Ink Papyrus Novels & Stories

Every one of her senses was enthralled with a soothing calm. “Damn it!” Damon’s voice from beyond the great hall. Pushing the door open, Journee saw him buried in mountainous piles of books and scrolls. She watched him hold up a piece of parchment, comparing it to another material. It is foreign. Something I have not handled in real life. Taking a closer look, she recognised it from her history textbooks. Papyrus! OMG! They have ancient Egyptian texts here?! Excitement shot through her veins as her hands trembled with desire. Briefly, Journee allowed her fingers to trace the outline of the hieroglyphics.

"How do you know these letters weren’t tampered with? They’ve been in your office for days. How do we know they’re not forgeries?" The Princess responded by demonstrating the properties of the Eastern paper. She handed a quill to a jury member. As they tried to write, the paper tore. Gasps filled the chamber. "Our Kingdom does not use this kind of parchment," the Princess explained. "It is rare, expensive, and not suited for our quills." She gestured to a box of ink bottles, brushes, and quills taken from Abigail’s estate. "But with a brush—" she dipped one in ink and wrote her name smoothly on the parchment. "—this paper works just fine."

- You see, after analyzing the appearance of this weapon, I came to the conclusion that this is not a creation of local craftsmen, most likely this thing is from the African continent. - Well, I don’t know how you came to this conclusion, but I think you know what you are talking about, bring me the chronicles. - Okay, I'll be right there. The man took short steps to the back of the bookcases, returning a few minutes later with a large, dusty pile of manuscripts, scrolls, and worn books. Together they began to carefully study the fragile pages. Julia's attention was attracted by an old papyrus manuscript, opening it, she began to read it, the words were difficult and the meaning often slippe

Cecilia nodded repeatedly, her words coming faster than before. "This really is the handwriting of a senior monk from the Abbey of Saint-Germain in the thirteenth century. You can tell from the first half--the ink is lighter, made from ordinary oak gall ink, and the parchment is rough, the kind commonly used in monasteries. That suggests it was copied early in his career, before he became chief scribe."

The ink was different now; it was a deep, natural sepia that looked like it had been mixed from walnuts and river-water, free from the synthetic polymers of the High Treasury. Xander stepped over the rusted zinc tread of the dead press unit, his shadow-woven coat trailing through the white chalk-paste. He reached down, his broad, calloused fingers pinching the edge of the paper. As he lifted it, the vellum felt heavy and thick between his knuckles, carrying the physical texture of a real object rather than a digital asset.

"You surely have work in there that's important?" He nodded weakly in response. "Yes. I don't know how much use it will be though; it's mostly accounts and personal studies. I don't think I kept any books or anything that may help us here." Even so, he eased himself forward to hoist the drawer and peered at the mess of papers. Most, as he suspected, were overheads and various accounts, kept for reference until he was convinced it was safe to shred them. Towards the bottom he came across a few pages of print outs, copies of papyrus he had downloaded for the benefit of the new exhibit.

The hardened clay became soft and insubstantial, changing shape and reforming itself into a papyrus scroll filled with hieroglyphics. Isimud was showing the scroll to a band of travelling merchants who smiled avariciously and rubbed their hands together. They were not smiling by the time the Anunnaki appeared. Jimmy’s sight was filled with the scroll when they were done and he saw it change shape once again into a single edition book that looked like it had come fresh off a Gutenberg press. This one was being placed into the eager hands of some Bavarian fur trappers, who did not manage to keep their own skins after they read it.

POV: Neoma The parchment was warm. That was the first thing that made my stomach lurch. A hard, wet flip. It didn't feel like paper. It felt like skin. Cured. Stretched. But unmistakably organic. It sat on the obsidian table, pulsing. A faint, rhythmic throb that synced with the blood rushing in my ears. The ink used to scrawl the dense, angular script smelled of wet iron. Old copper. "Read it," Nergal commanded. His voice was a dry rustle. Dead leaves skittering on stone.

Rin slit the wax with a thumbnail and carefully unwrapped the oilskin. Paper slid into her hands. Thick, good paper. Not the cheap, pulpy, kind villagers used for market tallies. A faint smell of old wax and iron‑rich ink rose up, edged with damp where water had tried and failed to get in. Someone with access to money and a decent scribe had done this. The top sheet was covered in dense, careful script. The ink had bled slightly at the edges where damp had kissed it, but the lines were still legible.

As if some indelible dye had seeped outward from the marrow of his bones. Iron salts and oak gall. The formula for Old Formula Ink. He had used this ink to write the Codex for two hundred years. The ink had seeped into every furrow of his fingerprints. Then been ground down by the ages into a shell that could not be peeled away. Those brown fingers gripped an unlit candle. The wick was newly trimmed. The white wax was newly poured. But the body of the candle was only half of what it had been. He had waited behind this door for too long. The candle had burned down to its end. He had replaced it with a new one. Had not yet had time to light it.