The late morning sun shines through the window of a cheap apartment. The floor is covered in sheets of paper, all laid out in neat rows. Sprawled on the floor, asleep among the papers, is a young man of around seventeen years. A bit tieflingish, but only a bit, hair is curly and long enough to hide the little horns from casual observation.
Waking up with a start, nearly knocking over a vial of ink, he starts his morning.
“Huh, can’t tell if this manticore one is for Iomedae or for the riots? Geryon nonsense.”
The grabbing guy will emphasize the point with a shove against the wall.
It’s against attacking random people on the street because you think Iomedae told you to. Idiots. “I don’t know, I just sell what they give me. Let me go, I’ll stay off this street—“
Trying to kick at the guy, to no effect.
Varanthe inches closer. He's supposed to just watch. He's just gonna watch. But like. He'll watch from Right Here.
She has no idea who the captain of the watch is. Is there a watch? There's gotta be a watch. She has no idea where the nearest watch post would even be.
Well, at least it looks like they're probably not gonna kill him?
The Vile Scribe continues to struggle and get beaten up. He’ll have his revenge. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. The man who skewers royals and archmages with wit and pen! Who ruined a year of asmodean textbooks with jokes scrawled in the margins, and never got caught! Who never stops, even as others fall to noose and blade! Who is depicted as the Fiducia while all opponents are cast as the Simplicio!
The man grabbing momentarily loses his grip and quakes with fear. This is not a pamphlet seller, this is some corrupting evil presence.
Well then. Vile Scribe, possessing the power of Scrivener’s Chant and whatever that was. Running now.
Oh look some of the pamphlets got loose and landed right under this guy's foot. Varanthe is not interfering!
Don’t look back. Run. Keep running. There’s a cafe not far from here. Not Le Café, but still a safe zone. That’s the goal.
One man down and left behind, the other three step over him but keep pursuing.
Into the cafe! They recognize him here, as that guy who derails conversations in entertaining ways.
He puts a heated argument about the upcoming trial between himself and the door. Good luck getting through that without distraction, wannabe Iomedaeans.
“In the name of Iomedae! We saw the hellspawn run in here, where is he?”
While the corrections about how they should only be hunting evil hellspawn with noble titles collide with the denouncements of the goddess who would see all Cheliax burn and quickly escalate into a brawl, the Vile Scribe slips behind the counter and orders a coffee.
The Vile Scribe looks longingly at the menu, which does include some kind of foreign bread-meat-apparatus for the people who take dinner at the cafe. No time, though, need to get out of here and leave his pursuers behind. He gulps down the coffee way too fast, winces at the heat, slips few coins to the benevolent cafe overlord for the use of the secret back door, and hits the streets.
Wait nooo Varanthe wanted snacks come back.
Sigh. Varanthe slips through the door just before it closes and dashes after him.
Back to his apartment. A second look— good, not being followed.
His heart is racing from the chase and the coffee. He’s angry, can still feel how powerless he is. Which means not a moment of rest. This is the best state to write in. He takes off his coat. Kneels down by the floorboard where the ink and paper are hidden.
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