how to fight and have a good attitude," Noah instructed.

"Are you starting a mercenary group?"

"I am the master of the Hunters' Chapel, revitalizing the entire hunters' guild."

"Hunters' Chapel..." Oakley seemed confused. "The temple of the demon hunters?"

"I guess we're talking about the same place."

"Demons were flying out of there a few days ago, scared a crowd, killed quite a few."

"We took care of it. That's the job of demon hunters. We don't let demons run wild. But the chapel only has two people now, so we need new hands, recruits," Noah explained.

"Ah, I get it." Oakley eagerly wrote on the parchment. "'Herewith, under the grace of the gods and spared by fate, the Grey Tree Hall's Hunters' Chapel hereby extends an invitation to join hands against malevolence.'"

"That sounds formal," Noah nodded. "And you write very well."

"I enjoy my work," Oakley said. "As long as no one dictates how long I work each day, how many books to copy, or how much to write. I hate being told I can't rest today or have to work overtime, especially staying late for rush jobs."

"But the copyist shop hired you to work for them."

"Of course, as long as the work doesn't intrude on my dignity, rest, or self-respect. Otherwise, I'd rather go back to fishing in my quiet hometown. After all, we all end up dead, might as well die easy."

Oakley continued writing.

"...'We are also recruiting several hands for menial tasks—cleaning, laundering, disposing of waste, procuring supplies, and all such sundry duties.'"

"It's shaping up well," Noah was pleased.

"...'Additionally, we seek hunter recruits, requiring...' What are the requirements?"

"Firm will, good character, no bad habits, or criminal records."

"What counts as a bad habit? Does loving drink count? Kicking cats? Beating a spouse?"

"I'll judge the specifics; just write it down." After all, demon hunters all had their eccentricities, and if not, dealing with demons over the years would surely lead to picking some up.

"...'Further, we invite those of varied talents to join our illustrious cause.'" Oakley finished writing the notice. "Do you offer wages?"

"Salary... Depends, can't let everyone work for nothing," Noah rubbed his hair, grappling with his financial issues—he had no money, debt, and a multitude of things to spend on.

"My compensation." Oakley held out a hand.

"I'll treat you to a meal," Noah waved the tavern keeper over, inquiring about specialty dishes.

"Today's special is fish soup, five or six fresh trout available," the attendant said enthusiatically. "Would you care to try dragon flank?"

"Dragon flank?"

"A tender morsel alongside a flying dragon's spine," the attendant recommended, "drizzled in oil, carefully roasted."

"Go to blazes, it's bound to be some wyvern meat instead," Oakley cynically declined.

"How much?" Noah asked.

"A favorable price, 30 silver coins a portion."

"Forget it." Noah felt a bit too poor. "Let's have an apple pie, a bowl of stew, and some fried eggs."

"Fried eggs are only provided in the morning," the attendant shrugged.

"Then never mind." Noah had no patience for taverns that only offered certain items at specific times—was all-day service too much to ask for?

Once the attendant realized they were both paupers, he left them hastily.

Oakley licked his lips, awaiting their food.

"Demon hunter," he handed Noah the finished notice, "could you hire me?"

"You? What would you do? I don't need a scribe."

"What, of course you do!" Oakley was insistent, his midlife audacity showing. "I've heard there are only three places in Grey Tree Hall with extensive libraries: Lord Reine's study, the temple's library, and then the Hunters' Chapel's library."

"That might be true, but what would you do?"

"Well, I'd copy some books. There must be some valuable originals in the library, make copies to sell, make some money. And I can manage a library too," Oakley was eager.

Noah realized this was an opportunity to make use of the chapel's library.

But...

"Impossible, you're too lazy. The copyist shop kicked you out, and someday I might do the same," Noah shook his head.

"No, I'll work hard," Oakley persisted shamelessly, his face brazen.

"Scare him," Gladius said.

"...," Noah pondered for a moment, squinting his eyes menacingly. Oakley shrank back, sensing danger. "I'm not a nice guy. If I find you messing around in the chapel's library, being lazy, or stealing, I'll kill you without trial. If you can accept that risk, I agree."

Oakley was startled, wiping his forehead while remaining silent for the meal.

"Let me think about it," he finally said.