The Inkwell

"Not long after the first dungeons of Eternity were opened, He Found the Well and from that day forward he would wish he hadn't. So cursed would that black substance leave him that even death dared not touch his saturated soul, nor the bones that surrounded it."

— Exert from "The Tale of Ink and Bone" unknown Author.

During a weeks long journey, exploring the ancient halls and tombs of things much older than he, a man named Pine stumbled on a secluded dungeon just under the surface of the planet.

It was huge, much the same size as any fortress he'd seen in old holo picts and recovered books. A honest to god Castle. While clearing this new dungeon, thinking he could make a home of the place, Pine discovered a new room. A wide courtyard with a single structure in the middle of a small pool of shallow water; A Well.

Of course Pine thought this odd, having expected a large stone golem, or some fresh new horror that threatened to eat him bones and all, but instead he was standing in a strangely quiet place, a strangely peaceful place.

Over the following months Pine slowly grew to know those halls like the back of his hand, but he always came back to the Well. He still found it strangely enchanting, even then.
Then one day Pine got curious. He had realized that he'd never looked inside the Well.

So, wondering whether it had water or if it lead to even deeper tunnels, Pine went back.

Peering into the depths of the circular structure of carved stone and inlaid wood, Pine couldn't see the bottom of the thing, so he endeavored to find out the hard way. Attaching a rope to a nearby pillar, one of three obelisk like structures that surrounded the Well, he began to climb deeper and deeper into the midnight contained within the Well, in an attempt to find a bottom, wet or otherwise.

Finally he felt his feet breach liquid, cold and dense. But soon after he felt he'd finally hit the bottom of the Well. And striking a match he found himself submerged up to his waist in raven black ink. The liquid sloshing against his ribs, which he found suddenly exposed to the abyssal fluid, began to burn. First deep black, then slowly, growing ever more intense, it burned stark white. Bone white.

After what felt like an eternity of pain, Pine woke in the now empty Well.
For a while Pine simply remained there.

Not because he was afraid, and not because he could not move, but because his mind struggled to understand what had happened.

The Well that had once been filled with that strange black substance was now empty. The ancient stone walls were untouched, the three obelisks that surrounded it still stood exactly as they had before, and the halls beyond remained as silent as they had always been.

Everything was the same.

Except him.

Slowly, Pine raised his hands before him, expecting the familiar sight of worn flesh and old scars. Instead he found bone. The body that had carried him through countless dungeons, battles and forgotten halls was gone.

The ink had not covered him; It had taken him.

The substance had flowed into him, through him, replacing everything that had once been mortal. His bones were stained with a thin charcoal-like layer that spread from his skull to the tips of his fingers.

His armor had changed as well.

The steel plates that had once been dull and ordinary had absorbed the substance, becoming darkened and almost alive in appearance. The same raven black that surrounded the Well now rested upon him.

And yet, despite everything, he still stood.

Death had not found Pine and now, it never would.

Slowly, he climbed from the Well and returned to the courtyard above.

It was then that he noticed something else, the shallow water that surrounded the Well was no longer water.

The clear pool that had once sat quietly beneath the ancient structure, reflecting the walls and ceiling above, had become the same black substance that had filled the depths below. The courtyard was now surrounded by the same midnight black ink, still and silent, moving only slightly with the faintest disturbance.
For a moment Pine believed the curse had followed him.

He stepped closer, expecting the same burning pain that had consumed him beneath the Well.

But it never came.

The ink did not reach for him, it did not consume him; It simply remained.

Carefully, Pine lowered a skeletal hand into the liquid, watching as the substance wrapped around his bones before slowly falling away again. No pain followed. No transformation.

The Well had changed him, but the waters around it had only remembered.

And perhaps that was the first thing Pine learned from that place.

That not everything touched by darkness is destroyed by it; some things simply become something else.

The man who had entered the Well was gone.

The explorer named Pine had ended in that ancient darkness, and what left was something else.

A being that belonged neither to life nor death, untouched by time, hollow of everything save his soul.

And as the halls of the forgotten fortress whispered of the skeleton that walked from the Well, they did not speak of Pine.

They spoke of Ink.
At first Ink believed the Well to be a curse.

A punishment for curiosity, a mistake made by someone who should have left ancient things buried.

But as the years passed, and the weight of eternity settled upon him, he began to understand that the substance was not cruel, It did not hate him, It did not seek to destroy.

It preserved, remembered, and endured.

And so Ink returned to the dungeons.

Not because he sought treasure, and not because he wished to rule over the depths, but because he had always done so. The only difference was that now the things that had once threatened to end his journey could no longer do so.

He carried a large spear, a shield and a pair of swords, much as he had before. The difference was not in his weapons, but in the one carrying them.

The black stained skeleton in steel plate wandered through Eternity, entering forgotten places and returning with stories of things that otherwise would have vanished.

Where others saw monsters, Ink saw remnants.

Where others saw ruins, Ink saw history.

Where others saw empty halls, Ink saw the traces of those who had once walked them.

It was not long before the other groups of Eternity began to hear of him.

A warrior who could not die.

A skeleton that walked from the deepest dungeons.

A figure covered in black ink who carried weapons as though he had only just left the battlefield.

Some believed him a monster and some believed him a warning.

Others believed him proof that Eternity still held secrets even they had not uncovered.

Eventually, they found him.

Not in battle and not after some great victory.

Simply standing alone in the remains of another forgotten place, looking upon something that had been lost long before anyone living had arrived.

They asked him what he was.

Ink gave them the only answer he had which was his name.

They asked where he came from so he pointed back toward the endless depths and said: "The Well."

And when they asked where he was going, Ink looked forward and said: "Deeper."
Those who found him did not leave.

At first they followed because they were curious. Then because they wanted to understand. Then because they realized that despite everything that had been taken from him, Ink still cared for the same things they did.

The forgotten, the lost, the things that time would otherwise erase.

Eventually they returned with him to the ancient halls beneath the surface, and they found that the empty fortress was no longer empty.

The halls had voices and the rooms had purpose.

The forgotten places had become something new.

People who gathered there created, fought, wrote, painted and built. They filled the old stone halls with proof that they had existed.

The fortress had always been there and it would likely be there centuries after they pass

But now its stone walls and wooden beams, which had stood for countless ages, had a new purpose.

It became the Inkwell, a self governed place, not a kingdom ruled by fear or conquest, but a home for those who understood the value of leaving something behind.
They called themselves Inkwellians.

Not servants, or followers.

Those who chose to create.

Above all stood the Substance.

Ink.

Not because he demanded it, but because he was the first. The one who found the Well, the one who was changed by it, and the one who carried the burden of eternity.

After him came the Elder.

The guide of the Inkwellians and keeper of the balance within the halls.

Then the Bishop of Ink.

Keeper of the traditions and beliefs born from the Well.

Then the Keeper of the Pen.

Guardian of the creations, writings and memories entrusted to the Inkwell.

Then the Watcher.

Those who protected the halls and those who called them home.

And all who remained were Inkwellians.
The symbol of the Inkwell remains carved into the halls.

It reminds them that even Kings die.

It reminds them that there is beauty in life, and beauty in the passing of things.

But most of all it reminds them that all of life is precious because it is fleeting.

This is why they create.

Why they write.

Why they paint.

Why they fight.

Why they love.

Why they breathe.

Because even the greatest empire will become dust.

But a story can outlive a thousand kings.

And so the Inkwell remains.

A place of Creativity, of Legendary Battles, where the forgotten are remembered.

where even those who cannot die may still leave something behind.

And carved at spear point above the hearth in the main hall of the "Veiled Fortress" was their motto, their life philosophy, their justification of existence:

Live by the Pen. Die by the sword. But above all, hold together.