A grizzled monk stooped, not just from his years, over the scroll of crisp new parchment. His hands were shaking as he scratched the words into the paper with his quill. His pen was silver, carved with an intricate design tapering into a curved feather as red as the robes he wore. The colour was reflected in his eyes by the candle light as they furiously worked their way down the page. He bit his lip with yellowed teeth and wiped his mouth with his sleeve so as not to let the blood drip. Panting, he finished his scribbling and sat back. What needed to be known had been recorded, what men chose to do with it now was not his concern; he had given them the knowledge. He stared at the last words and wondered who they were for, wondered if they would ever hear them?

The world is silent, the world is still, it is waiting for you.

The season was spring.