Ga’ar, they who shape reality. Spare's words echoed in my mind, accompanying me in the solitude of my shack.

Little did I know that such a simple phrase hid an equally simple concept. Everything that was right with Ink, and everything that was wrong with it, reduced to shaping reality.

Had I ever seen a Ga’ar? Sure, Spare was a Ga’ar, the peak of Inkers, the best of the best. But what had I seen him do? Some tattoos, peak quality ones, but nothing beyond the abilities of Ga’lar. His formation on my chest was on a completely different level, as it was not longer a simple drawing of a real object. Nonetheless, wasn't that Ga’far knowledge? That's what I was aiming for.

There was that Ga'ar who supposedly compressed a window into a fraction of its original size, which might have been some form of reality shaping. Although, I was not entirely convinced that it wasn't just some formation’s work. I knew far too little to be sure.

The more I though about it—and I had all the time in the world for myself—the strangest it seemed. I knew how to capture an object, draw it in someone's skin an make it theirs. That's, however, not what had happened with the window at all. It was akin to drawing a sword's scabbard while the sword was inside. In theory, an easy job. Practically? I'm not sure I could have achieved it.

So was my curiosity, that I set it as my next project, drawing a separate component of something. I set for a middle point, I wouldn't try to draw an integral part of something, like the blade of a sword, but rather something that compliments it. Something similar to the window, a part of a house but not integral to it, as would be one of its bricks. I couldn't make it too simple either, for instance drawing the window while it wasn't attached to a house was an easy task. I set my mind, a scabbard with my dagger inside. I had to draw the container while leaving the content alone.

Paper, the pure white and spotless kind, was a commodity I could no longer rely on. Albeit there was still some in the hideout, I decided to reserve that for the final versions of my drawings. For the rest, I would reuse whatever used paper I found, be it pieces of poster signs, newspapers, or just about anything where I could draw without being too obvious. None of these were written with Ink, rather with natural colourants—pigments—that could be made from plants commonly found in Lamar and are devoid of any properties

Being an Inker and running from shack to shack I could do, but seemingly I was too optimistic in thinking I would go unnoticed. Possibly, going by the young damsel sitting by my side, it was also something I had not been good at.

That day I had done what had become my usual routine. I woke up disoriented in some new house. Did some light to moderate exercise to get my brain working. Practiced drawing whichever thing I had in hand. Ate. Exercised for real, core workout and anything that didn't require running around. And finally, before calling it a day, one more drawing round, but this time with my scabbard project.

Just then, right when I was about to get started with the last part, I heard some noises coming from the shack's door. It wasn't my first scare, so I had everything packed and I was ready to flee as soon as the door opened.

“Finally!” I heard a feminine voice say barely after I got wind of a face. “why didn't it open?” I bet my confused face was the perfect contrast to her smiley one.

“And you are?” I chose not to immediately run because, honestly, the perhaps 12 years old girl in front of me posed no menace at all.

“Someone interested in your services!” Her smile threatened to become bigger than her face while her hand drew in the air.

“Services?” I sighed as I realized what was going on. “First, how have you found me?”

My mind was already going over everything I might have left behind. Any clue, drawing, something that might have brought her to me.

“I opened the door and you were there,” her head twisted to the side, as if saying, isn't it obvious?

I had to contain an immense sigh of exhaustion.

“Sure… but you know I am an Inker, and asked for my services?” I left the phrase, a question really, on the air.

“You are holding a fountain pen?”

I blanked out. I stared into her soullessly. I was holding a fountain pen, wasn't I? I had not failed at hiding, I just failed at running when she saw me, because I didn't see her as a real danger. And maybe she wasn't, after all.

“And how do you imagine you’ll pay for a Ga’sarar?” Not Ink, that I'm sure of! I quickly assessed from her looks.

Her appearance matched exactly how someone living in the slums would. Probably a frequent visitor of the sewers going by her gray, torn, and wet robes. If she had any Ink, she wouldn't be living here or looking as precarious.

“Ga'sarar?” I had to take out my plaque to prove it, even if in retrospective I don't know why I had to prove anything. “Then…” she closed her eyes really hard, so hard that even her perfectly smooth skin became full of wrinkles. “I'll do your chores!”

Ehem! I had to cough a few times to just barely be able to hold my laughter. “I am afraid my lifestyle,” I circled the abandoned shack with my finger, “does not allow for many chores. But,” I stopped her imminent tantrum as I let curiosity take the better of me, “what do you even need an Inker for?”

“I have this,” her smile suddenly vanished as she produced a paper from below her clothes. There were slights marks of having been folded, but it otherwise looked pretty oficial. “My parents left it to me, they told me to hold onto it until I came off age, but I will lose it and…”

Maybe I should have facepalmed, yelled at her for being stupid about showing something seemingly important to a complete stranger, but I had read between the lines. No, she had struck a nerve. Either she was left abandoned,which didn't make sense if they gave her something, or her parents had passed away. And I was being reckless myself, so who was I to judge that young and probably inexperienced girl?

“I see,” was all I managed to say after a few moments of reflection. “So you want it tattooed so that no one can take it from you?” Her slow and disheartened nods were the final drop, my heart had already decided what would happen next.

“You know, Inkers have to be paid for their work, and they are not cheap.“ I continued without stopping, trying my best to ignore her progressively more down-looking posture. “You are, however, lucky today! I have been looking for someone willing to offer their skin as my practice bed!”

Turns out, as I discovered right after she rushed at me and embraced me in a hug, the paper was the scriptures that proved ownership of a shack here in the slums. Maybe not a shack like the one we were staying that day, but certainly not a house either. Not much you would think. But it could mean security and stability, and certainly a target in your back if you were not careful.

“I don't want you to go around with that paper unsecured, so I will trust you and tattoo it first.” I told her while intentionally leaving out the part where I knew where she lived, and could take measures if she didn't hold onto her promise. If I dared, which my soft and former self might not have.

It was an easy drawing, the contents were clear and there were no particular difficulties to it. So, that very same day, she became sort of my shadow. I still jumped home every few days, and she would accompany me from one to another. She did end up doing some chores, like double and triple checking that I didn't leave any trail of drawing behind. Aside from that, I from time to time tattooed some small objects on her arms and legs. Mostly using a single drawing tool, but whenever the object was small and straightforward enough, I risked mixing the fountain pen with the Drak'gath.

I wouldn't have hold it against her if, after some weeks, she had decided to go her way. Maybe not to her home, as she could not claim it yet according to Lamar's laws, but to a somewhat more laid back lifestyle. Still, she chose to stick with me, and I was grateful for it.

“Tsk!” I complained out loud after yet another failed attempt to draw a dagger with two tools.

“Again?” Tali asked with her signature smile.

“Yes…” I said in a whisper. “This tool is just too energetic, too eager to draw. I can manage it alone, but when I have to combine it with the fineness of the fountain pen it all goes to hell.“ All I had read on the matter, no matter the book or source, always mixed tools of the same kind. For instance, one fountain pen with a thin nib and another with a thick one. But never two completely different tools.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“My parents also said I was too energetic when I was little!” She chimed it with an apologetic look. “And that I wouldn't listen!”

“What did they do?” I momentarily placed down my Drak'gath to listen to her.

“Well, usually telling me not to do something had the opposite effect, so they distracted me. I… I always fell for it.” Her blushing red face told me that she had been quite gullible, but also that she was force to rapidly learn how real life worked.

Precisely, this kind of conversations, seemingly casual situations, were little sparks that ignited my figurative fire. Ink was not a little child, but I had been focusing too much on what I didn't want it to do. I didn't want disconnected drawings. I didn't want noticeable changes. I didn't want wasted Ink. But, what did I want to achieve by changing tools? Why even change tools?

I didn't have Spare's endless questions, and I was starting to realize what his purpose was with them. He had taught me to dig deeper; to find the hidden meaning behind everything.

I want to change tools because the Drak'gath captures better fluid shapes.

But why does it capture them better? I imagined him asking.

Its bigger and parallel nibs allow more Ink to flow, but that's not really it. It draws more energy from me, it pulls more from my imagina-

I suddenly saw Spare smiling, knowing that I knew the answer.

The fountain pen is rigid, it captures reality easily because it does not cope well with changes. The Drak'gath loves to create, to imagine new shapes, colors, textures, and feelings. I can not blindly use one or the other, it's not about the line width or being straight, it's about what I'm trying to draw!

“Thanks!” I suddenly announced to Tali, not realizing I had been in deep thought for some minutes already.

I rushed to my tools bag and searched for the purest and less stained paper I could find while invoking the dagger and letting it fall to the ground. Fountain pen in hand, foot touching the dagger, I started drawing the hilt. I didn't want any other hilt than the one it already had; it was perfect, and my drawing would accurately reflect reality. And then came the blade, straight, only curving at the tip. But I didn't fall into the trap I usually did, I took out my Drak'gath, and imagined the sharper edge I had ever seen, that of the assassin that tried to claim my life.

I didn't need to tell it to stop. I didn't have to spend energy calculating where the Drak'gath ended and where the fountain pen started. It knew I was drawing the blade, and it kept true to my intentions. It felt absolutely right.

“Ga’lar, he who draws. Tali, I wa-” by the time I raised my eyes, I already saw her extended arm right in front of me.

“You know me too well!” I couldn't contain my affectionate laughter. “You know what, I'll gift you something, no more meaningless drawings. However!“ I raised a finger in a warning, “you should only use it as a last resort!”

I took one of my Inkpots, the smallest one I had tattooed, and freed it from my domain. It was something I learnt from The way of the Ink, how to undo a drawing and get the real object back, for good. The base requirement was knowing what you wanted to revert, which normally was the case if the drawing was yours. Also, there couldn't be any complicated intrinsics like glyphs or formations. When I first read about it, I immediately tried to get rid of the rat in my chest, and miserably failed at it. Both of the two requisites were a hard no.

I placed a shot inside the freed Inkpot; 10 drops. Enough to survive in the slums for at least ten weeks. But I wanted her to save it, in case some day she was in a struggle he couldn't get out of. I didn't really own to her, she had requested a job for which she was still paying. But after some weeks, I couldn't help feel somewhat attached.

The whole point of the experiment was to practice switching tools, so I made sure to make the glass look extra fancy. I recalled the ornaments I saw in the houses of some nobles. The motives painted in their walls and pictures. And I imagined the glass following these vertiginous curves of sparkling colours. It was beautiful, but it was also going to be hidden. If found out here with a shot of Ink, you would quickly lose it, if not your life. Meaning, her right foot’s sole would sport a new drawing.

I focused on the feeling and realization I just had. A tool for a purpose. Reality and imagination. As soon as the fountain pen's nib touched her skin, I felt it—the supernatural pull of Ink rushing to my call. I was living the same out-of-body experience as previous times, but I could tell there was a connection that I missed before. I could not quite put it into words, it's that feeling of something being in the tip of your tongue yet not coming out. It was there; but I could not put a name to it.

Instead of pursuing this possible dead end that would end up with a useless tattoo in Tali’s skin, I refocused on the drawing. The cork as well as the neck of the Inkpot were quickly drawn with my fountain pen, and when it came to the new decorations made of glass itself, the transition to the Drak'gath came naturally. So much, that if I wasn't paying attention to it, I could have sworn my hand moved on its own to grab it.

Overall, it was a quick drawing, and I was beyond satisfied with the end-result’s quality.

“Now, place your hand below your foot and think of making the Ink real. Don't worry too much about it, it will just work.”

I saw the struggle in her face, half curiosity and half genuine effort. The Inkpot quickly dropped into her open palms, and she quickly brought it into her sight.

“Is-” for the first time, I saw her out of words. “Ink?” I nodded, leaving her some space to think. “But you need it!”

“Tali, it's a gift,” I smiled at her consternation. “Don't tell anyone, and unless it's absolutely necessary, don't ever think of selling it. Or drawing with it!” I quickly added, unsure if she was really aware of its value given her situation.

Her gaze has fixated onto the Inkpot while I was explaining, and even during the following few seconds. Until suddenly, she raised her head and looked at me with round eyes.

“Teach me!”

“I can't do that.” I didn't need to ask her what, nor to think my answer. “I'm far, really far, from having enough knowledge to teach anyone.”

She didn't say a word, but her determined gaze was more than enough to read into her follow-up plea.

“I really can't…” I sighed. “I'll speak with my teacher, and maybe some day in the future. It won't be soon, after all there's a reason why I'm here and not with him.“

“It's a promise?”

“It is. And even if it's a no, I will come find you by your house.”

While that wasn't the last time I saw her, it wasn't hard to notice that she was getting restless. Unofficially, we had said our goodbyes with that gift. It had been nice having company, and I would miss it, but I knew my lifestyle was not sustainable. I was a Ga’lar at all effects, and next I had to push my mental limits to become a Ga’far. What would follow was days and nights of deep study, thinking, trying things on paper, but never, absolutely never, on actual skin. I knew the consequences, I had the living and scaring result on my chest. I had promised Spare.

And that promise meant I had to act quickly. There was this thing nibbling at my mind. This dark thought that Spare was out there covering for me. The sensation that every additional day that it took me to become a Ga’far, it was a heavy weight on him.

It had been three months since I parted with Spare. During that time, I had read Beyond Ink, tales of old, which I couldn’t consider anything more than a fairy tale. I had reviewed twice The way of the Ink, trying to find some hidden message inside, but to no avail. I found three more books in my first escapade to the hideout, When the mind is not enough, Advanced enhancements, and Glyphs’ etymology.

With every passing book, I was distancing myself more from Tali and her smile. I was absorbed by glyphs, roots, lines, and words of power. Consumed by the ever growing feeling that, fundamentally, something was wrong with those glyphs. It was as if Ink was being forced to fit into them, unlike the usual feeling where Ink naturally flowed.

I had grown beyond the scabbard project, a chield’s play now that I could switch tools without thinking. Glyphs had become second nature, at least those I had studies. It was time that I attempted a real drawing with them. Sharp. That was my glyph of choice. A simple word that denoted how I wanted my sword to always be.

The usual process, imagining the sword to be sharp while drawing it would, undoubtedly, make it sharp. And, if you didn't use it at all, it would stay that way until the Ink wore off. Once invoked and used, however, it would get damaged as any real weapon. And with each iteration, the damage would accumulate. It wasn't everlasting, it wasn't magic or permanent, time and wear affected it.

That's when glyphs came into the picture. A glyph was not sourced into the imagination or the object, it was Ink itself. As long as the glyph and its Ink didn't get damaged, the blade would stay sharp. Each time it would be chirped, Ink would act to make it stay sharp. Not forever either, as each time Ink would be consumed until the glyph disappeared.

But that's not all that glyphs could do. Drawing based on imagination still required having a clear image of your goal, including every single detail and feeling. A sharp blade is something I had experienced before, making it easy. However, what would happen if I wanted to draw a blade that would burn on contact? I knew the feeling of being burnt by hot metal. Yet, a metal that would sustain that permanent heat? Or, that wouldn't burn me? Hardly so.

Glyphs allowed you to get rid of this intermediate step. You drew the sword as it was and enhanced it through this words of power. It didn't mean it was easy, of course. For instance, I could draw the sword and add the glyph for Heat, or perhaps Flame. I might get something out of it, probably a mighty sword completely envolved in flames that would burn my own skin. What I needed was the flame of a roaring fire that consumes my enemies. And this was no longer just glyphs, it required sigils working in conjunction to achieve my goals. It required formations.

Common glyph structures, When the mind is not enough, Advanced enhancements, Glyphs’ etymology, Beyond simple words, Abstract meanings in Sigils, Composition of glyphs and sigils, On the significance of Ink constellations, The magic behind Ink. I was absorbing books and knowledge at a frightening pace. I had left behind Sharp a long time ago and I was deep into sigils and formations. Spare had upped the rhythm at which he brought books to the hideout, and for the last fours months I had been non-stop practicing. And that practice had yield its results.

I only noticed after finishing, that I had spent a whole day, night included, working tirelessly on it. I started when the sun was setting, and I could see it was still at the same point. My hand hurt, it hadn't stopped even for a second. But that pain paled in comparison to my mind's state. Disarray, chaos, glyphs, sigils, formations. All of it was screaming at me. And, even with all of that and my eyes threatening to close, I still managed to admire my creation.

“La’er” I said, entranced by the flames dancing above my hand.