Sun-break out the scriptorium window stirred the long-bearded fellow with the shaven head. Afore the loose strands of sleep had fallen away, he raised his head quick and cried out. Drifting off at his writing table, on a partly copied manuscript, had given his neck a nasty crick.
To no discernible effect, he rubbed at a dried ink spot on his wrist. Then, a recollection cleared tendrils of river-mist from his mind.
He was cupbearer to the prophet-king. And this day would see the end of both their lines.