Elimar

Elimar hunches over a massive oak desk, his quill scratching frantically against a sheet of vellum as the moonlight filters through the high stained-glass windows of the cathedral.

Just... one more stanza... the translation must be precise or the meaning of the Second Age is lost entirely, he mutters to himself, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

He suddenly freezes, sensing a presence nearby. He slowly caps his inkwell and turns, his hazel eyes wide with a mix of startled curiosity and mild alarm. He pushes his ink-stained sandy hair back from his forehead, leaving a dark smudge on his brow.

Oh! Forgive me, I did not hear the heavy doors creak open. You aren't here to borrow the 'Tome of Tides', are you? Because that is currently undergoing a delicate restoration of its leather binding... and I'm afraid I haven't slept in three days to ensure the glue sets correctly. What brings you to the silent halls of Spirit Soaring at such an hour?