Submission (#8115) Approved

A few quiet weeks had passed since Harun and Jirai left the castle hidden in the forest, its crowns nestled safely in storage and their days now less stormy, but no less adventurous. Since then, they’d traveled through a few towns, taken notes in local libraries, and made a habit of sketching things they saw, stone arches, river rocks, unfamiliar trees, ruins - and trying to recreate them in ink.

What had begun as idle doodling had blossomed into a full-blown fascination with ink, writing, and the art of Eyrescript.

Harun sat beneath a weeping willow in the middle of a quiet park just outside of Ilrian, a large town known with some interesting markets. A large sketchpad laid open on a portable lap desk, weighted by a small stone. He dipped his brush into the deep blue ink and exhaled slowly.

With measured, delicate motions, he guided the soft bristles into a loop, then a sharp upward stroke, tapering gently. The letter shimmered slightly while wet, the ink sinking slowly into the soft parchment.

Jirai sat nearby, legs kicked out in front of him, repeatedly writing the same swirling symbol with thick red ink, his small tongue poking out in concentration. His pages were messier; smudges and extra dots dotted the paper - but his enthusiasm was limitless.

"This one kinda looks like a snail doing a dance," he announced, holding up a squiggly sigil.

Harun chuckled warmly. "That’s actually not too far from the Eyrescript for 'wanderer.' The form is... abstract. But charming."

“Right?” Jirai beamed. “I call it the spiraling hero. I made up a story about it too. He travels the world and tells jokes to ancient spirits.”

“That would explain the dramatic tail flourish.” Harun gently dabbed his brush clean before beginning a fresh page.

This sheet he approached differently: with a lighter touch, he started forming a landscape, composed entirely from clean ink lines and minimalist brushwork. The ruined castle took shape in small arches and wisps of tree branches, the idea of place conveyed without overwhelming detail.

Underneath the drawing, he layered a few simple sigils; "memory," "stillness," and "home."

“Do you think these actually do anything?” Jirai asked, watching him.

Harun looked up thoughtfully. “On their own? Likely not. There’s no structured intent, no infused energy. But I think... they remind us. They hold meaning in their form, even without magic.”

“Like emotional magic.”

"Exactly."

Jirai looked down at his red ink-covered paws. "We need more colors. And fancier paper. Maybe something that doesn’t wrinkle when I spill water on it."

Harun gave him a patient smile. “Luckily, we’re in the right town for that.”

[...]

The busy markets of Ilrian were filled with creative energy. Stalls lined the cobblestone square, lanterns painted in jewel tones fluttered in the summer breeze. The scent of parchment, spices and fresh paint mingled in the air.

They found a narrow, elegant shop tucked between a glassblowing studio and a vendor selling fragrant soaps. Its wooden sign read Ink & Artifacts, painted in looping script.

The shop smelled of cedarwood and dried herbs. Scrolls and brushes were arranged in careful bundles along the walls, and shelves of shimmering ink pots glimmered like bottled magic.

Harun stepped inside first, already drawn to a display of handmade brushes, their handles carved with runes.

Behind the counter, a familiar voice drawled, "Well, if it isn’t our castle crawlers."

Jirais ears perked. "Mary! Nico!"

Mary stood near the ink displays, sleek as ever, his bright pink eyes sharp in the dim shop. His long black and white hair was tied loosely at the base of his neck today, a feather tucked behind one ear. Nico leaned against a shelf beside him, remnants of gold dust on his dark paws, probably from pigment.

Nico greeted them with a warm nod. "Still hunting for treasure? Or are you refining a new craft now?"

“Calligraphy,” Harun said softly, holding up his wrapped sketchpad. "We’ve taken an interest."

“Harun draws castles with soul,” Jirai added proudly. “And I’m inventing entirely new letters. Which may or may not be edible.”

Mary raised a brow. “Bold. And reckless. I approve.”

They chatted while browsing. Harun picked out a cool grey parchment with delicate specks of mica woven into the fibers. When turned just right, the pages shimmered faintly like starlight.

Jirai, meanwhile, found a jar of green-gold ink labeled Forest Depths, which he insisted smelled like wisdom.

“I’ve always liked ink work,” Nico said, tracing a finger across a display card of ancient Eyrescript. “Language is like... shaping wind. You don’t see it directly, but it changes everything around it.”

Harun looked thoughtful. “You’re a poet when you want to be.”

“Only when surrounded by expensive stationery.”

With their arms full of brushes, paper, and inks in every color, they eventually left the shop, waving goodbye to Mary and Nico. Jirai promised to send them a drawing of the snail-hero.

[...]

Back at their inn, in a cozy room on the second floor with a small balcony, they spread out their new treasures. The table near the window quickly became their workbench.

Harun carefully unfurled the shimmered parchment and poured a small pool of black-violet ink into a ceramic well. He chose a brush with a firmer tip and practiced a structured Eyrescript phrase: To know is to be changed.

Each stroke was a breath.

Each loop, a slow meditation.

Jirai meanwhile had abandoned any notion of tidiness. His paper was full of swirling lines and little symbols that only made sense to him - but they were joyful, chaotic, and oddly expressive.

He leaned over and peeked at Harun’s page. “That’s so clean. I keep messing mine up.”

Harun smiled, reaching over to fix a loose curl in Jirai’s fur. “Yours feels alive. Mine is just... quiet.”

Jirai tilted his head. “Is quiet bad?”

“Not at all. Quiet is honest.”

They worked like that into the early evening, the sky outside softening to hues of peach and gold. Harun began a new ink drawing, this time of the twisting tree outside their window. Around its branches, he layered sigils of growth, change, and connection.

Jirai fell asleep halfway through scribbling something called “The Sigil of Loud Thinking.” His brush had fallen onto his paw.

Harun chuckled quietly and cleaned up their space, letting the papers dry in the open air.