Tucked between two other storefronts in the Plaza of Angels, the Ink Well’s wooden doors are always open from the early morning to the late afternoon. Two times a brightening, servicemen arrive in immaculate white uniforms to polish the sparkling windows on either side of the entrance, removing any dust or debris to provide clear visual access into the facilities. The emblem of the store, a feather pen dripping ink into a small round pot, is centered upon each window and outlined in white to denote the establishment’s offered services.
Past the mundane threshold is the main room. The walls to the left and to the right are lined by identical wooden shelves containing paint brushes, sealing wax, ink pots, quill pens, feather pens, empty books, blank parchments of various substances, and untouched writing paper. Neatly stacked and arranged accordingly by height, color, size, and genre, none of the items are price tagged as the facility generally caters to the upper echelon of society.
Situated several feet in front of the rear wall is an elegantly designed glass counter. The chiseled base, wrought of scented cherry wood, depicts a grand scene of majestic gryphons in flight and a congregation of dragons assembling in the skies. Although believed to be imported from the ancient elves of Trelore, the platform is severely overshadowed by the contents of the glass case resting atop it. A single piece of papyrus paper trimmed with gold sits atop a silky crimson blanket, and beside the precious item is a pen constructed purely of gold and with a cap shaped like a dragon’s head; two small rubies serve as the dragon’s eyes. Other items in the glass cabinet include a small black ink pot with speckles of azure and a reddish-orange feather pen meticulously set next to it.
Standing behind the glass counter is a middle-aged man whose black hair, slicked backwards to accentuate his scalp, is highlighted in gray. Appareled in a silken white shirt with the upper buttons left unclasped to reveal some chest hair, his demeanor is soft-spoken and gentle. His eyes, dark and old, stare absentmindedly upon a sheet of paper before him, a quill pen working furiously but controllably in hand. If one were to steal a gander at his work, he or she would undoubtedly notice the graceful strokes of the pen’s tip against the paper and the masterful calligraphic curls and characters left in its wake.
“
How can I help you?”
He would ask upon perceiving a visitor. There was no mirth in his inquiry, only notable sternness. The man’s services, always in high demand, subsequently ennobled every second of his day, and he was known to be impatient with those who were indecisive. Some believed that this had to do with the stringent schedule that he abided by. Others alleged that it was because the establishment was nothing more than a front that he used to relay information and illicit services to some unknown higher-up. For whatever reason, though, there was no denying the mastery of his work.
![[LOCATION] The Ink Well](http://www.playbypost.com/forums/iconimages/imperia/location-ink-well_ltr.gif)
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