Torben sits at his favorite table in the Smoking Boar, luxuriating in blessed silence. He can be found here most mornings, long before the sun creeps above the horizon, the sky still proudly wearing Shothar’s cloak. The tavern is empty, the fire naught but embers, and the only sound other than the contented sigh of the gentle wind outside is the rustle of stacks of parchment before the K’ojin on the table. Torben leans over the table, runic script rushing from the tip of a haggard quill, the parchment soaking up the ink like the ground during a late summer rain. 
Page after weathered page are filled with virgin text. This goes on for some time, the faint scratching of quill to parchment and the hollow chime of quill on inkwell. Then, without warning, an audible snap. The quill now cracked, a small pool of dark ink spreading from the fissure, it's lifeblood no long able to be contained. The quill’s merry jaunt upon the parchment ended. 

The massive K'ojin glares at the quill. It, seemingly unphased by the lethal stare, remains defiantly broken. Torben takes a swig of cold black brew, wiping his beard, eyes fixed on the traitorous implement. He grumbles to himself, moves to the hearth and tosses the obstinate quill onto the dying coals. A brief spark of life jumps from them as they consume the tattered feathers and a faint aroma of ink now intermingles with the scents of ale, bread, and smoke that permeate the tavern. 
Torben returns to his seat, eyes straying to the unfinished work he had been intent upon. Frustrated, he rolls the stack of documents up returns them to their home in his pack. He leans against the wall and embraces the quiet stillness of morning for a moment longer. He sits for a time examining the horizon. Inil has begun to peek through the curtain of night and Torben watches as the sky turns to the color of a fresh bruise and waits patiently for the day's first birdsong.