I love my job, I’m a scribe. What do I scribe you ask. Names
I’m a keeper of names, names of the damned. Those leaving for the gallows, it’s a short walk. I move from cell to cell asking, receiving names. Some put on a brave face, some cry, all give me what I ask. Names. I sometimes ask myself why, why do they all grant me my request. I have found none, not one that wish to go to their gods without my journal having recorded their pitiful names. Sometimes I find need to question their spelling, but the journal cares not if the name is written correctly, it’s written as they wish, right, wrong it’s not me to judge. Just the name, that’s all that matters. My journal is heavy, hundreds of pages. Thousands of tiny lines to post their names. My writing is clear, concise. Even in the shadowy smoke filled cells you can clearly make out each and every name. They watch me write closely watching making sure that their name goes down in clear masterful arks, swirls of my penmanship. No one stands in my way, I move freely fearing not. I am the keeper of names. I take great pride in the journal. I am the death scribe of my king. He has great trust in me, I carry great responsibilities, and I shall not fail him. Names, names, that’s what I do.
From the Ramblings