Long and late into the night, a dim light glows in an upstairs corner room of the Beregost Inn. The sharp-tongued, wise-cracking swordsman sits alone, writing by the flickering lights of several candles arranged about him. The candles were elevated and arranged about him just such a way. Pillows, tools, and even other books were used to adjust the height and leverage of the desk and chair. Something that almost looked like a ritual of some sort - and in a sense, it was.
To the devoted of The Lord of Knowledge, preservation of knowledge is sacrosanct - and so transcription becomes a sacred act.
The only way to truly preserve a work, to preserve knowledge of any kind, is to spread it and let all be known. A single flame can forever extinguish a library and all that it holds, but no flame or sword can destroy what has become common knowledge.
Not even the gods can really do that.
Such is the power of the written word. Such is the task of the devoted scribe. Such is the sanctity of transcription. Between odd hours and odd stimulants, the warrior poet tends to his task with a long-practiced and well measured efficiency - beyond the night and through the days beyond. Record-making record-keeping. Binding what is known.
Those hands are bandaged for a reason.