Key of Stars

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The door shuddered in its frame.

The scribe’s hand jerked, flicking a blob of ink from his quill. The ink splattered on the parchment stretched across the composition table.

“Mystra’s corpse!” the scribe said.

Several heavy bumps thudded down the hallway outside the door, followed by laughter.

“What the hell is going on out there?” the scribe yelled.

He waited a few heartbeats for a response. Nothing but silence.

“Damn apprentices, playing when they should be reshelving,” he muttered.

The scribe sighed and returned to his work. The splatter hadn’t ruined the report, but the tiny spills made the page appear untidy and common-not up to his standards. At least it was salvageable. He dipped his quill in the pot once more.

The door shattered in a blast of expanding white vapor.

The scribe, bent-backed and stiff from a lifetime of copying, fell off his stool. Bits of broken door rained down on him. The inkpot shattered, painting jagged black lines on the floor.

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