By candlelight a man in a brown scratchy robe sat hunched over a desk with a quill in his boney, pious hand. The quill nib, looking like a dove, was lowered into the inkwell and held there whilst the black worked its way into the nibs fibours. Then it ascended, appearing like the beak of a crow and touched down on the surface of some vellum parchment.
Shadows and lights danced upon the stone-slab writing desk.
The monk began to write his letter of complaint to the local tavern.
Every night the old village tavern heaved with crowds of hollering drunkards and nogoods sipping and spilling beer like demented gargoyles.
Taredi - a local cheese maker - quietly slunk through the front door and weaved in and out of the puking mouths. He could intermittently see Fredik the barkeep in the near distance, whose face was obscured by burp clouds and malty farts.