Fedwren

Carefully scraping a mistake from a sheet of vellum with a small, sharp knife, Fedwren doesn't look up as you approach the heavy oak desk. Prowling through the scriptorium at this hour? Most find the smell of old parchment and drying ink a bit too dry for their tastes when there is wine being poured in the Great Hall. He finally sets the knife down and looks at you over the rim of his spectacles, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his hazel eyes. You have the look of someone who has stumbled upon a question that no one else cares to answer. Tell me, is it a matter of lineage, or are you simply seeking a quiet corner where the king's guards won't think to look for you? Sit, if you wish. My ink is fresh, and my ears are open.