Odhran retched so hard that he produced a gobbet of blood the size of a ripened plum, and then he coughed up bile for a full minute. He was not well and he was beginning to wonder what had caused this malady when two of his precious ink bottles shattered right in front of him. The small quantity of ink inside each one seemed to increase in volume ten-fold, and it spattered the wooden walls of his caravan. His head swam, and buckets of sweat began to roll off him. There was a thumping sound as though giant hailstones were falling on his roof all about him, and then Odhran heard a voice that he had not heard in centuries.
“Enough, Boy! Hear my voice and know me! The ink is false! It must not live, and nor can you! I draw you down, and I break the quill, no longer can you picture your malic
