One of the guild's few elves was sitting with his back against the wall a few feet from the inside of the guild-hall's gate.  He had a pipe gripped in his teeth, while one hand scribbled with a sharpened, charred twig in a journal held by the other.  Every so often, a look of consternation crossed his face, and he scribbled something out, as if he had made an error in some calculation.  

He was a curious creature.  Social by nature, he only sought solitude when he chose to write.  This privacy seemed to extend to the writing itself, as those snoopy enough to open it without his permission found they couldn't read it.  Some joked that he was actually illiterate, and was writing nonsense to look smart.  Some thought Erevan might be a novelist, perhaps a famous one under a pen-name, and he used a code to keep his identity a secret.  There were even an odd few who kept a wary eye on him, thinking him some kind of spy using a code.  

Erevan never answered to the rumors, and kept happily writing away in corners of rooms when he had tired of company(this usually took quite some time).  

A strange sound caused the elf to tilt his head, trying to hear it better.  A sharp, damp slapping, like wet feet running on cobblestones.  This turned out to be exactly correct, however unlikely that was, as a young man barged through the gate at a run, sopping from head to toe.  

"Keep rushing like that and you'll burn yourself out before you get whereever 'tis that you mean to be."   Erevan spoke in a pleasant drawl, carrying the accent of one who speaks low elven as a first language.  

The young man was followed by another, a guild runner, Erevan recognized.  He greeted this one more simply, "Evening."  

The runner leaned a hand against the wall, puffing hard, and looking at Erevan unclearly for a moment.  

"You too," he finally got out.  

"Beg pardon?"

The runner waved a hand in "wait up" gesture, then expounded.  "Gathering folks for the guildmaster.  You're wanted too."  

[@Royaletutor59]