So I sit to write of something I know through all the eyes looking at the page. I find it blank. What do you see?
The scribe steps to the desk, lays a hand around the familiar instrument, guides the fingers holding it, and dips the quill into the well. Poised above the parchment thus, the first thing the page embraces is an anonymous splotch. The scribe is not the tidy sort. His desk is littered with notes and candles burnt nearly to the wick, threatening to turn the whole thing into a pile of ash at a moment's notice. The only thing holding off this unfortunate event is an unreasonable bit of luck. He is interested in truth and fact. These can only be found in what he sees. Everyday behaviors of the creatures surrounding him influence his thoughts. He watches and observes so much into his pile of notes that nothing ever truly gets written. Distracted by a noise, he moves to investigate, grabbing his own notebook, and releasing my hand to drop back onto the still empty page, into the small puddle of ink.