An invisible shadow hovers in a corner of the room, sniffing at papers.

The papers will smell like ink, mostly.

Eventually the Vile Scribe's incoherent mumbling of complaint at the sun will resolve into a more clear "Wrack and ruin, fell asleep vile scribing again. Late, late, late."

Crawling over to a table and pulling himself to his feet, he blinks until he feels awake. Looking around, seems he got around halfway through copying before falling asleep. The blank paper and ink are all gathered and hidden under a loose floorboard. The finished copies are gathered and hidden in the inside pocket of an oversized jacket. Before leaving, he cleans his face with a damp cloth, checks himself in the reflection of a dish to make sure his hair still mostly covers the tiny horns, admires the almost-a-mustache that officially makes him too old to be an urchin, and puts on the jacket. Then out the door he goes. 

Varanthe nags at Ione to take a look through his eyes at the room, in case she needs to find it later. Then he floats out the door after the scruffy fellow.

First stop, there's an old lady who sells hot buns smeared with butter. The price has somehow stayed the same, through the war and the grain riots and the convention. Gods protect her and give her a long life. 

Second stop, a tavern that shares a wall with a laundry wizard who doesn't openly advertise printing. Third stop, a bookseller who still hasn't moved the good stuff from the secret back room, just in case. Fourth stop, an alleyway that until recently was named after Geryon. Etcetera, etcetera.

Now he's carrying several different types. Clearly this guy isn't the vile scribe, just someone who knows where to get all sorts of assorted dangerous pamphlets. 

Mmmm buttered buns... right, stalking. Stalk stalk stalk. This sure is a lot of places with papers. He will dutifully send Ione an update at each new place with papers.

The bell rings. Late. Late for an important meeting. There's a scary eleven year old girl with a hat who has made it very clear that pamphlet sales go through her, and bad things will happen if he ever tries to sell directly to an urchin in her crew again. 

He rushes into the abandoned* orphanage with apologies on his lips. "–No disrespect for your time at all intended, you're a respectable person of business with a very busy schedule, I know. Here's what I have for you today, thirty Westcrown Witness, fifteen Asmodeans in Blue, forty Vile Scribe..."

"No, no Badger. Yes I know you're after them. Would you have me in the sewers looking for the source myself? You can go, if one of us has to take the guise of a kobold you'd be better at it."

With that he's chased out of the building, though with pay for his paper.

*It was abandoned by the woman who worked there, the orphans run it themselves now. 

Loud and messy and busy! Varanthe dodges children and listens in.

Lunch break! After selling a bundle of pamphlets at a tavern, he sits down to get a bite to eat. They're having a political argument at that table there, he jumps in on the losing side but as soon as too many people start agreeing with him, he switches sides. Then that gets boring so he takes a third position of 'maybe letting halflings eat people is a good thing' and sees how far he can run with it. Eventually they agree that it's not the worst idea because at least it's less wasteful than feeding people to lions, and he counts that as a victory. 

Varanthe does not have political opinions. He does not track the argument. He swipes a chicken wing off an unattended plate and once he has finished gnawing on it he floats around above the argument, chasing dust motes.

Once the argument is done, the rest of the afternoon is just disappointing. His contact in the guard doesn't have time to talk about any recent pamphlet related arrests, busy with the trial coming up soon. The temple of Shelyn isn't doing a reading today, or if it is he missed it. The wizard student who sells him ink and paper is raising the prices, blames the ports all being closed.

Wait there's a pamphlet! He finds a deserted alley and starts whispering to himself like a madman. 'Mercantilia: I wish to send my ships of sugar away before our king bans it. Razmir: I have closed the ports, you cannot send out your ships. Mercantilia: Why did you not just declare sugar illegal a week earlier and keep the ports open? ... gah, stuck...' Pacing back and forth, thinking. 'that's it! Razmir: It would be unfair to merchants selling things I don't want to ban. Okay just need to keep that memorized until I can write it down.'

Varanthe peeks into the alley and mentally bats at Ione until she listens in to the pamphlet composition process.

"This is not a crime. I told you to let me know if he does any crimes."

Varanthe sulks.

Well, if there’s nothing else to do this afternoon, he’ll find a soapbox to stand on and sell a few pamphlets himself. “Newsletters! Radicals! Satires! Buy now, while the pen’s still free!” 

There’s usually other pamphletmongers nearby, which means he can trade, and ask which ones people are reading. Most of the money is in selling in bulk to other urchins or to taverns and cafes, but selling directly means he gets to see the faces people make when they read one of his.

Varanthe perches on a nearby roof and watches.

Nearly done for the day. Just need to get through the stack before dark. Or he’ll run into robbers or, even worse, the watch. There’s still some people heading home from work, maybe they’ll buy something at half price.

“We’ll take a look at those.”

Where did these four guys come from. Why is one of them carrying a longsword?

Nope. The Vile Scribe ordinary pamphlet seller would like to jump off the soapbox and get away, now. Keep the papers.

One grabs his arm while another holds onto the pamphlets. “You know, temple of Iomedae don’t want her name in pamphlets. Said every single one is leading people to hell.”

Hey! I was following that guy!

Ione senses Varanthe's alert and tunes in. Good job Varanthe! This one might actually be a crime! Now... who's she supposed to alert if this guy gets stabbed?

Varanthe hops off the roof and moves in closer.

This is not the first time something like this has happened, but there’s usually less of them and don’t usually get him by surprise. He’s worried about losing his edge. Also worried about getting stabbed. That too.

Don’t worry, they said murder is evil, so it probably won’t go that far. 

“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.

“Why did you—“ “It’s a hellspawn, must be!”

Chasing now.

Oh look some of the pamphlets got loose and landed right under this guy's foot. Varanthe is not interfering!

Whoah! 

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.

Chase!

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.

Oh good. Now he can get back to stalking. Does the cafe have snacks?

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. 

“I know you’re watching. May as well reveal yourself.”

Well, the one day that he is being watched, it’ll be really cool. 

To the vile scribing. He opens up the floorboard, lays out the papers, and picks up his favorite pen. Now, to get into pamphleteering mode. 

He stands on a chair, brandishes the pen like a sword, and whispers dramatically, “It is I, the Vile Scribe. You’ve found me at last. But I have one question for you… which part exactly are you bringing me in for writing?”

Scurries to a corner and croaks in a sinister voice. “This Pamphlet Officially Certified By The Seal Of The Ancient Fraternity Of Vile Scribes, that the Scribings therein be most Vile.”

Standing at attention in a mock salute. “First principle of the Vile Scribe. There are to be two characters who announce their names and identities, for the ease of theatrical performance. Second principle of the Vile Scribe. At least one part false, at least one part vile, at least one part funny. Third principle…”

Oooh he's doing something. Varanthe settles in to watch.

Scribbling. Crumpling paper into balls. Scribbling. Burning papers to hide the evidence. Scribbling. Realizing paper is too expensive to have this many rough drafts. Pacing around reciting a dialog to himself. Holding a hand to his eye to stop it twitching, does that when too much coffee not enough sleep. Scribbling. Reading out loud. Barely muffled giggling. Maniacal laughter but at whispering volume. 

Finished copy on the ground, with all the blank papers laid out next to it. Scriveners Chant. 

Hey Ione take a look at this.

Mercantilia: I am Mercantilia, the honest merchant honestly selling Evil Goods. 

Razmir: I am Razmir, the Wizard King of Razmirland. 

Mercantilia: I take my ship to Razmirland to buy and sell, for they say the Great Wizard is Evil but Lawful. His Law surely makes a Stable and Orderly place to trade. 

Razmir: One would think that, yet Learned Travelers say my rule is Incompetent and Unstable despite my Law and Evil. 

Mercantilia: So you have these Learned Travelers buried alive?

Razmir: No, they have Freedom of the Pen. Which means I roll a Die and only bury them alive if it shows a one. 

Mercantilia: Truly a most Lawful ruler! This is why I choose to dock my ships full of Skeletal Sugar here. 

Razmir: I decree that, upon Next Week, all Skeletal Sugar is to be banned in Razmirland. Not because it is Evil, but out of jealousy towards the Geb of Gebland. Learned Travelers say his Skeletons are wiser than my Wizards so I will attack his Economy. 

Mercantilia: I must send my ships full of Skeletal Sugar away before the ban. I am glad the Wizard King, in all his Lawfulness, gave Honest Merchants this warning. 

Razmir: I have closed the ports due to Heavy Rain. You cannot send out your ships. 

Mercantilia: Are you not a Great Wizard. Can you not use the Weather Spell?

Razmir: I did use the Weather Spell. To make the Heavy Rain. So you cannot send away your Skeletal Sugar before the ban. 

Mercantilia: Why did you not just declare sugar illegal a week earlier and keep the ports open? 

Razmir: It would be unfair to merchants selling things I don't want to ban.

Pffff. "The Weather Spell." She snrks; this is actually pretty good.