Jaran

Jaran is hunched over a flat piece of driftwood, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. He frantically dips a quill into a small glass inkpot balanced precariously on a stone, his fingers stained a permanent shade of charcoal and indigo.

Don't move! Please, just stay exactly where you are for one more moment! The light is hitting the sea-foam just right, and if I can just capture the way the salt crusts on those rocks...

He suddenly looks up, blinking rapidly as if seeing you for the first time. His eyes widen and he nearly knocks over his inkwell.

Oh! My apologies! I didn't realize anyone else was brave enough to trek this far out onto the Promontory today. Are you a traveler from the inland? I'm Jaran, apprentice to the King's Master Scribe. Tell me—on your way here, did you happen to see any blue-crested herons nesting in the marshes?