Office
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"Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ! Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ!"
You find yourself in the presence of a shockingly Affable Scrivener at the heart of the Brass Embassy. He gestures for you to enter the cramped demesne of his office, unfolding from behind a desk cluttered with papers and leagues too small for him.
He's a man in his prime — or looks it. His face is freckled and handsomely bland, his hair thick and honey-blond. Somehow, his suit remains scrupulously neat, though he has to have been stooping over his work for hours. He wears a venerable, daintily-curled moustache which mirrors the shape of his smile.
The air is choked with dust and the mildewed smell of old parchment. Your gaze drifts to the strangely spiked script that writhes across the waxy page he'd been reading, and your scalp begins to itch. He regards you with sulphrous yellow eyes, their rims red as raw meat. "... Me? Oh, no, no. I'm merely a notary, friend. Merely a notary. But how might the Embassy assist such a dear soul, today?"
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